Chapter Thirteen

Clover gushed about the upcoming party and kept waiting for Van Gogh to share her enthusiasm or at least comment. No such luck. He glanced at everything in the room except her. She spoke faster and faster, her words a blur. Winded at last, she wound down. “What’s wrong?”

“Huh? Nothing. You want this?” He handed her his burrito. “I’m full. Want another beer?” He left her alone in the bedroom.

Not the reaction she’d expected. She padded after him.

Rather than go to the kitchen for more booze, he pulled on his jeans and avoided looking at her.

Her stomach cramped. She wasn’t sure what was going on with him, or, if she’d done something wrong, what it could be. “Are we through with each other?”

He looked over, his face white. “What?”

“We’re not going to play anymore tonight?” She had no idea how or why she’d offended him, but he wasn’t happy. Crap. He was back to being the way he was before she’d cornered him at the parlor for a tat. Like he couldn’t get away fast enough or couldn’t wait for her to back off. Talk to me.

He didn’t.

Unable to stand the suspense, she had to know what was going on even if the truth killed her. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Why would you think that?”

“You’re getting dressed.”

He looked at his unzipped jeans. Surprise flashed on his face. “I—I’m tired that’s all. I need to sleep.”

“In your clothes?”

His cheeks turned red. Frustration or anger hardened his features. “I thought I’d eat first.”

In the bedroom, he’d said he was full. “We can feed each other.”

He stepped back. “You take it all. I’ll catch something somewhere else.”

“You’re leaving to go out?”

“What? No.” He frowned. “I meant for breakfast. After I sleep.”

She chanced a step toward him. “We could go to bed now, if you want. I’ll hold you while you fall asleep.”

“Why would you do that?” He glared. “Do you think I’m a damn infant incapable of taking care of myself or of being normal?”

“What? No.” She wasn’t a shrink by any means, but she could see he was trying his best to start an argument, while she was trying like hell to keep him from it. “The way I held you at my place. You enjoyed it then. Tell you what, I’ll bring the food into your bedroom and when we wake up we can feed each—”

“It’s been a long day.” He stepped back. “I’m sorry if I can’t keep up with you. I said I wasn’t Superman, and I’m not. You’re free to stay and crash on the sofa if you want, but I have a lot to do tomorrow, and I have to get some sleep.” He strode to the bedroom.

Stunned, she followed.

He closed the door.

Even her worst dates hadn’t ended this badly or as quickly. A faint click sounded. He’d locked the door, like he needed protection from her.

He sure as fuck did. She wanted to pound on the damn thing. Kick it in if need be. As far as she recalled, nothing had happened besides her stupid party invite. Even if he didn’t know anyone there and didn’t like that idea, she’d be hanging on his arm and running interference if need be. Besides, it wasn’t the first time she’d asked him somewhere. When she suggested he join her to visit her folks at the colony, he’d looked appalled but hadn’t run away. After the first awkward seconds, they’d eaten and screwed around.

Tears filled her eyes. She brushed them away, too confused to let herself feel hurt. That would hit in the morning and during the endless days ahead if they actually broke up before they even got started. And over what? Damned if she knew. She wanted to knock and ask him to talk to her but was afraid he might and give her an answer she couldn’t bear.

With no other choice, she packed her stuff, dressed, and left, hoping he’d rush out and follow, like a scene from This is Us or any other stupid TV program where people got back together for a little while before their relationships tanked again.

A few couples passed on the sidewalk, holding hands or kissing.

Clover turned to his living room window.

He didn’t watch her melting in the suffocating heat.

Blocks from her place, she pulled out her smartphone and wrote a text, telling him he didn’t have to pay her electric bill. She didn’t mind sweating to death.

Clover couldn’t send it. If nothing else, she valued honesty in a relationship and didn’t want to play games or be flip.

She composed another message, thanking him for dinner, and erased that one, too, since she hadn’t touched the burrito he’d bought her.

Back at her place, she considered letting him know she’d reached home safely. That one she sent and waited an hour for his response. It never came. She fell into a troubled sleep and repeatedly jerked awake, thinking her phone had rung, buzzed, or pinged, whatever setting she’d put it on.

Come morning, she broke down and called.

His voicemail greeting answered. “Leave a message or don’t. Up to you.”

She smiled at his gruff, don’t-bother-me tone, delighted to hear him and hoped she’d sound mellow and approving of everything he was, even when he acted like a dick. “Hi, it’s me. Ah, I wanted to thank you for the beer last night and for showing me your stuff. Your art, that is.” She forced a laugh and paced. “Anyway, your paintings are great, like I said. I’d never BS you about them. I hope you know that. I’m glad you liked my cuffs. Your idea for bronze, like skin—hey, like yours, right?—that was a cool suggestion. I’m going to—”

The voicemail cut her off.

She didn’t have the courage to phone again but did wait fruitlessly for him to get back to her.

By midafternoon she couldn’t stand his silence or the suspense any longer and ran to the parlor. Tor inked a woman’s calf in the front window and gave Clover a broad grin. His groupies, all babes, lifted their smartphones and snapped his picture.

