Page 15 of Wicked Design
He hoped she wasn’t lying. If she was, he prayed they hadn’t watched and listened in while he and Clover had talked. His shaky confidence didn’t need another hit.
He escaped to his workstation.
In between inking clients, he did what came naturally and what he was good at: scouring his designs and ideas, searching for the perfect tat for her.
Everything came up wanting, the images too garish, bright, or big for her slender form. He changed course to geometric and stylized figures in black, gray, or dark blue. They fit her better but still weren’t ideal.
Lost in his search, he forgot to check the time. The ever-present music switched off. Several light raps sounded. He glanced over.
Clover stood in his doorway, parasol at her side. She chewed her lower lip and looked as awkward as he felt. “Ready?”
More than she might ever know or want. “Sure. Wait. Come here. I’d like to show you something for your tat.” An idea he’d come across.
“Is it only on your computer, or can we look it up at my place?”
“It’s online. I also have images on my phone.”
“Good. We’ll check it out later. Let’s go. I have a surprise for dinner.”
He switched off his computer. “You weren’t in Lauren’s office? You went back to your place and cooked?”
Her laugh pealed through the room. “I’d have to learn how to first. I ordered from Castillo’s.”
His number one choice for food. “I’ll pay.”
“No. It’s already taken care of. But we have only a half hour before they deliver.”
And after that, the entire night to talk art, become friends, then play like adults. He wanted to take her hand but wasn’t sure if he should.
She led the way down the hall. Lauren and Jasmina stood sentinel at the front door. His face burned. This was almost as bad as his senior prom when his parents arranged for his second cousin to be his date, insisting he couldn’t stay home and play with his silly art projects instead.
Good times.
“Have a nice night.” Lauren squeezed Clover’s shoulder, then his.
Jasmina grinned knowingly.
They had watched him and Clover.
Wanting to die, he couldn’t flee quickly enough and pulled in the soupy outside air, his skin clammy, palms sweaty. He wiped them on his jeans. The condom wrappers rustled.
Clover looked at him. Her eyes reflected the tiny white lights that graced storefronts and restaurants, decorations reminiscent of Christmas. “Do you like hot weather?”
He loathed it. “Do you?”
“I’ve gotten used to it. In the spirit of full disclosure, I should tell you I don’t use my air-conditioning.”
“Why?”
“Can’t afford it. But I do have several fans. Do you mind?”
He would have crawled over molten lead and glass shards to be with her. “Nope. I should spring for dinner if you’re having problems paying your electric bill.”
“No. My treat. Please. Don’t make me hurt you.”
He laughed. “Okay.”
She smiled.
