Page 73 of Wicked Design
Chapter Nineteen
Sleep deprived, Van Gogh sprawled on the convertible chair in his station, lights off, door closed, arm over his eyes. He breathed deeply.
The intercom crackled, his cell phone rang, the door opened.
Apparently, it was showtime again. No rest for the wicked, especially if a walk-in had arrived.
He grabbed his phone. Zeke. Shit. Shell had left a voicemail. Trinity a text. Crap. They needed to get jobs like regular folk and learn patience. He held up his finger to whoever had come inside then answered his ringing phone.
“Hey, Zeke. I’m in the middle of something. I’ll have to get back to you.”
“This will take only a sec. I changed my mind on the design I want. I—”
“This isn’t a good time. We’ll have to talk later. I have another client at the moment.”
“One who will give you a thousand dollar bonus? I don’t think so. I want to settle this now. I’m—”
“We’ll talk later, promise.”
“Right this sec is better for me. I—hold on. I have another call. Be right back.”
Van Gogh looked over.
Tor stood in the doorway. “Got a minute?”
“For what?”
“Say yes.”
“No.”
Tor came inside anyway, flicked on the lights, and closed the door. “Look, I’d rather not be here, but I think it’s better I talk to you than Lauren or Jasmina, because they will eventually. You don’t want to fuck with Jasmina. She’ll tear you apart and won’t put you back together.”
Van Gogh sagged to the cushion. “For what? Being a few seconds late for my shift? She’s the manager, not my parole officer. When Noah and Kyle come over, she couldn’t care less if the parlor burned down.”
“Quit acting like a fucking tool, okay?”
He hung his arm over his eyes. “Fine. I’m sorry I said anything bad about her. She’s a one-of-a-kind snowflake. Best woman on Earth. Now, will you leave?”
“Not until I tell you a little secret you don’t seem to get. Deep down—currently, deeper down than usual—you’re a good man. One of the best I know. I like and respect you. Or at least I did.”
“That’s your secret?” Van Gogh slid his arm to his forehead. “What have I done to you?”
“It’s what you’re doing to yourself and this parlor. You may think you’re popular with these new people you met, but I can guarantee they’re as loyal to you as groupies are to this month’s favorite band. Someone else comes along and they’ll knock you down to get to that person. What you have with them isn’t friendship or loyalty. If it were, they wouldn’t run you ragged. If that’s what you want to do with your life, hey, your choice. But it’s affecting this place now.”
Stung by Tor’s words, Van Gogh turned off his phone and spoke through his teeth. “How am I doing that?”
“How the fuck else?” Tor rubbed his forehead. “You’re not paying attention to the regular clients who actually come here during our hours and play by our rules. You’re interrupting sessions to take calls, discuss designs, soothe feelings, and whatever the fuck else they have you doing. They may be inviting you to their parties, but they’re also using you like they do everyone else who isn’t in their social circle. I don’t mean to hurt you, and I honestly hate to say this, but they’re not that into you, man. Not like you want.”
Van Gogh’s face burned. “You think I don’t know that?”
Tor threw up his hands. “Then why in holy hell are you putting up with their shit?”
“They might buy my paintings. Word of mouth from them could make a lot of difference in my popularity as an artist in this country and even overseas. They, or their parents, all own villas and shit over there.”
“Have they seen anything you painted?”
He wanted to run. Trapped, he squeezed his fists. “I’m looking for the right moment to show them my work.”
