Page 63 of Wicked Design
She stepped back. “Fine. Soon as I find a towel.” She pivoted and left.
“V!” Shell waved. She’d changed into a string bikini, long on strings, short on fabric.
Peaches wore a scantier one. Only perfume would have covered her less. She reached him first, her generous boobs jiggling, and put out her hand. “Help me.”
He guided her into the water. She sat on his right side. Shell took up the left. Both close.
Zeke lifted the smartphone and pointed at the screen. “How long will this one take?”
The client’s back showed a scene from The Matrix, Neo spinning faster than a dervish, guns firing. “Weeks to a month or more, depending on how long you need to heal.”
“Shit.” Zeke lowered his face and scrolled.
Peaches fingered Van Gogh’s damp hair. “Where do you come from? You can tell me.”
“Me first.” Shell edged nearer.
Any closer and she’d be on his lap. If he moved back, he’d be on top of Peaches. He didn’t budge.
Never in his wildest worries would he have thought he’d have to fight off the babes tonight. Although it felt kind of good, in a self-absorbed way, he was glad Clover wasn’t around to witness this.
Shell faced him, her breast brushing his side. “Is where you live one of those places with war all the time like…” She made a face and shook her head. “What they talk about on the news. You know.”
He edged as far as he could from her without bumping into Peaches. “You mean the conflicts in Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq, Yemen?” Try as he might, he couldn’t think of any others.
Peaches leaned in to him. “Wow, you lived in all those places? I was born and raised in Palm Beach and always stay here except for trips to Europe and sometimes Miami. With a bodyguard, of course. It’s not what it used to be there. Too many serial killers.”
He pulled his thigh from hers. “In Europe?”
“No, Miami. The ones we have there. Like that Dexter guy.”
Van Gogh wasn’t certain if she was pulling his leg or not. “He was on TV. The real one’s name was Andrew Cunanan.”
“Who’s he?”
She couldn’t be serious. “The serial killer in Miami—technically Miami Beach—who murdered Versace.”
Peaches’s eyes rounded. “She died? Oh my God, that’s awful. I saw her at a fashion show last week. I’ll have my assistant send flowers. Where were you born?”
“Give someone else a chance, why don’t you?” Shell rested her hand on his thigh. “Where’d you learn to speak English so good? Almost like you came from here like us.”
She and Peaches fired questions at him, not waiting for his answers, their hands roaming, bodies pressed close.
He froze, unwilling to do anything except breathe, and that wasn’t coming easily.
Trinity strode up, a guy in tow. He sported bulkier muscles than hers, was twice her width, and a head shorter. She slapped his arm. “Look at V’s chest. You want one of those, right?”
“Sure.”
Van Gogh spoke to her. “Your boyfriend?”
“Cousin. Jacob meet V. V meet Jacob.”
They shook hands.
Jacob scratched his arm. “Mind coming with me, V? I got friends I’d like to show your stuff to. If it’s not too much trouble.”
Van Gogh’s toes and fingers had shriveled, anyway, plus he wanted to get away from Shell and Peaches. He pushed up.
