Page 48 of Wicked Design
“I think you’re wrong.”
“Like you are about your flower jewelry that you consider ordinary?”
“Touché. We’re a sorry pair, aren’t we?” She bumped his shoulder.
He kissed her hard and deep. “You taste good.”
“Thanks. But I still want to see everything.” She studied each piece, the not so good, the truly bad, and the downright ugly, choosing the ones she liked most. Those had funky colors, angles, and compositions.
They were his favorites, too. “Why’d you pick them?”
“They’re your style, not some dead artist’s. These have soul. It shows. I’m no expert with oils, but you shouldn’t waste your time on this other stuff.” She gestured to his rejects. “Stick with this technique. Make it yours, no one else’s. Don’t ever give up.”
“I wasn’t planning to unless the parlor tanks, I can’t find another job, and I’m too poor to buy materials and eat at the same time.”
“That’s never going to be a problem.” She slipped her arms around his waist, hands on his ass.
Van Gogh pressed close, his cock to her pussy, exactly where both parts belonged. He brushed her nose with his. “You’re a seer, too, and know what’s going to happen?”
“Not with the parlor—with you. Remember the metal band I mentioned? They called me. They’re having a no-holds-barred party end of the week in Palm Beach. Might be at Jimmy Buffet’s or Springsteen’s place. I think they live there. If not them, someone equally important and hopefully more recent, not old. And certainly rich. Asked if I wanted to party hearty and work, wear my designs, maybe snag some sales. You can show off your tats when we’re there. That group is young, into everything, has money to spare from their daddies, and will go wild with what you’ve done to yourself. You’ll have so many bookings Wicked Brand will never close. Sounds like fun, right?”
His skin went clammy, and his stomach fell. What she’d proposed sounded like his youth all over again. The “in” crowd boogying wildly. Him on the sidelines, watching. Or worse, trying to be inconspicuous so he wouldn’t be noticed and demeaned for everyone else’s enjoyment.
Once those trust-fund babies got a look at his tats and him, the insults and snide remarks could come fast and hard.
In front of Clover, no less.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
She might have liked him as he was, but she was special, one in a zillion, nice rather than judgmental.
The others weren’t and wouldn’t be. He’d grown up with kids like that. They’d been given the world from the moment they drew their first breath and were told no one else compared. They had a right to find fault and belittle, which they did with increasing cruelty. That proved how much better they were.
His circumstances and youth had chained him to them until he was old enough to escape.
And now, Clover wanted him to return to that.
Oh fuck, no. Not again, after all these years.
He wanted to run.
