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 he 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.”
Clover ended the call and wrote her text, not exactly speaking from the heart as she would have liked, but at least she was honest about how much she wanted him.
Given his customer, she didn’t expect an immediate answer and didn’t get one for several hours.
She’d waited a lifetime for him and could manage a little longer.
Showered and dressed, she tidied up her place, made a drugstore run for rubbers, a grocery visit for beer, apple juice, Hostess cupcakes, and other essentials, then killed the remaining time with work. Absorbed with her Clover Cuffs that resembled a man’s fingers, aka mancuffs, she troubled over the sculpting and forgot the time.
She checked her phone and gasped. Eleven thirty.
Clover shot to her front door. He wasn’t in the hall, cooling his heels because she’d been too preoccupied to hear him knock.
She hung out her front window. A lone guy glanced up. He waved. She ducked back into her apartment and checked her phone. No calls or texts from Van Gogh.
He couldn’t have been run over or mugged. Lauren, Jasmina, or Tor would have called with the awful news unless Van Gogh was sprawled somewhere injured and bleeding, either unconscious or too hurt to tell passersby his name.
She grabbed her house key and ran down the hall to the stairway.
He lifted his face and stopped midway up the steps. “What are you doing out here?”
“What are you?”
“Coming to your place.” He lifted his bag, a local deli’s logo emblazoned on it. “Got everything you like.”
She slumped against the railing. “Did a senior citizen tour bus stop there for food? The line wrapped around the block? Everyone in front of you couldn’t decide what they wanted?”
“No. Besides me, there was only a couple with their teenage kids and the deli staff. Why?”
He honestly didn’t know? “Did your client run late at the parlor?”
“Uh-uh. I worked on designs the last hour I was there and then we closed when we usually do. Why?”
She flashed her phone. “See the time? You said you’d be here at 10:45, not close to midnight. I thought a car had hit you or you’d been mugged.”
He bounded up the steps and cradled her cheek. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. Time slipped away. That’s all.”
“With work?”
“Sort of. Zeke called. We got to talking, and I didn’t notice how late it was. Forgive me?” He brushed his lips over hers.
She kept her eyes open. “The Zeke you mentioned from last night’s party?”
“Yeah. He’s Portia’s twin.”
That made sense if Clover had known who the hell Portia was. Possibly a Mila Kunis look-alike who actually resembled Megan Fox after her crappy plastic surgery. “I’m glad you and Zeke got to talk. But didn’t you think to call or text me that you’d be late?”
“I should have. Won’t happen again; I promise.” He slung his arm over her shoulders. “Let’s eat. I can’t wait to show you the designs I’ve come up with.”
Surprised, she smiled. “I was going to ask you about my tat. Did you settle on geometric like you said, or did you find something else?”
He stopped at her door. “Neither. I meant the ones for the people at the party. I’ll do your stuff as soon as I finish with them, I swear. They’re in a huge hurry. There’s an important party next month on Star Island. If I work things right, I can get everyone inked in time.”
She pushed back her disappointment about her design and unlocked the door. “Did they invite you to the Star Island party last night?”
“This is a new one Trinity just put together. Don’t know where they get the energy to play so hard.”
“They probably pay their assistants and housekeepers to sleep for them.”
“What?”
Clover had mumbled her last comment. “They don’t have jobs, right? They’re trust-fund babies. It’s easy to party when you don’t have obligations and bills to pay.”
“I guess. Do you mind if I turn down your unit? It’s stuffy in here. Like I said, I’ll pay the whole bill, since you’re having trouble.”
Only because her jewelry wasn’t selling because she wasn’t popular with the right people, like him. “Knock yourself out.”
He gave her an odd look and turned the dial back to sixty. “Where do you put your forks and spoons?”
“Top drawer on the left.” He’d seen her grab them a dozen times and should have remembered by now. Juvenile on her part, she knew, like her other snotty thoughts, but her hurt kept mounting, fueled by how he’d behaved at last night’s party then showing up late this evening. As if she was an afterthought.
He joined her, utensils and napkins in hand. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving you the chair.” She sat cross-legged on her table.
“Thanks. But you can have my lap. In fact, I prefer it.” He patted his thigh and smiled.
The old Van Gogh shone through. Sweet, considerate, uncertain. She came close to caving but wanted him to grovel a bit for delaying her tat because it wasn’t as important as what Peaches, Shell, and the others wanted. More perverse and unfair thinking on her part yet she couldn’t stop, her full bitch-mode kicking in. “Why do you want me on your lap?”
He pulled out his smartphone. “I can show you my designs for Zeke and the others more easily.”
Wrong answer by a mile. Her shitty mood spiked. “Show me from where I am. I’m good.” She nibbled her roast beef and parmigiano sandwich.
He grabbed his chicken salad layered with raisins and apple slices. Last time they’d eaten this stuff they’d shared their orders, unable to keep their hands off each other.
Tonight he kept his distance and devoured half his sandwich before speaking. “Forgot the beer. You want one?”
Booze would never replace closeness or soul-deep conversation. “I’d rather talk. Please.”
He stopped and turned. “Sure. About what?”
She wanted to say about how he was suddenly behaving, his casual disregard for her feelings. Sadly, she didn’t have the courage yet. She’d never loved a guy before and wasn’t sure how serious arguments should play out, especially if she spoke directly as she preferred. “Stuff like we always have.”
“Absolutely. Go ahead and start while I grab a beer.”
Catching him on the run wasn’t her idea of intimacy. “Do you like to talk to me? You’ve never said, and I just assumed you didn’t mind, since you went along with the program. If you don’t want to, say so.”
He finished his sip, his eyebrows lifting. “Granted, I’ve never talked a lot before we met, but I don’t mind.” He frowned. “Why would you think I did?”
She chewed her thumb, still too reluctant to call him on his earlier behavior. “It’s just that… You, more than anyone, should know being physically present doesn’t mean people are close emotionally.”
“Why me more than anyone?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “I shouldn’t have said that. Forget it.”
“After the fact?” He returned to her. “Tell me. I want to know.”
“Your parents and you lived in the same house but you weren’t close, okay?”
“Are you actually comparing you and me to me and my folks?”
“I don’t want things to go sour between us.” She stroked a bullet-hole tat on his arm. “We’ve barely started. Stuff was good. We had fun. We shared things that are important to us. Art. Our careers. Our dreams and fear about failure. I want that back.”
“Oh, baby.” He gathered her in his arms. “Nothing’s changed. Did my arriving late tonight start this? If it did, I’m sorry for screwing up.”
She hugged him. “You didn’t do it deliberately.”
“God no.” He rubbed her back. “Admittedly, I’m clueless for not having considered the hour or that you’d be worried something happened to me. Tell you what. Next time I do anything you don’t like, kick me in the balls. I guarantee that will get my attention fast.”
She laughed. “And put you out of commission when it comes to satisfying me? No freaking way.” She snuggled against him. “Let’s make love until we have to go back to work tomorrow.”
“Wish we could play hooky and take the entire day off.”
“We could make the most of the time we have.”
He carried her to the bed. Clothes flew. Limbs entwined. Mouths joined. They stared longingly, smiled broadly, and enjoyed each other to exhaustion.
Sometime during the early morning Clover woke. Alone again.
Van Gogh had left a note on her table.
Fifteen minutes before he should have arrived that evening, he called to cancel.