by Tina Donahue
The piece was perfect as it was. “They play heavy metal?”
“One group does. The other jumps from that to soft rock and other sounds. They haven’t decided on a particular style yet. Their fans don’t mind. They eat everything up. Wish I could say the same for my stuff. Maybe it’s too weird.” She made a face at the wraparound thing and other pieces on her table. “No matter what I try it’s not catching on like it should.”
“Does that include what you have at Alice’s shop and the parlor?”
“Yep, and everywhere else. My sales are steady enough for me to live, but nothing to brag about.”
“Have you tried hawking the music piece at your parents’ place? Do naturists wear jewelry?”
“They can.” Her face brightened. “That’s a great idea. Don’t know why I never considered it. This would look awesome at their get-togethers.” She tapped the piece she’d worn. “They have a special event every month, theme oriented. How perfect would this be for a music night? I could make one with a Gershwin score or something from the Grateful Dead, depending on the age group. They could even have a contest to guess what tune I used.” She grabbed her smartphone. “I’ll text myself a reminder then shoot a picture to Dad and Mom later. They’ll probably have other suggestions I can use. We brainstorm about this stuff all the time.”
Van Gogh tried to imagine his parents discussing art with him, celebrating his successes, and consoling him when he failed. They offered him every material thing available but no understanding or time when it came to what he wanted.
Clover hugged him. “Thanks.”
Her happiness meant everything. Never had he been as proud of something he’d done. “Show me your other work.”
“Careful. Once I start talking jewelry, I might not shut up.”
“You are an artist.”
Grinning, she sat on his lap, his cock snuggled against her ass, and turned her binder pages for him. Several bracelet and necklace designs resembled lace, the pieces available in more colors than a rainbow. The stuff that looked like glass jewelry was actually eco-friendly biodegradable plastic.
Didn’t make sense to him. “Would anyone actually throw something this pretty away as they would a grocery bag?”
“Hopefully not. But if it does end up in a landfill, it won’t be there till the universe collapses.”
“Have you tried to sell this jewelry at environmental gatherings or on their websites?”
“Another great idea. I’ve been too band-and-retail focused until now.” She sent herself another text message. “Let me show you what Alice has agreed to sell.”
Clover fired up her tablet and downloaded pictures displaying old-fashioned jewelry. Delicate lockets suspended from lace or ribbons rather than chains, pieces she called chokers that had dangling pearls and gems, the designs ornate. What one would see at high-end weddings. She’d made flower earrings and bracelets, the petals breathtakingly realistic. An invisible breeze seemed to stir them.
He tapped the screen. “Is this the stuff that’s paying your rent and letting you eat?”
“Yeah, but I have to sell a lot, since it doesn’t bring in the big bucks. Honestly, I hate it.”
“Why? It’s beautiful and as good as, if not better than, what you find in classy jewelry stores.”
“That’s the problem. It’s ordinary. Not what I want to do. You know, push the envelope. Create designs that are mine alone so when someone sees them they’ll gasp and say, ‘Oh my God, that’s a Clover!’”
She lifted the musical piece and the silver flowers she’d worn earlier in the day. “I was striving for that with these wraparound designs. Living jewelry is also a good name. The pieces are part of you and so light you don’t notice you’re wearing them, and when you move, they go with you like your skin.” She put the items down. “Unfortunately, CNN hasn’t called yet wanting to interview me concerning the new innovation. That’s why I’m veering toward recreating tats in various mediums. I know there are stick-on and temporary kinds. This goes a step beyond and could take off. Especially for women who don’t want to commit to getting inked.”
He recalled what had brought them together. “Would that be you by any chance?”
“Huh?”
“At the parlor you said you wanted me to ink you. Was that an excuse to get me here tonight…for sex?”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, duh. What else did you expect me to do? You refused to look my way even when I was fondling you through the front window and drooling on the glass.”
