Page 33 of Wicked Design
Chapter Nine
Buying handcuffs proved easier than Van Gogh expected, though no less embarrassing than his first condom purchase. He’d been fourteen at the time and tall for his age with no girlfriend in sight. He wanted the rubbers to prepare for his big moment, unaware four years would pass before he got lucky. As a clueless teen he’d expected the checkout clerk to ask no end of personal questions, beginning with a demand for a photo ID. All he had was one from the private school he attended, and he would have bolted if she’d asked for it.
The middle-aged woman had rung him up, took his cash, didn’t comment on the sweat pouring down his face, and handed over his purchase with a bored, “Have a good day.”
At the military equipment store he’d shopped at for tonight’s sexfest, a young woman waited on him. Her nametag said Tessie. She stared at his tats more than the handcuffs he wanted to buy. Three sets in black, silver, and red, more choice than he expected to find in this place, possibly because soldiers were into BDSM, too, with their girlfriends. Uncertain which color Clover would like best, he went for broke. While Tessie rang up the sale then pushed his bag toward him, she talked nonstop to a coworker about their cut hours and shitty schedule.
Back home, he worked on his sketches, wrapped the oil painting he’d done of Clover, and groomed better than he had for the date when he’d lost his virginity. Despite his freshly washed hair and shaved cheeks, he wouldn’t win any hunk-of-the-year awards. Didn’t matter. As long as Clover liked his looks he was good.
His shift started at two. Eight long hours before he could see her.
He rushed into the parlor, painting in hand, cuffs and Clover sketches in his backpack.
Lauren left the counter first, followed by Jasmina. They reached him at the same time.
Lauren spoke first. “How’d it go?”
“Great, right?” Jasmina squeezed his shoulder. “You’re actually smiling.”
News to him. Van Gogh touched his mouth, appalled to discover she was right. First he couldn’t stop blushing, now this? He might as well have worn a flashing sign telling everyone he’d gotten laid. First time in months.
And the best time ever.
A new grin threatened. He squelched it.
Lauren stared at his face.
“What?” He edged back.
She followed. “You shaved really good for a change. You have another date tonight?”
“What’s this?” Jasmina touched his painting.
He pulled it away. “I have to get to work.”
“No, you don’t. Your first client won’t be here for twenty minutes.”
“I need to research a new design.”
“Clover’s?” Jasmina and Lauren both asked.
“I gotta go.” He circled them and came face-to-face with Tor, who offered two thumbs-up and an enthusiastic smile.
Van Gogh gave him the finger.
Tor laughed.
At his station, Van Gogh stashed the painting behind a counter and put finishing touches on his sketches. Jasmina and Lauren strolled by repeatedly, sneaking peeks. At last he pointed to the security camera on the ceiling. “That’s not working any longer? The monitor’s busted? You can’t watch me from the office?”
They made themselves scarce.
His clients arrived in a steady stream, all chatty today, bitching about work or spouses, wanting to talk politics and religion. Van Gogh couldn’t concentrate long enough to offer coherent comments. Occasionally, he’d grunt or go “hmm” to prove he listened when he didn’t.
Clover flooded his thoughts, her scent everywhere even though that wasn’t possible. He tried to guess what she’d wear tonight, torn between his desire for a black or red thong, either one hopefully sheer and decked out in lace or tiny bows. Could be she’d sport one of her jewelry pieces. Possibly a slave bracelet on her biceps like the ones she’d shown him last night. Maybe she should design funky handcuffs for the BDSM crowd. The selection at the military store had been a surprise, but not that great. Surely she could come up with more than what they had.
He wrote a note to remind himself to ask her.
The day dragged worse than any he’d known. Halfway through the shift, his smartphone vibrated. He stopped wiping down the convertible chair but didn’t pick up, unable to recall the last time anyone bothered him at work. His artist friends were as reticent as he was. Months could go by before they contacted him, usually through email. Couldn’t be his folks reaching out after all these years. At least he hoped not.
