Page 62 of Wicked Design
Chapter Sixteen
A zillion stars twinkled above. The moist breeze caressed then whispered past. Van Gogh lounged in the supersized hot tub, a Tutankhamun ale in hand. At seventy-five bucks a bottle, the beer wasn’t half bad. The jet-propelled bubbles swirling around him were damn good, and the conversation priceless. For once, he held center stage. Not as the punching bag but as someone admired.
He unwound. Hell, he savored as he’d never done in his life. He pointed his bottle at Zeke, Portia’s twin, with her being the one who’d led Van Gogh here. “Check out the balls and cock tats. Go past the inked tongues you’re looking at now.”
Zeke and his friends huddled together in the tub, staring at pictures on Van Gogh’s smartphone. Work he’d done for Wicked Brand clients.
The guys’ eyes bulged. They chuckled nervously then groaned but kept checking out men’s equipment inked to resemble faces, the shaft serving as a nose, the balls becoming cheeks. One image showed a famous cartoon character who couldn’t lie because his nose always grew too long. Or in this case, the guy’s four-inch rod had lengthened to six inches. Another tat had turned a man’s cock into a snake. Other popular designs were schlongs made to look like fire hoses, pens, pencils, whatever captured the client’s fancy. NRA enthusiasts loved having their precious cargo inked to look like a gun barrel and cylinder.
Zeke showed that picture to Van Gogh. “This is what I want. Talk about shooting your cum.”
His friends laughed.
Van Gogh sipped his beer. “Portia has the number where you can reach me. Leave a message. I’ll get you fixed up.”
Bellowed oaths rang out. Four guys sprinted across the concrete, whooped, and cannonballed into the pool. A tsunami flew up and rained down on Van Gogh and the others. Women joined the men. A water volleyball game broke out, the guys holding the girls on their shoulders.
“Hey, V.” Zeke scrolled through more photos. “There’s a party next week at Taylor’s. Think you can come?”
Taylor’s last name couldn’t be Swift. Then again… Rich folk gravitated toward one another. Popular artists had even attended his parents’ shindigs. As paid help. His folks’ tastes ran to elevator-music stars like Barry Manilow, Engelbert Humperdinck, and Air Supply rather than what the band played tonight. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”
“I’ll text you the address.” Zeke wiggled his thick black eyebrows. “How about inking me before that night? That way you can use me as a living advertisement. Trust me, once the babes I hook up with can breathe normally again—after I’ve finished with them—they’ll want to know who tattooed my junk.”
Van Gogh had met clueless clients in his work, but Zeke was in a class all his own. “I don’t work that fast. Neither does the process. Ever have a vasectomy?”
“Fuck no. I’m only twenty-six.” He plunged his free hand into the swirling water and covered his precious package. “Why? Do I need one before you can ink my stuff?”
Torn between laughing and sighing, a first for him with the cool crowd, he tried to explain. “No. But you’ll be sore like you’ve been snipped. The needle does that. Inking you will take a while.”
Zeke’s friend elbowed him. “Use your head, moron. Have V do your brain. You won’t need that.”
The other guys laughed.
Music roared from speakers, the band back at it. Partygoers cannonballed into the pool, wave after wave hitting. Males shouted. Females yelped. Van Gogh wiped water from his eyes, leaned back, and lifted his face. A crotch blocked the sky, its owners’ legs behind him. He twisted.
Clover.
The last time he’d seen her, she’d been showing her jewelry to a small group. Hoping she’d sold lots, he smiled.
She didn’t return it. “You okay?”
Her frown said she didn’t think he was.
Van Gogh couldn’t blame her for worrying. He’d made such a big deal about coming here; she probably thought he’d pass out at one point. “I’m fine. Want to come in?” He patted the churning water.
She glanced at her clothing and fingered her jewelry. “I’m not wearing a suit.”
“Neither am I. Keep on your underwear like I did. You can take off the music thing and other jewelry you’re wearing. No one here will swipe that stuff.”
Something passed over her face.
He couldn’t read her mood. “What?”
She shook her head and avoided his gaze. “That’s okay. I’ll wait out here.”
A new wave crashed and hit her. Water dripped off her face, flattened her hair, and drenched her top.
“Hey, you all right?” Van Gogh reached for her.