Jasmina wasn’t at the front counter. Customers took up every inch on the sofas. Those who hadn’t grabbed a seat paced and talked into their smartphones. An older couple perused Van Gogh’s oils and Tor’s sketches.

Unwilling to wait for a formal escort to the back, Clover hurried down the hall to Van Gogh’s station. Empty. She rushed past it to what must have been the break room. The mural he’d mentioned floored her. His pictures hadn’t done the painting justice.

“Can I help you?”

A twentysomething guy she’d never seen sat at the table, his lunch nearly eaten.

She offered a wan smile. “Do you know where V is?”

“V?”

“Van Gogh.”

“Beats me. I haven’t seen him today.”

Clover raced to Lauren’s office and rapped lightly on the jamb, not wanting to wake Molly. The little girl slept in Lauren’s arms.

Lauren glanced up, smiled in surprise, then sobered quickly. “What’s wrong?”

“V isn’t in his station.” Clover lowered her voice even more. “Where is he?”

“V?”

She had to stop using that nickname around here. “Van Gogh.”

“Oh. He’s on his way. He had stuff to do and said he’d be late and asked us to give his appointment to someone else or reschedule it.”

For him to ditch a customer for other matters didn’t sound right. If nothing else, he was serious about his art, even when it was tattooing someone. Something must be majorly wrong to have kept him away, and it started last night when she’d been at his place. “What stuff?”

“He didn’t say. I didn’t ask. Are you okay?” Lauren squinted. “You don’t look it. Did you two argue?”

“I wish.”

“Come in and tell me what happened. Close the door.”

Clover did so gently. “Is he on drugs?”

Lauren gaped. “God no. Why would you think that? He doesn’t even drink that much. Maybe a beer every couple of months.”

“Is he bipolar? Did he forget to take his meds?”

Lauren blinked. “Not that I know of on either count. He’s moody, yes. Surly at times, sure. At least until he met you. These last days with him have been great. But wild mood swings? No, I’ve never seen that. Did you?”

Clover recounted an abbreviated and G-rated version of their evening: her invitation, his non-response, the fallout. “One minute he was fine then, bam, he wouldn’t talk to or look at me. Hell, he didn’t even want to be in the same room.” She wrung her hands. “I think it began when I mentioned Jimmy Buffet and Springsteen. Does Van Gogh know them? Could he be worried they’ll tell his parents—Van Gogh’s—that he’s in South Florida? I’m not sure they like either guy’s music. They’re very conservative. Van Gogh’s as liberal as they come.”

“Whoa. You lost me.” Molly stirred. Lauren rubbed her back. “How could he possibly know either of those guys? They’re celebrities.”

“Rich people travel in the same circles, don’t they?”

Lauren’s mouth sagged open. “Van Gogh has money?”

“His parents do.”

“Up to this point, I didn’t know they were still alive. He’s never mentioned family. I thought he was an orphan, possibly raised in foster care.”

Clover sat on the sofa and gripped her knees. “That couldn’t have been much worse for him than what he went through. His parents insisted he give up art, get married, become Gordon Gekko, and work in insurance, healthcare, or pharmaceuticals. I can’t remember which, but some big business thing his dad owns. I shouldn’t be telling you this. Please don’t repeat it to anyone. He’ll hate me even more.”

“Of course, I won’t say anything.” Lauren frowned. “I can’t believe he’d hate you because of a party invitation. My guess is you scared him.”

“How? He didn’t freak out when I asked him to go with me to visit my parents while he and they and I were naked.”

“Huh?”

She rubbed her forehead. “They’re naturists. I used to be, too. It’s a long story. How could a simple party scare him, especially if I’ll be there? Is he religious? Is music and dancing against his beliefs? Did I tempt him too much?”

“I’m assuming you tried to pull him out of his comfort zone, and he panicked. He’s painfully shy around everyone.”

Clover had thought he was that way only with women—that’s what Lauren had said—and he was simply sullen or disinterested in everyone else. “You’re sure? You haven’t seen him with me. A porn star couldn’t do better.”

Lauren’s face colored. “One-on-one behind closed doors with someone he likes, and who’s into him as you are, is different than a social situation with strangers. Even people he knows well. Tor, Dante, Jasmina, and I are practically his family, and he still mostly grunts around us instead of talking. The most I know about him is what he does here and the stuff he put on his employment app. Nothing personal like what he told you. At my wedding reception, which was a simple backyard affair with friends and family, he didn’t interact with anyone except Jasmina, and not all that much with her. As I recall, he looked like an inmate on a TV show, walking those last steps to his execution.”

Clover’s heart ached. “That’s so wrong. It’s not who he is deep down. He can be wicked funny. He’s the sweetest guy ever. If his parents had given him some attention and love rather than constant criticism, he wouldn’t be uncomfortable around people. This has to stop now.”

“I don’t advise dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to go.”

“If I hadn’t invited him to my place for dinner then ignored how reluctant he was, we wouldn’t be dating now…that is, if we still are. Sometimes, people need a gentle push to get them going. That’s all I intend to do.”

Deep voices sounded outside the door. Lauren glanced at her monitor. “Better put your plan together soon. He just came in.”

