Page 54 of Wicked Design
“You’ll look like a newbie. Remember, you want to seem mysterious…the incomparable V with magic fingers and your ink thingy.”
“Tattoo machine would be more accurate.”
“Sounds good.” She nuzzled his neck.
He sagged against the wall, hauling her with him. “If anyone asks what the V stands for, swear you won’t say virile.”
“Won’t have to. Your build will tell them everything they need to know. Your nickname or real name isn’t their damn business. You should wear shades, too.”
“At night and inside wherever this is taking place?”
“A mansion. Not Buffet’s or Springsteen’s, I checked. Nearly as good as Mar-a-Lago, however. The band’s frontman knows people who know people. The shades will protect you.”
“From what?”
“People you knew in San Francisco.”
“What?” Van Gogh held her at arm’s length. “You invited people from my childhood and adolescence?”
“How could I? I don’t have their names, but you were rich and they’re rich. Don’t you guys go to the same parties?”
“Does every naturist or female artist who designs jewelry end up at the same places?”
“Point taken. Don’t know what I was thinking.” She finger-combed his hair. “However, the shades will add to your mystique. At least consider them.”
Van Gogh pictured them looking like an updated version of Gomez and Morticia. For him, a step up. As a kid he’d always felt like Lurch. “How long do we have to stay?”
“Dawn…or we can leave well before then if you’re uncomfortable.”
If he behaved like a wuss, he’d ruin her chance to sell her stuff and push his. She could have gone alone but had invited him to share her world. No other woman had ever believed in him that much. “We’ll go the whole nine yards. Guaranteed.”
She hugged him.
He danced her around the bathroom to Maroon 5’s “Sugar.” Her favorite song. Sweet and hopeful, just like her. How could he ever let her down? With her on his arm as the hottest babe there, the party couldn’t turn out that bad. He’d book some new ink customers, maybe even sell a painting. Miracle of miracles, he might even have a good time.
The possibility should have pumped his enthusiasm rather than increasing his anxiety.
…
By the night in question, Van Gogh couldn’t manage a full breath. He cut his jaw shaving, his hair wouldn’t lay right, the shirt looked more ridiculous than the first time he’d tried it on, and his new jeans already had a ripped knee, proving how cheap they were. He pulled another pair from his closet and swore at the guacamole smear he hadn’t noticed on the fly. After scrubbing off the green stain, he used his blow-dryer to remove the water spot.
His doorbell rang repeatedly, followed by sharp raps.
Couldn’t be Clover. He was supposed to pick her up after his Uber ride got him. Maybe that guy or woman had arrived early.
Van Gogh ran to his front room and looked out the peephole. Clover. He yanked open the door and had to keep from falling to his knees.
Her all-black outfit hugged and accentuated what curves she had. The bustier sported black bows to keep it closed, rather than buttons or a zipper. She’d worn the music jewelry on her left arm, a slave bracelet on her right, and silver earrings shaped like snakes that seemed to weave in and out of her lobes. Her flowery scent wafted toward him, turning his legs to water.
“Jesus, you look incredible and smell great.”
She bounced on spike heels, the extra inches making her nearly as tall as he was. “Thanks. You’re not wearing jeans or underwear. Why? Not that I don’t like the look.”
He covered himself before the neighbors or passersby got an eyeful. “I was getting dressed when you pounded. What are you doing here?”
She gestured to the right.
He leaned past the jamb. A stretch limo purred on the street. “Holy crap, is that ours?”
