Page 52 of Wicked Design
She embraced him. “Let’s be honest. I don’t know any other way to be. All right?”
“Honest about what?”
“You know. Please don’t pretend you’re not following what I’m saying.” She eased back and cupped his face. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. The circles beneath his eyes told her he hadn’t slept any better than she had. “This started when I mentioned the bash last night. If I’d known how you felt beforehand, I would have eased into the subject rather than sucker-punching you with it. But that’s done, and all I can say now is it’s only a party. I swear, it won’t be that bad. Certainly not as gruesome as a prostate exam.”
He chuckled and groaned. “I don’t do well with the ‘in’ crowd. Never have. My middle school and high school days were pure awful.”
“So were mine. Back then, the cool kids didn’t have anything to relieve their boredom except picking on people like us. It’s different now that we’re adults. The people who go to these things are into themselves more than anything else. We’ll be invisible to them.”
He gave her a look that said he didn’t believe a word. “Won’t that defeat your purpose in selling your jewelry and my inking skills?”
“They’ll notice that stuff, not us. Think back to when your parents’ chef cooked a particularly great meal. Did they focus on him or the food? Was he a human being to them, who deserved recognition, or a faceless entity fading into the background?”
Van Gogh slouched. “My tats aren’t what you call typical.”
“I know, they’re amazing.”
He smiled weakly. “People, especially women, have been known to screw up their faces or groan when they see them. Some might laugh. It’s happened.” He lowered his face.
She ached for him. “When? Tell me, please.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I got brave once, or maybe it was crazy, and attended an art show, the kind I’ve always wanted to have for my work. I thought I’d get some pointers on what was selling and what I should be doing to succeed.” He groaned. “Since the artist in question does funky stuff, I mistakenly thought his clientele would be the same. You know, Hollywood types like the Kardashians who have no limits or shame and think wearing their underwear at a red-carpet event is perfectly okay. How wrong I was.”
He sagged against the counter. “People like my parents were there dressed in tuxes, gowns, jewels, and even furs despite how politically incorrect it is to wear a poor animal. Since it was eighty or so outside, I wore a short-sleeved dress shirt. It and my pants were nice, which meant I didn’t look like a bum. As far as the art patrons were concerned, I might as well have been from outer space. Granted, they had been drinking heavily if their loud conversations and noisy laughter were any indication, but the moment they saw my arm tats, shaved head, and goatee—I had one at the time—they shut up and stared. The women my age made faces, elbowed one another, and whispered. One joined the group late, downed her champagne, took one look at me, and laughed. The others joined in. Security rushed up and—”
“I’m sorry.” What he was saying killed Clover, and she’d had to interrupt. “They were turds, okay? The kind of people you ran from who think their worldview is the only one that counts. The group that will be at this party isn’t like that at all. Nothing shocks them, and I can prove it. I’ve worn my jeweled eyebrows in their presence, though I pasted the things on rather than getting my face pierced, and they didn’t laugh. The women asked me about them. Some even saw similar pieces at the Chanel show in 2012 or 2013, but said mine were cooler. Though clearly not cool enough.” She made a face. “Wish I could’ve sold a few.”
“Jeweled eyebrows?”
“Yeah, better than what Oprah wore in A Wrinkle in Time. The set I made is in the case up front. I modified the original design from the Chanel show to make them my own like you do with your tats. If those pieces didn’t make the people I’m talking about react like the ones at the art show, nothing will.”
He didn’t look convinced. “I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Jeans are fine. Do you still have the short-sleeve dress shirt you mentioned?”
“Why?”
“So you don’t cover up the bullet hole designs on your arms. With the shirt buttons undone, you’ll give a glimpse of your chest design. When interested parties ask to see it, you can pull your shirt open and show them your stuff.”
He looked like he might toss his cookies and rested his forehead against hers. “You consider that not getting noticed?”
“It’s good advertising. If you don’t want to speak to anyone, fine. I’ll act as your agent. That will give you a mysterious air, like you don’t give a crap about any of them.”
“I don’t.”
She pushed her pussy into his rod. “Then prove it and drive them fucking nuts with your persona. Come to the party with me. It could change your life.”
