Page 24 of Wicked Design
“It is. My folks haven’t figured that out yet or refuse to see the truth. When I say liberal, I mean other stuff—vaccinations, fluoride in water, following your dream.”
“They didn’t like yours?” Her eyes widened. “I’m presuming you wanted to become an artist.”
“Bingo.” He pointed then dropped his hand. “They wanted me in an executive suite like my dad, working for and eventually owning a major corporation like he does.”
She fiddled with his foreskin, easing it back then guiding it to again cover the head. “That is so cool. I could play hide-and-seek with your cock forever.” She gave him a goofy smile. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Because you like doing it?”
“No. I meant why did your folks want you in an executive suite and all that other stuff?”
“Oh. To carry on the family name and organization, I guess. However, to hear them tell it, big business looks out for everyone, not like the rotten government that wants to take personal freedoms away by paying out Social Security, Medicare, family leave, and unemployment insurance to bums who don’t really need it. You know, like artists—” he gestured to her and himself, “—and the elderly. After all, Grandma has a walker. She can make it to her job at Walmart.”
“Wow, they’re hardcore, huh?”
“You can’t imagine.” Even his memories of interacting with them, or trying to, made him cringe. “When the Academy of Art University in San Francisco accepted me, my parents were horrified. Don’t get me wrong; they’re not bad people. I’m simply the son they never should have had. I still wonder if they adopted me but are too uptight to admit it.”
Sadness swept her lovely features. “You guys aren’t close?”
“They’re on the West Coast, I’m here. So, no. Even as a kid, I couldn’t connect with them. Granted, I stopped trying after a while, but as long as I toed the family line, they were happy campers. Trouble is, I never did.”
She rested her hand on his thigh. “You got into trouble?”
“The worst kind. I pursued art.”
“And sniffed glue or spray paint on the side?”
He laughed. “I was tempted, but no. For years, they’d ignored my art or were super critical concerning it and everything else I did. Oddly enough, their endless judgment made me more determined to do my own thing, be as different as I could be. I nearly starved trying to support myself with my paintings, plus paying off my student debt.”
“Did they know you were in trouble?”
“Sure. They had a private investigator tailing me.”
She scrunched her nose. “That’s awful. They couldn’t have called and asked how you were? Whether you needed help?”
“You don’t know my family dynamic. Anyway, they offered to retire my student loans, buy me a condo in San Francisco, get me a Benz, an expense account, and even a young woman who traveled in their circles and believed the crap they did. All I had to do was give up painting, let their personal assistant make me over into a young Gordon Gekko, date the woman in question, and promise to work at my dad’s insurance conglomerate.”
“No.” Clover cupped his face. “That’s so wrong.”
“I know. I don’t believe in arranged marriages, either.”
“I’m not referring to that. Frankly, it’s medieval—forgive me for saying so and being critical of your folks. But really. What I meant is your career. Their disapproval must have crushed you.”
At times, he still questioned his ability in art and everything else he did, believing he wasn’t good enough and would never measure up to his father’s success that he didn’t even want. Talk about fucked up. “I would have drunk myself to death or OD’d if I’d done what they wanted. I tried to explain that to them, but they wouldn’t listen. I finally decided to fly under the radar. Less turmoil for everyone.”
She stared. “Are you saying they don’t know where you live now?”
“If they did, they’d try to push me back into their mold. Truthfully, we haven’t talked in years.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry.” She hugged him.
He expected pity in her response. So much tenderness flowed from her, his eyes stung. Grateful, he held her gently. “I shouldn’t have told you that. TMI, right?”
“Not at all.” She squeezed him then brushed her lips over his. “But you still haven’t answered my question. Actually, I haven’t asked it yet.”
What in the hell was left for her to know about him after his lengthy confession? Unless she intended to bring up the sketchpad he’d dropped when she’d been in his workstation. Lauren might not have known what he’d been drawing, but she wasn’t an artist like Clover. He slumped. “Fine. I was drawing you.”
“What? You were?”