Van Gogh had never met anyone so amazing. She wasn’t a bit embarrassed to reveal her feelings. “Are your parents as direct as you are?”
“More so. I’ve learned to hold back.”
An afternoon with them, in the buff, would definitely be something. “So you don’t want to get inked, right?”
“I didn’t say that. Actually, I think it might give me some cred with the bands, especially if the tat rocks.”
“Nothing gruesome. I refuse. I’m not fucking you up.”
She wiggled her butt, stirring his cock. “You can do me up, down, or sideways. I’m game.”
“You’re not going to make me laugh, either.”
“Too late. You already are.” She pecked his nose. “If gruesome is off the table, that’s fine with me. I don’t want people doing a one-eighty when I pass by them because I look like a freak. So I guess that means no spiders, scorpions, nails, or bullet holes.” She stroked his. “You have the arms for them. I don’t.”
Her flattery, attention, acceptance, and desire for him were everything he’d craved, yet it wasn’t enough. Having a woman want him sexually, or even as a friend, didn’t predict how long her interest would last. If he and Clover crashed and burned, or rather once they did, as most couples do, his life would be worse than before. That old adage about it being better to have loved and lost than never to have loved was pure crap.
Admitting as much to her wasn’t something he could do. He’d never be that bold.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” She cupped his face, her touch soothing and sexy. The whole nine yards.
Van Gogh played dumb. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You looked bummed suddenly. Were you thinking of giving me bullet holes? If so, let’s go for it. I trust your judgment.”
Only a maniac or sadist would screw her up with hideous tats. “I haven’t decided on a final design. I’ve had only a few ideas.” He pulled up a site on her tablet. “Look at this.”
She traced the barely visible snowflake pattern on the woman’s ankle. “White ink tattoos?”
“Given your complexion they might be your best bet, especially with the right artist doing them.”
She gave him a sly smile. “Meaning you?”
Absolutely. He’d die if he fucked her up in the least and would deck any other artist who dared do so. “Some in my business overdo the white ink because it’s not obvious like black or other colors. They keep adding more. That causes the skin to scar. This needs a light, expert hand. Even with that, I have to warn you, these tats aren’t perfect. No design is. In time, they all sag with your skin and fade. In some instances, white ones turn yellow, but that’s if they’re constantly exposed to sunlight. You’re not at risk for that, since you’re obviously not into tanning. Because you’re so careful with your skin, the design could possibly fade in a few weeks.”
She chewed her lip. “That soon?”
He hated disappointing her. “It might last months or even years. Everyone’s different. But even with all I’ve said, it will be dramatic.”
“I don’t see how unless I stick my inked body part in people’s faces. If you put your design on my boobs or anywhere near my pussy, things could get dicey fast.”
“Agreed, and you don’t have to be so bold. Look.” He scrolled the screen to the next photos. They showed the same tat beneath a black light that turned the skin blue and made the design glow whiter than Miley Cyrus’s teeth. “If the bands y
ou know have these effects at their concerts, your tat will show up beautifully. In ordinary light no one will notice the ink.”
“Amazing. I love it.” She hugged him. “Show me your ideas for the design.”
He brought up the geometric figures. “These seem like you but they’re not unique enough. I want to play with them. You’re not in a super hurry for this, are you?”
“Not at all. Take whatever time you need.”
He’d planned to. Dragging this out would allow him to keep seeing her. “About the parlor…do you want to maybe play there tomorrow night? Indulge in our fantasies and create new ones?”
“With cuffs, a strap or paddle, and something to use as a gag?”
His cock thickened faster than when he’d been daydreaming about this these past months. “Bring whatever you want. I’ll get the cuffs.”
“And the K-Y.” She pointed at the tube sticking out of his jeans pocket.
No way could he pretend the lube wasn’t there. “Can’t get anything past you.”
“You’ve just noticed that, huh?” She suckled his neck and spoke around his fevered flesh. “Tomorrow, I want to see the sketch you started to do on me. Are there others?”
