Page 64 of Wicked Design
Peaches pulled him back down. “Don’t leave yet. We barely talked.”
“Yeah. Same for me.” Shell made a face. “Because some people here were blabbing too much.”
She and Peaches leaned across him, shooting each other nasty frowns, their boobs rubbing his chest.
“Sorry, gotta go.” He hauled himself out backward, ass first. After grabbing his phone from Zeke, he padded after Jacob and pulled up his work for the man’s buddies. They took Van Gogh’s number, gave him theirs, and then escorted him to the buffet. Buttery lobster, perfectly seared steak, succulent pork, and more sides than Marie Antoinette could have envisioned graced the long tables. Four bartenders poured every liquor imaginable and mixed drinks.
During the meal, the guys talked sports, asking his opinion on teams and players. He faked it. The women discussed movies and music. He fared better there.
Everyone treated him like family, inviting him to future events, promising to hook him up with other clients. Those who appreciated good art.
He envisioned his oils selling and becoming so celebrated he’d get a show.
Being king couldn’t match this.
He ate close to bursting and drank enough to maintain a good buzz.
Jacob, Zeke, and his friends passed out on chaise lounges. The music wound down and stayed off. Couples chased each other, the guys weaving on wobbly legs, women giggling. Some dudes caught their girlfriends or the one-night-stands they’d selected and screwed behind bushes.
The sky lightened, signaling dawn.
Fastest party Van Gogh had ever attended. Energized about his career rather than beat from the hour, he tried to find Clover, wondering why she hadn’t come back after drying off. Maybe she’d been as busy with her jewelry as he’d been with the tats.
Not finding her on the grounds, he strode into numerous bathrooms and endless bedrooms but came up empty. He stopped Luke, the band’s frontman. Poor guy was skinnier than Van Gogh had been before he got muscles. “You see Clover?”
“Nope.” He guzzled his beer.
She couldn’t have left.
Concerned but not yet panicked, Van Gogh ran from room to room and stopped in one near the front door. Clover had curled up on a white sofa, hands to her chest, her bows drooping, hair mussed. He dropped to his knee at her side. “Hey.”
She looked at him, her eyes more focused than he’d expected if she’d been sleeping. “What?”
“You okay?”
“You mean am I dry?”
That wasn’t what he meant, but figured he better not pursue her personality change from bubbly to cryptic, the way he used to be. He guessed she’d struck out with her jewelry but didn’t dare mention that, either. “Time to leave.”
She sat up. “Is Uber outside?”
“Trinity said her driver would take us back. She’s spending the night here.”
Clover stood. “That was nice of her. Did everyone like your tats?”
“God, yeah.” The memory alone would carry him for weeks, the high from someone appreciating his art unbeatable. “This was the best party I’ve ever been to. I don’t think anything could top it. Thanks for making me go.” He hugged her.
She clung to him. “I’m glad you had a good time.”
He swung her around.
She squealed.
He laughed. “I have so many new orders it’ll take months to finish. Wait till I tell you what happened.”
On the ride back, he talked himself breathless, blabbing about how nice everyone was. Treating him better than an equal, like a freaking god. He rocked in place, more pumped than he’d ever been. “I could get used to this adoration.”
At her place, he left the vehicle and waved the driver on, still going strong. “Zeke wanted to know if he needed to get snipped before I inked his balls.” Van Gogh snickered. “And Peaches thought Versace’s sister had died. Hadn’t a clue who Cunanan was.” He followed Clover up the stairway to her place. “When the guys talked sports, I turned their questions back on them. Saw that trick on Shades of Blue. Trinity looks like Jennifer Lopez with blond hair. Striking and sexy. Anyway, the guys didn’t notice I was clueless about their favorite teams. The women didn’t care. They talked movies and music. I did good with them. Everyone kept inviting me to future parties. If I go to each one, I won’t have time to ink or sleep.”
