Page 13 of Wicked Design
Chapter Four
Van Gogh sagged against the fridge in the break room and pressed a cold soda can to his forehead. The chilled metal did zip to alleviate the heat barreling through him. Never had he been as fevered.
Shoes slapped the linoleum. Loud throat-clearing sounded.
He didn’t budge.
“Bad day?”
Tor. Or rather, Mr. Charm, amusement in his question. Since Tor was one of the so-called beautiful people, he couldn’t possibly understand how fucking hard it was for Van Gogh to interact with a woman, make her smile, laugh, or God forbid, genuinely like him for the screwed-up jerk he was. Tor attracted babes more easily than a magnet did metal. With Marnie in his life now, their future was sweeter than a sappy Hallmark card. All Van Gogh wanted was a sliver of that and enough good sense to trust it.
Tor stepped closer. “Seriously, man, are you all right?”
“Do I look it?”
“Hell, you never do. That’s who you are. But you’ve never collapsed against the fridge before.”
“I’m resting.”
“There’s a convertible chair in your station. Lay it out. Take a nap. I’m sure Lauren won’t mind.”
Van Gogh pushed away from the fridge and stood toe to toe with Tor.
Tor backed away.
Van Gogh followed. “I need to talk.”
“Seriously?”
“Would I be collapsing against the fridge if I didn’t?”
“Hopefully not. Go on. Talk.”
“Not here. Your station.”
“Did you hurt a customer?”
Already unglued, Van Gogh saw red. “I taught you how to use a tattoo machine the right way after you took that crappy online course. I did my own chest.” He pushed it out. “Your gladiator tat is my design and work.” He smacked the 3-D image on Tor’s shoulder. “Did I hurt a customer? That’s a question you better never ask again.”
“Slow down, Conan. I meant did you run into someone in the hall because you had your head down like you usually do. Or did you step on a woman’s foot because you weren’t watching where you were heading. Or did you—?”
“None of the above.” He fidgeted, unable to keep still. “I’ve got something going on tonight, and I’d like some advice.”
“Are your plans legal?”
Van Gogh clenched his jaw.
Tor held up his hands. “I’m asking because Dante’s an attorney. You’d get better advice talking to him.”
“You’ll do. Come on.” Van Gogh led the way to Tor’s station and shut the door. “I think I have a date tonight.”
“You’re not sure? A friend’s fixing you up? You called a service?”
“Clover asked me to dinner.”
Tor’s face lit up. “Congrats. That’s great. She seems nice.”
Never had a woman praised his tats as she had or liked his other designs as much. She hadn’t merely been kind then, she’d meant what she said, the truth in her exquisite eyes. That, alone, floored him, but coupled with her other stuff… She smelled better than anyone on Earth. Was prettier, too. Lloyd’s of London should have insured her complexion against harm, that’s how special it was. “I don’t know what to bring.”
