Page 53 of Wicked Design
Chapter Fourteen
From grade school on, and especially after the art show fiasco, seclusion had been Van Gogh’s goal. He’d loathed his parents’ uptight gatherings, them demanding he dress like a Stepford kid, and his rehearsed comments prepared by media experts to impress the other one-percenters. Horrible, but not half the nightmare he’d originally faced in school without a clique for protection. Jocks bullied him and the other artistic types, calling them sissies then fags. When he approached, the hottest girls rolled their eyes then whispered or laughed, the same as the ones at the showing. He’d tuned out the cruelty then and later, dropped off the grid as much as he could, and carried on.
He’d lied to Clover. Of course he cared what others thought. He was only human, wanting to at least fit in and not be a pariah. Never happened in the distant or recent past and wouldn’t now. Fate had singled him out for pain, no different than people who survived a terminal disease only to die in a plane crash.
When someone was doomed, nothing could change it.
Certainly not this party. He dreaded going but didn’t want to let Clover down. Losing her over this would be too awful. He didn’t think she’d ditch him fast. She was too kind. She’d get tired of having to make different arrangements because of his hang-ups and would simply drift away.
Determined not to let that happen and to make the best impression, he took her to his apartment, showed her his limited wardrobe, and asked for help in what to wear.
She chose his newest black jeans and made faces at his button-down tops. “I’ll have to think about these.”
The next afternoon, she handed him a short-sleeve black shirt still creased from its packaging.
He fingered the fabric. “Did you just buy this?”
“There was a great sale on eBay.”
“How much did this cost? I’m paying you back.”
“I’ll take it out in trade.” She cupped his nuts. “Try it on.”
After they humped like sex-deprived inmates, he did as she asked. The cut was too tight, the cotton hugging him like skin. “You should have gotten a larger size.”
“This is a slim fit. Exactly how it should be. Shows off your muscles.” She unbuttoned the shirt to his waist and stroked his abs. “God, you’re hot.”
He glanced away from his reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I look like a pimp.”
“Dressed like this you’ll be the same as any other guy at the party.” She brought up several designers’ websites on her phone and showed him models who were his age.
They looked like shit.
The prices shocked him. “One shirt costs nearly as much as one of my paintings?”
“This designer is way overpriced. That’s why I bypassed his site and went to Overstock.com.”
“I thought you said eBay.”
“One of the two. Same diff. Wish I could finish my Clover Cuffs in time. With them binding my wrists behind my back, you could lead me into the party by a chain attached to a leather collar. Think of the statement that would make for your tats and my jewelry. A picture’s worth a thousand words, right?”
In her case, more like a million. “Please tell me you’re going to wear clothes.”
“No choice. I don’t have a metal breastplate or a medallion—to cover my pussy. If I did, that would’ve been too cool. I should send myself a text and get working on some designs. Along with Clover Cuffs, I could market the three pieces as a complete ensemble.”
Van Gogh stopped her before she left the bathroom. “What exactly are you going to wear?”
“Black jeans, high heels, and a vintage bustier. The cups plump me as well as Victoria’s Secret does.” She thrust out her chest.
For once, her boobs didn’t capture his attention. “You’re sure we won’t be dressed too weird?”
“Ever see YouTube vids with KISS, Alice Cooper, and other bands like that?”
“They’re hard rock, not metal.”
“The genres blur. You and I will probably be wearing way more clothes than everyone else at the party. Our outfits are totally straitlaced.” She stroked his bottom lip. “Promise not to stare at anyone.”
“Because I’ll go blind?”
