Page 76 of Wicked Design
She chuckled. “Don’t worry, I will. You have a call. Line three.”
“Who?” He swiveled to face the intercom. “Clover?”
“I wish. It’s Peaches. Again. Says her calls to your phone are going to voicemail. End of the world, you know? Needs to talk to you. ASAP. For once, I think you should take the call. If she shows up uninvited like the prick you just threw out and you manhandle her, too, there could be a lawsuit.”
“It won’t get that far, promise. Taking the call now.” He spoke before Peaches could. “I’m busy. Don’t call here again. Get your tat somewhere else. I don’t want to deal with you or any of your friends ever again, no matter how much money you promise to pay. Understand?”
She laughed. “What is this, some kind of sick joke? For your info, I’m not laughing. Shell is now saying she’s going to get the design I chose for my tattoo. Unless I find something better, which I might. Can you believe what she’s threatening to do? I mean, she really—”
“You’re not listening. Don’t. Bother. Me. I’m never doing a tat for you, not even for a million bucks. I’d rather starve.”
“Huh? What makes you think I care what you think or do? And drop the pissy attitude. It’s not funny.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
She made a noise betraying her surprise. “I’d watch it, if I were you. Have you forgotten who I am?”
“With you constantly reminding me? Here’s a news flash, I don’t give a shit who you are. Quit bothering me. Harass someone else. Tell your stupid buddies the same, including Shell.”
“Fuck you.” She killed the call.
Free at last, he searched online between clients and during a late lunch, chomping on his Cubano as he scrolled. By seven p.m. he’d managed to pull together some pretty decent ideas. When nine o’clock rolled around, he itched to leave and phoned Clover.
Her voicemail answered.
He cut it off and sent a text.
Can we talk 2nite? Plz?
Only good stuff. 4 us. B by @ 10:15 sharp.
At ten p.m. she still hadn’t responded.
He raced from the parlor, tore down the few blocks to her place, and stopped at Alice’s Wonderland, panting. Worrying, too. Clover’s lights were off. She never conked out before midnight unless she didn’t feel well. Van Gogh didn’t want to hope for that, but the only other option meant he’d loused up so badly she’d moved on, because she had to, had possibly met someone else, a really nice guy instead of a dick, and might be on a date with him now.
Reluctant to know but desperate to make things right between them, Van Gogh knocked on her door. Gently at first, then increasingly harder. No response. Pacing, he called her and got voicemail. “Hi, it’s me. I’m outside your place. Are you in there?” Please be. “Can we talk?”
He waited for her deadbolt to clunk, signaling that she’d opened it. Nothing. Now he worried that she might not be on a date, but inside, unconscious. Her air conditioning unit wasn’t running. Had to be an oven in there. Shit, she might need CPR. “Clover!” He pounded. “Are you all right?”
Footfalls sounded on the stairs. He ran to them. “Hi. I—oh.”
An old lady with a baseball bat in one hand and a smartphone in the other stared at him.
Van Gogh smiled weakly. “Thought you were Clover.”
“No, I’m Alice. I own this building. I was ready to call the cops.” She lifted her phone. “Why all the noise?”
He pointed behind himself. “I was trying to wake Clover. It’s hot in her apartment. She might have passed out.”
“She’s not there.”
He slouched. “She’s out for the night?”
“No.”
“Oh my God, she moved?” Since she hadn’t been able to afford air conditioning, rent might have also proved too much to handle. His belly clenched. “Do you know where?”
“No. She didn’t move.” Alice squinted. Her old-fashioned glasses slipped down her nose. “Who are you, besides the young man I saw her with a few months back?”