His footfalls pounded in the hall, keeping time with Clover’s galloping heart. She stood. “Thanks for the talk.”

“You bet. Good luck.”

She didn’t need it. She wasn’t going to accept anything except success. Already, Van Gogh was too precious for her to walk away from and leave him to solitude or misery. Beneath his surface lived a cool guy with a killer wit, the real Cornell Phillipe Wadsworth the Third. Not the automaton he’d become to protect himself from hurt.

She left Lauren’s office and stopped in his doorway.

He faced his computer, his hands paused on the keyboard, and glanced over.

Either her heavy breathing or perfume had caught his attention. Smiling, she stepped inside and closed the door. “I won’t take long. I know you have to work. I missed you last night and this morning. I like you. How do you feel about me?”

Pain flickered in his eyes. He crossed the room and took her in his arms. “I want you more than ever. I’m sorry for being a prick before you left. I went by your place a few minutes ago to tell you that, but you were gone.”

He couldn’t have given her a better reason for coming in here late.

She embraced him. “Let’s be honest. I don’t know any other way to be. All right?”

“Honest about what?”

“You know. Please don’t pretend you’re not following what I’m saying.” She eased back and cupped his face. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. The circles beneath his eyes told her he hadn’t slept any better than she had. “This started when I mentioned the bash last night. If I’d known how you felt beforehand, I would have eased into the subject rather than sucker-punching you with it. But that’s done, and all I can say now is it’s only a party. I swear, it won’t be that bad. Certainly not as gruesome as a prostate exam.”

He chuckled and groaned. “I don’t do well with the ‘in’ crowd. Never have. My middle school and high school days were pure awful.”

“So were mine. Back then, the cool kids didn’t have anything to relieve their boredom except picking on people like us. It’s different now that we’re adults. The people who go to these things are into themselves more than anything else. We’ll be invisible to them.”

He gave her a look that said he didn’t believe a word. “Won’t that defeat your purpose in selling your jewelry and my inking skills?”

“They’ll notice that stuff, not us. Think back to when your parents’ chef cooked a particularly great meal. Did they focus on him or the food? Was he a human being to them, who deserved recognition, or a faceless entity fading into the background?”

Van Gogh slouched. “My tats aren’t what you call typical.”

“I know, they’re amazing.”

He smiled weakly. “People, especially women, have been known to screw up their faces or groan when they see them. Some might laugh. It’s happened.” He lowered his face.

She ached for him. “When? Tell me, please.”

He rubbed his forehead. “I got brave once, or maybe it was crazy, and attended an art show, the kind I’ve always wanted to have for my work. I thought I’d get some pointers on what was selling and what I should be doing to succeed.” He groaned. “Since the artist in question does funky stuff, I mistakenly thought his clientele would be the same. You know, Hollywood types like the Kardashians who have no limits or shame and think wearing their underwear at a red-carpet event is perfectly okay. How wrong I was.”

He sagged against the counter. “People like my parents were there dressed in tuxes, gowns, jewels, and even furs despite how politically incorrect it is to wear a poor animal. Since it was eighty or so outside, I wore a short-sleeved dress shirt. It and my pants were nice, which meant I didn’t look like a bum. As far as the art patrons were concerned, I might as well have been from outer space. Granted, they had been drinking heavily if their loud conversations and noisy laughter were any indication, but the moment they saw my arm tats, shaved head, and goatee—I had one at the time—they shut up and stared. The women my age made faces, elbowed one another, and whispered. One joined the group late, downed her champagne, took one look at me, and laughed. The others joined in. Security rushed up and—”

“I’m sorry.” What he was saying killed Clover, and she’d had to interrupt. “They were turds, okay? The kind of people you ran from who think their worldview is the only one that counts. The group that will be at this party isn’t like that at all. Nothing shocks them, and I can prove it. I’ve worn my jeweled eyebrows in their presence, though I pasted the things on rather than getting my face pierced, and they didn’t laugh. The women asked me about them. Some even saw similar pieces at the Chanel show in 2012 or 2013, but said mine were cooler. Though clearly not cool enough.” She made a face. “Wish I could’ve sold a few.”

“Jeweled eyebrows?”

“Yeah, better than what Oprah wore in A Wrinkle in Time. The set I made is in the case up front. I modified the original design from the Chanel show to make them my own like you do with your tats. If those pieces didn’t make the people I’m talking about react like the ones at the art show, nothing will.”

He didn’t look convinced. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

“Jeans are fine. Do you still have the short-sleeve dress shirt you mentioned?”

“Why?”

“So you don’t cover up the bullet hole designs on your arms. With the shirt buttons undone, you’ll give a glimpse of your chest design. When interested parties ask to see it, you can pull your shirt open and show them your stuff.”

He looked like he might toss his cookies and rested his forehead against hers. “You consider that not getting noticed?”

“It’s good advertising. If you don’t want to speak to anyone, fine. I’ll act as your agent. That will give you a mysterious air, like you don’t give a crap about any of them.”

“I don’t.”

She pushed her pussy into his rod. “Then prove it and drive them fucking nuts with your persona. Come to the party with me. It could change your life.”