Busted, he nodded.
“Wow. I want to see them, too.”
Chapter Nine
Buying handcuffs proved easier than Van Gogh expected, though no less embarrassing than his first condom purchase. He’d been fourteen at the time and tall for his age with no girlfriend in sight. He wanted the rubbers to prepare for his big moment, unaware four years would pass before he got lucky. As a clueless teen he’d expected the checkout clerk to ask no end of personal questions, beginning with a demand for a photo ID. All he had was one from the private school he attended, and he would have bolted if she’d asked for it.
The middle-aged woman had rung him up, took his cash, didn’t comment on the sweat pouring down his face, and handed over his purchase with a bored, “Have a good day.”
At the military equipment store he’d shopped at for tonight’s sexfest, a young woman waited on him. Her nametag said Tessie. She stared at his tats more than the handcuffs he wanted to buy. Three sets in black, silver, and red, more choice than he expected to find in this place, possibly because soldiers were into BDSM, too, with their girlfriends. Uncertain which color Clover would like best, he went for broke. While Tessie rang up the sale then pushed his bag toward him, she talked nonstop to a coworker about their cut hours and shitty schedule.
Back home, he worked on his sketches, wrapped the oil painting he’d done of Clover, and groomed better than he had for the date when he’d lost his virginity. Despite his freshly washed hair and shaved cheeks, he wouldn’t win any hunk-of-the-year awards. Didn’t matter. As long as Clover liked his looks he was good.
His shift started at two. Eight long hours before he could see her.
He rushed into the parlor, painting in hand, cuffs and Clover sketches in his backpack.
Lauren left the counter first, followed by Jasmina. They reached him at the same time.
Lauren spoke first. “How’d it go?”
“Great, right?” Jasmina squeezed his shoulder. “You’re actually smiling.”
News to him. Van Gogh touched his mouth, appalled to discover she was right. First he couldn’t stop blushing, now this? He might as well have worn a flashing sign telling everyone he’d gotten laid. First time in months.
And the best time ever.
A new grin threatened. He squelched it.
Lauren stared at his face.
“What?” He edged back.
She followed. “You shaved really good for a change. You have another date tonight?”
“What’s this?” Jasmina touched his painting.
He pulled it away. “I have to get to work.”
“No, you don’t. Your first client won’t be here for twenty minutes.”
“I need to research a new design.”
“Clover’s?” Jasmina and Lauren both asked.
“I gotta go.” He circled them and came face-to-face with Tor, who offered two thumbs-up and an enthusiastic smile.
Van Gogh gave him the finger.
Tor laughed.
At his station, Van Gogh stashed the painting behind a counter and put finishing touches on his sketches. Jasmina and Lauren strolled by repeatedly, sneaking peeks. At last he pointed to the security camera on the ceiling. “That’s not working any longer? The monitor’s busted? You can’t watch me from the office?”
They made themselves scarce.
His clients arrived in a steady stream, all chatty today, bitching about work or spouses, wanting to talk politics and religion. Van Gogh couldn’t concentrate long enough to offer coherent comments. Occasionally, he’d grunt or go “hmm” to prove he listened when he didn’t.
Clover flooded his thoughts, her scent everywhere even though that wasn’t possible. He tried to guess what she’d wear tonight, torn between his desire for a black or red thong, either one hopefully sheer and decked out in lace or tiny bows. Could be she’d sport one of her jewelry pieces. Possibly a slave bracelet on her biceps like the ones she’d shown him last night. Maybe she should design funky handcuffs for the BDSM crowd. The selection at the military store had been a surprise, but not that great. Surely she could come up with more than what they had.
He wrote a note to remind himself to ask her.
The day dragged worse than any he’d known. Halfway through the shift, his smartphone vibrated. He stopped wiping down the convertible chair but didn’t pick up, unable to recall the last time anyone bothered him at work. His artist friends were as reticent as he was. Months could go by before they contacted him, usually through email. Couldn’t be his folks reaching out after all these years. At least he hoped not.
