by Tina Donahue
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.
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.
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 front
man. 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.”
She stopped at her door but didn’t open it.
Van Gogh slouched against the wall. “Aren’t we going in?”
“Do you want to?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“To spend the night?”
“Actually day, until my shift. Thank God it’s not till two.” He wiped sweat off his forehead, the temperature already too hot. “Do you mind?”
She shook her head and led the way inside.
Heat slammed into him. He clutched the table. “Please let me pay for your air conditioning. I’m more than willing. We’re gonna die in here.”
Clover turned on the unit.
He dragged across the room and dropped onto her mattress. “This feels great.” He patted the comforter. “Join me, please.”
“To make love?”
“Yeah. Let me get undressed.” He struggled with his shirt. Fucking thing wouldn’t budge. Sweat welded it to him like glue. Unbuttoning his jeans and lowering the zipper took energy he didn’t have. Overwhelming fatigue settled in. “I’ll strip in a sec. Promise. Then we’ll…”
He forgot what he intended to say and drifted off.
Chapter Seventeen
Clover woke up groggy, her head throbbing. So much for opting out of booze last night to gorge on chocolate milk. She rolled over and bumped into a pillow rather than Van Gogh. He wasn’t anywhere out here. The light in her john was on, the door open. She staggered to it and clutched the jamb.
Moisture clung to the shower walls and curtain. Her cucumber soap scented the small area. His whiskers and shaving cream ringed the sink. He’d used her Venus disposable razor and left it in water next to a glob of Aquafresh. The new toothbrush she kept as a spare perched precariously against the soap dish, her facial bar submerged in a slimy puddle.
She turned off the light and shivered at the frigid air. He’d set her window unit on sixty degrees. After jacking it up to eighty, she grabbed her smartphone. Past two p.m. He had to be at work but hadn’t left any voicemails or texts for her. She padded to the table. Her jewelry lay in a heap to one side, her clothes on the other. No note, though, to tell her when he’d left or if he’d be back.
She threw her phone and covered her face. For him to fuck up her bathroom, leave the light on, and burn too much electricity with the air conditioner was one thing. Not even bothering to wake her to say goodbye or leave a message totally sucked. He’d never been so thoughtless before. Always he’d seen to her needs as she’d done with his, and she wanted that back. She wasn’t made of stone. Dammit, she loved him.
After one freaking night with people who were too stupid to live, he acted like she didn’t exist any longer, except to crash here, eat, or maybe fuck. They hadn’t even done that. So what if Trinity, Peaches, Shell, and the other fools had fawned over him? They should. What guy was hotter, more talented, funnier, or had lived through the abuse he had when all he’d wanted to do was be himself and paint?
She slumped against the fridge.
No wonder he’d lost his head after those jerks had treated him nicely. Drunk with success, power, or whatever the crap he’d felt, he hadn’t been himself. The Van Gogh she knew wouldn’t have used her toiletries, failed to clean up after himself, then breezed to work, not caring what a dick he’d been.
She wasn’t perfect, either. In middle and high school she warned her folks not to attend parent-teacher meetings or even think about going to her school plays or extracurricular events. Didn’t matter that they’d be clothed and promised not to mention the naturist community. They embarrassed her with their lifestyle. Being funky was one thing. Weird was unacceptable. Wasn’t until she’d been away at the jewelry design institute that she’d missed them enough to forgive their failings, as they had hers.
She couldn’t do any less with Van Gogh. Debating what she’d say to him, she yanked open the refrigerator.
He’d eaten the one hard-boiled egg she had left and finished all but a mouthful of her apple juice.
She slammed the door and checked the cupboard for food.
The Hostess cupcakes were gone. He’d bought them as a surprise for her when she gave him the black shirt.
She gripped the counter and forced herself to breathe deeply. The calming exercise did zip to dispel her irritation. She called him, got voicemail, then tapped the parlor number.
“Hey, Clover.” Jasmina. “How are you?”
She’d never been as hurt or pissed and torn about her emotions. She shouldn’t have invited him to the party and was ashamed for feeling that way. She was glad he’d been a hit but was also afraid things would never be the same between them now that he’d had a taste of being wanted by people others considered cool. Color her completely screwed up. “I’m good, thanks. Is Van Gogh there?”
“He’s inking a customer in the window, his least fave place. Want me to blow him a kiss for you? Lift his spirits?”
Clover brightened, grateful the shy, socially awkward guy she adored had returned. Hyperactive V, who’d talked nonstop about himself without asking if she’d had a good time or made any contacts for her jewelry, had been nothing more than a passing nightmare. “Hope he’s not too bummed.”
“You know Van Gogh. Then again… Holy shit, he’s actually laughing and talking, too. Wait. He’s posing for the groupies outside.”
Clover’s stomach fell. “Peaches, Trinity, and Shell? How about the one with red hair and the other with Cleopatra bangs? Are they also at the parlor?”
“Haven’t a clue. Who are you talking about?”
“People we know. Or h
e does. One’s six-four in heels. And no way does she look like J-Lo. More like America Ferrera before she lost her braces in Ugly Betty. The other one might be wearing leather short-shorts and gladiator shoes. Then again, they might be in string bikinis. You see anyone like that?”
Jasmina laughed. “Hope not. The people outside are middle-aged. Nice, I’m sure, but not showing too much skin, thank goodness.”
“And he’s actually smiling?”
“Talking too, like he never has. What happened? Is he hooked on Red Bull?”
He’d gained confidence, and Clover had resented it. What a shitty girlfriend she was. If everyone had flattered her at the party instead of walking past her as they would a potted plant, Van Gogh would have cheered her on. Envy over his career and jealousy about the other women wasn’t her style. She was better than that. “He’s happy. Don’t you dare make fun or put him down.”
“Uh, why would I? Better still, what happened between you guys to bring on this sudden change in him? You moving in together? He proposed? You accepted?” She lowered her voice. “Did you find out you’re not pregnant when you thought you might be and you’re both relieved?”
“We haven’t faced that issue. Have you and your guys?”
“Nope. Lauren might be preggers, though. She’s glowing the same way she did when Molly was on the way.”
“Cool.” Molly was a cute kid and deserved a sister or brother. “When does Van Gogh get off tonight?”
“Usual time. We’re ordering Castillo’s for a late lunch. Want to drop by? We’d love to have you.”
“Thanks but no. My head’s splitting. Late night.”
“I should have guessed. Van Gogh’s bags have bags.”
Even tired, he was a hunk. “Is he wearing his new black shirt?”
“Nope. A dark blue tank top.”
He must have run home to change clothes then dashed to the parlor. No wonder he hadn’t stuck around to clean up, leave her a note, or buy food. Time to pull on her big girl panties and act like a reasonable adult. “Don’t tell him I called. I don’t want to distract him. I’ll send a text. Have a good one.”
