Page 58 of Wicked Design
Van Gogh stiffened and said something.
Clover shouted, “What?”
He leaned down to her ear. “We don’t have to dance, do we?”
“I don’t see how you could do worse than the dudes here. No one’s making fun of them.”
“Oh no?” He inclined his head toward a group.
The girls huddled together and laughed at a poor guy who was moonwalking really badly. He slid right and left rather than dancing backward. Could be he was drunk or high and forgot how to do the moves correctly.
“Oh. My. Freaking. God!”
At the screech, Clover turned.
A young woman in a gold tube top, leather mini shorts, and gladiator high heels rushed toward Clover and Van Gogh. Rather than zipping past them, she stopped in front of him, gripped his shirt, and yanked it open.
The spotlight swept past, revealing his chest tat in full living color.
His arm fell away from Clover. He stepped back.
Ready to run, she guessed.
The young woman followed him and shrieked, “Is this real?” She swept his pecs, abs, and lower with more enthusiasm than an X-rated masseuse.
Clover grabbed the girl’s wrist before she touched anything too intimate. “Hey, hey, hey.” She shouted loud enough for those in the adjoining county to hear. “No touching V unless you want a lawsuit for damaging priceless property. You want to talk to him, you go through me, his agent.”
Ms. Touchy-Feely bared her teeth. “Do you know who I am?”
“Barbie on acid?”
The fake eyelash on the woman’s left eye was peeling off.
Clover lifted her chin. “Shouldn’t you be looking for Ken?”
Bass boomed and drums pounded then the music died, leaving nothing except ringing in Clover’s ears.
The chandeliers stopped flickering and burned steadily, illuminating the room better than the midday sun.
The band’s frontman held up his hands and shouted into his mic, “Taking a break. Back in a few.”
Groupies rushed the stage, him, and his band members.
Several young women sauntered to Van Gogh, hips swinging, boobs bouncing. Given their identical noses, high cheekbones, pouty lips, and flawless bods, they’d invested more in plastic surgery than the mansion’s owner had in a year’s mortgage on this place.
Ms. Touchy-Feely elbowed a brunette away and crowded Van Gogh. “Hey, I’m Peaches. Your name’s V? What’s that stand for?”
He looked at Clover, eyes panicked and pleading.
As if she’d betray him to these goons. He should know better. She squared her shoulders, behaving like the talent agent she wasn’t. “That’s a secret no one will ever know, not even V’s countrymen.”
Looking intrigued, Peaches faced him. “You’re not from Palm Beach then?”
A redhead sporting a fake beauty mark leaned in. “Miami?”
Clover rolled her eyes. “If I said V’s countrymen don’t know his real name that means he’s not from this country.” Duh.
More young women gathered. Peaches and the redhead frowned.