Clover finally came to mind. He’d given her his number last night, since he was unlisted. At the time, he considered that a good step in their continuing relationship. Now he worried she’d phoned to cancel.
He couldn’t imagine any other reason she’d call. This had happened to him before with other women who’d ditched him before their expected date.
None had been like her. Perfect in every freaking way.
Fuck, let this be good. Please. He checked the display. His heart fell. She’d sent a text. A great way to call off tonight’s date or even end things between them, because his life had never been more than waiting for the next round of bad news. This might be his newest crap to get over. Shit, he hated this but wouldn’t have liked a bad phone call from her any better. Prepared for the worst, he read the damn thing.
V. What time? U never said b-4 u left.
I had my tongue in ur mouth 2 much, right?
He laughed, loving that they were still on, adoring the V and her message. When they were together, details slipped past him without notice, her heat, scent, and passion driving everything else away. He wasn’t even certain how he’d gotten from her place to his last night, the journey a blank. He texted.
Done at 10. B here @ 10:30. Want 2 b alone w/u.
A new message popped up.
Awesome sauce. Did u get cuffs?
He grinned and answered.
Show up 2 find out.
She sent a flipping-the-bird emoji followed by kissy lips and XOXO.
Chuckling, he held his phone to his chest.
Throat clearing sounded in the hall.
Lauren.
Van Gogh put his phone facedown on the counter, ready to rumble if she got nosy. She was more friend than boss, but that didn’t give her the right to be his mom or confessor. “Yeah?”
“We’re ordering pizza. You in? If you have plans, that’s cool.” She glanced at his phone.
“I’ll have my usual, but double wings on the side this time.” He needed extra protein to prepare for tonight. “No onions on the pie, though.” He should have brought a toothbrush. Now he’d have to run out for that, toothpaste, and mouthwash before Clover arrived. “Here.” He handed
over a twenty. “If this doesn’t cover it, let me know.”
Lauren took the bill then threw her arms around him. “I’m happy for you.” She squeezed hard.
He froze, not knowing what to do. Where to put his hands.
Tor passed the doorway and lifted his eyebrows.
Van Gogh kept his hands at his side.
Lauren rocked him back and forth. “I’m thrilled for Clover, too. I like her. She’s the best. This is so great.” She released him and swiped at her eyes. “Don’t you think?”
“I’m not comfortable talking about this.”
“Of course not. Sorry.” She backed up. “I didn’t mean to intrude, and I won’t ask any personal questions, promise.” She approached again. “But I can’t help worrying about you and everyone here, so I’m really glad to see you happy rather than down. You’re what makes Wicked Brand great, but that’s not the only reason I’ve been concerned in the past. I hope you know everyone here is my family, not simply an employee, so naturally I want what’s best for you. This is so cool.” She bounced in place.
He wanted to run. “Can you order a Dr Pepper with my food? We’re out of them here.”
“Oh sure.” She waved the twenty. “I’ll get right on it—your food order and the soda delivery so we’re well-stocked.” She hurried away.
Closing time couldn’t come soon enough. He made a list of what to do before Clover arrived. At the top was turning off the cameras. He didn’t think Lauren kept them running nonstop but if she did, he didn’t want them recording his X-rated show. God only knew what she’d do if she viewed the thing. Seeing him that happy might kill her.
After he ate, the minutes dragged. By eight, he couldn’t stop swearing. When nine o’clock rolled around, he wanted to slap his tattoo machine in the client’s hand and tell him to ink himself. Sheer will kept him from screaming.
At 10:10, the Latin samba stopped mid-note. Lights flicked off. Staff called out their goodbyes to each other.
Van Gogh strode down the hall. He held the front door open for Jasmina and Lauren. “See you tomorrow.”
“Have a nice evening.” Lauren squeezed his hand.
