Page 30 of Wicked Design
Chapter Eight
Van Gogh woke alone in bed, one hand on the jelly thing, the other resting on the brownish block. Tasted like honey and almonds. Not bad. The orange goo in the other dessert needed more sugar. He licked it from his knuckles then craned his neck, guessing Clover was in the bathroom. Nope. The door was open, light off.
Something pinged.
Still nude, she leaned across the table, grabbed a hammer, and pulverized a silver metal square, her taps surprisingly gentle.
In his next life, he was coming back as a woman with energy to spare. Scratching his ass, he padded across the room. “What are you making?” Unless she was destroying the poor thing.
She twisted her mouth. “Nothing. Damn thing won’t come out like I want.” She hurled the square. It sailed into the front door and clattered on the floor.
“Works good as a Frisbee.” He retrieved the sheet and turned it over. To his untrained eye for jewelry design, it didn’t look like much. “Wasn’t that what you were going for?”
“I want to make a breastplate that matches your tat.”
He held the silver to his chest. “It’s too small.”
“That’s a prototype, until I work out the kinks. Do you mind that I’m making it?”
“Why would I? Are you worried your hammering woke me up?”
“No.” She looked surprised. “I didn’t even think about that. I should have, but when I get an idea I have to indulge it no matter what else is going on. Sorry.”
“No need to be as far as the noise is concerned. Why would you think I’d mind you making a breastplate? You’re the jewelry expert.”
“Will it bother you if I take your idea and turn it into my vision in metal, beads, or other stuff? I can give you a commission as the initial creator.”
He leaned against the table. “If that’s your plan, you’d have to pay off tons of other people, too. My tat’s unique, to a point, but I didn’t invent 3-D images or skin ripped away to show guts. Done all the time. I simply changed it to match my own tastes. So have at it. As far as a commission, I’ll give you one if you put on the AC before we melt.” He fingered perspiration from her temple.
She kissed his thumb. “On it, and you don’t have to pay me.” She glanced at the bed. “I’ll take it out in trade.”
“Wait.” He grasped her wrist before she could get too far away. “Better put something on before you close the windows. Don’t want cops storming this place.” He tossed her his tank top.
The hem reached mid-thigh on her. The rounded neck skimmed her nipples. Van Gogh had never seen anything nicer. “Looks better on you than me.”
Laughing, she closed up the place, ditched his top, and turned on the window unit. “It’s not great, but it’s something.” She hugged the rectangular box, hogging the air.
He didn’t mind. After wiping his sweaty forehead and eyes, he explored the items on the table, stopping at a silver piece two feet long or more. It resembled a stave, the five lines in sheet music. A treble clef and notes decorated it. As a kid, he’d gotten into music before art consumed him. “Is this Beethoven’s 5th?”
“Yeah. It was either that or Adele’s ‘Rolling in the Deep.’ Old Ludwig’s composition looked better to me.”
Van Gogh twisted the surprisingly supple piece. “Do you hang this on the wall?”
“You wear it. Or rather, a woman does.” She wound the thing around her left arm, wrist to biceps, then laid the next part across her collarbone and wrapped the last inches around her throat. “Voilà. It moves with you, too, but doesn’t fall off.” She did several jumping jacks, her boobs wiggling prettily, the jewelry staying in place.
He grinned. “That is seriously cool. I can picture it on one of the beautiful people at a funky club.”
“Point her out and the place where she boogies, please.” Clover dropped her arms and pulled off the piece. “I’ve made three of these suckers. Haven’t sold one. Not even to the bands I deal with. And they’re my best customers so far.”
She kept surprising him. “You have band members for clients?”
“Not the Stones or Maroon 5. My people aren’t super famous, at least not yet. They’re still local but doing really well. I planned these pieces for them. They said they were too tame. Even their groupies passed them up. Maybe if I had added skulls or daggers…”
The piece was perfect as it was. “They play heavy metal?”
“One group does. The other jumps from that to soft rock and other sounds. They haven’t decided on a particular style yet. Their fans don’t mind. They eat everything up. Wish I could say the same for my stuff. Maybe it’s too weird.” She made a face at the wraparound thing and other pieces on her table. “No matter what I try it’s not catching on like it should.”
“Does that include what you have at Alice’s shop and the parlor?”
