Page 74 of Wicked Design
“Do they even know you paint?”
Fuck.“No, all right?” Van Gogh hit the cushion, more pissed with himself than he was with Tor. “I should have told them before now, but I’m not the great Tor Avana. When was the last time a woman drooled over you? Twenty seconds before you came in here to ream me out? How about the last time someone insulted your looks or personality? Called you a fag because you like art instead of stupid sports? Would that be never?” Van Gogh pointed. “Don’t you dare tell me how I should feel. Cool people have never paid attention to me like they have to you, except to make fun and tell me what a troll I am. It felt good to be treated nice for a change, like a person who deserves respect, and to have my designs appreciated rather than sneered at. Hell, it does feel good. I have a right to some happiness.”
Tor pulled up a chair. “Of course you do, but from this group it’s not real. That’s all I’m saying. What about Clover?”
Van Gogh leaned away. “What about her?”
“For nearly a year, she watched you ink in the window. She looks at you like you invented air. I thought you liked her. Doesn’t she count?”
He didn’t want to consider what his life would be like without her. Definitely worse than it already was, which was pissing bad, and it was entirely his fault. “More than I do. She’s too good for me.”
Tor laughed and punched Van Gogh’s leg. “Sounds like love. Is she okay with what you’ve been doing?”
“We don’t discuss it.” They hadn’t talked in days or made love in weeks. She’d turned down every party invite, telling him he should go and have a good time. Lately, whenever he texted or called, she was busy or had her phone on voicemail. No one had to paint him a picture. Repeatedly, he’d been late for their time together or distracted when they did hook up and always torn by too many competing requests, giving in to those from others rather than hers. She’d accepted his delays and apologies until she hadn’t and backed away, making herself scarce. Fuck, what an idiot I’ve been. He sagged. “I know this sounds lame, but all I really wanted was to have some fun at first, then sell my artwork, get a jumpstart on my career, feel worthy.”
“How’s that working out?”
Van Gogh couldn’t find enough bad words to describe his situation. Although that first night with the in-crowd had been magic, the other times had disappointed and became boring then grueling. He’d kept at it, trying to get that same high, and ended up running faster and faster to make everyone else happy to prove himself.
He’d wanted to quit for weeks but kept going like the Energizer Bunny, hoping he’d at least further his art by enduring their shit. Repeatedly, Zeke, Jacob, Shell, and the others said he had to attend the next party and the next so they could intro him to important people. He kept praying they were talking about someone who could help his career. Those VIPs never showed or probably didn’t even exist, since all he met were more jerks like the others who asked endless questions regarding tats, then expected him to listen to their problems concerning shit he didn’t care about.
Deep down, he’d known his career wouldn’t go anywhere with them but hadn’t wanted to face it until now. Nothing had changed from his youth. He was still the ultimate outsider and worse than a goddamn idiot. He was pathetic.
“Excuse me.” Jasmina spoke from somewhere near Lauren’s office. “Hold on. You can’t go down there.”
Tor glanced over at her voice.
Heavy footfalls pounded, belonging to a man. A door opened then slammed. Another opened.
Jasmina called out, “What are you doing? You can’t barge in on clients. Stop that.”
“Relax. Once you tell me where V is, I’ll be a good boy, ’kay?”
Van Gogh blinked at Zeke’s dismissive, self-indulged comment and him even being here.
“I’m not telling you anything.” Jasmina had raised her voice. “You’d better leave.”
“Oh yeah? Guess what, I’m not budging until I’m good and ready. Got it, Mah-reeeeeee-ah?”
Van Gogh was off the convertible chair and at the door, yanking it open before Tor could. His heart pounded so damn hard at Zeke’s exaggerated Spanish accent and racial slur, he could barely breathe.
Zeke faced him. “There you are. Finally. I was trying to tell you I was on my way here, but you kept cutting me off. Found this design for my tattoo I want you to look at. This is something you have to see in person. A photo won’t do.” He jiggled his car keys. “I’ll drive. Don’t worry about what you’re doing here. I’ll pay you triple what they’re giving you. Let’s go.”
Van Gogh squeezed his fists even harder and spoke to Jasmina. “Sorry. I’ll take care of this.”
Her frown said he’d better.
He wrapped his arm around Zeke’s neck like buddies do when they’re horsing around, only he wanted to do serious harm. “Tell her you’re sorry now.”
“What? Why?”
“For acting like a dick.” He tightened his hold. “Do it. I’m not asking again.”
“Okay, okay.” He bowed his head to her. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.”
The hell he hadn’t. Van Gogh shook him hard. “You should listen better. Like the lady said, no one comes back here unless they’re ready to get inked. Everyone else waits up front, like a good boy. Got it?” He pulled him toward the waiting area.
Zeke squirmed. “Let go. What the fuck’s the matter with you?”
