Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  “She’s on the third floor,” Addie said.

  Julian let out a groan. The only thing worse than climbing stairs would be sitting in the sweltering car, so he took a deep breath and prepared to summit.

  “You can do it,” Addie said, clucking her tongue. “Serves you right, anyway. And when we get inside, do you think you might avoid the groping and such? I’d hate to see you get yourself into another, er…pinch.”

  “Very clever.” He ran a hand across his chest to see if his nipple still smarted. He winced. It sure as hell did.

  All he’d done was brush her ass with his fingers. He’d been aiming for the small of her back, but he’d overshot. It wasn’t even intentional. So what if his hand lingered a moment or two? He closed his eyes, recalling the opening strains of “November Rain” and the way the music had surrounded him like a cloak of crushed purple velvet. Cleo’s curvy body had pressed against his, and he’d had a completely innocent and involuntary physiological reaction. She’d felt it—goddamn, she’d rubbed against it—right before his hand made the unfortunate venture south.

  He narrowed his eyes at the stairs leading to her flat. Maybe there was an apology waiting up there.

  “Come along,” Addie chirped. Confident that he’d snap to and follow orders, she marched off without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

  He’d already taken a step to follow, but at her bossy tone he stopped and reached his arms over his head for a nice, long stretch. A light breeze brushed his stomach as his T-shirt rode up. He’d found it at Addie’s, and she’d sworn it was hers, but what would she be doing with a Sex Pistols T-shirt? It had to be his, even though he rarely wore the T-shirts in his huge collection. It was clean, so he’d put it on, dismayed that Addie had shrunk it. His shirt from the previous evening wasn’t exactly fresh. In fact, thanks to his overzealous dance partner, it had a tiny bloodstain on it.

  He let Addie get to the second landing before sprinting across the parking lot to catch up. Breathless from the effort, he stopped at her side and bent over, gasping. Stupid move under the circumstances. He rubbed his temples, hoping his head wouldn’t explode.

  “You know,” Addie said, “you really shouldn’t drink like you did last night.”

  “I was fine,” Julian said. He’d been pretty plastered. “And it’s not your problem, anyway. Butt out.” He straightened, squared his shoulders, and exhaled. Running a hand through his hair, he subtly sniffed an armpit. Not too bad. Still smelled like soap. He’d refused his sister’s Sensual Secrets deodorant.

  Addie snorted.

  “What now?” he said.

  “Going to try again, are we?”

  “Try what? It’s not like I’m even attracted to her.” At least not now that he was sober.

  “You should reconsider the type of women you are attracted to. Maybe if you were to get to know some strong, intelligent women—”

  “Addie,” he said, through clenched teeth, “I’m quite happy with my life just as it is.”

  “You are not,” she said.

  “Focus on your own lack of happiness, would you?”

  A secretive smile formed on her lips. “I have.”

  Julian eyed his sister. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  She turned her face away, but not before he’d seen the blush. What the—

  The door jerked open, and there stood the redhead, satisfyingly disheveled. Her damp hair stuck out in every direction, and she hadn’t a spot of makeup on her freckled face. A mess in every sense of the word. So why was she looking at him as if she were the queen and he the hired help?

  “Addie!” she said, giving his sister a vigorous hug. At the sound of her silvery voice, Julian experienced the same odd phenomenon he had last night—pale orange bubbles popped gently along the edges of his peripheral vision. He was used to living his life inside a psychedelic kaleidoscope, but the redhead had just added another dimension.

  He received a less enthusiastic welcome from his effervescent hostess. “Well,” she said. “Here you are again.” As though he were a stray dog who kept turning up.

  He scowled. “Too hot to wait in the car.”

  She gazed at him with a critical eye. Her lashes were pale, but long and thick. One eyebrow raised, a dainty red arch that seemed to say, Oh, really? She stepped back and extended her arm toward the interior of the flat. “Won’t you bring yourself, your lovely sister, and your bloodshot eyes into my humble abode?”

  The two stepped in. And even though he wasn’t feeling charitable, he said, “You don’t look the worse for wear, Big Red.”

  “Really? I feel awful. You?”

  “I’m perfectly fine, thanks for asking.”

  “Oh. Well, you looked better last night,” she said. “Of course, you know what they say. The girls all get prettier at closing time.”

  Was she really insinuating that last night’s advances—and she had made advances—were the result of dim lighting? And worse, was she really quoting a Mickey Gilley song? The slow burn of irritation spread through him. The woman literally made him see red.

  He didn’t usually respond so foolishly to what might only be good-natured ribbing, but he was inexplicably rattled, as if he were a monkey in a cage that had been given a good jiggle.

  Wanting to get rid of the smirk tugging at the left corner of Cleo’s upper lip, Julian gave her a quick and intentional once-over. “That’s most definitely true,” he replied. “At closing time, guys make overtures they often regret the next morning.”

  The hint of a smirk disappeared, and the other eyebrow rose to match the first. Then they both dived down to form a vicious scowl. She looked like a teakettle just before it whistled. Slamming the door behind her, she said, “At closing time, some people become desperate gropers.” Her eyes dusted over him. “And yet somehow they manage to appear even more pathetic the next morning by showing up stubbly and wearing a girl’s shirt.”

  “This is not a girl’s shirt. This is my Sex Pistols shirt.”

  “Well, the cap sleeves look cute on you.” She smiled sweetly.

  What the hell were cap sleeves? Unable to resist, he glanced at his shoulders. The sleeves did look a bit funny.

  “Told you so, Juli,” Addie said, with the singsong smugness she’d used throughout their childhood. Perfect timing with the fucking nickname. Because cap sleeves were not quite emasculating enough.

  “Juli. Good grief, that’s it,” Cleo said. “Sorry. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember your name. I just knew it was something effeminate.”

  “It’s Julian Wheaton, and there’s nothing effeminate about me,” he growled, standing taller and trying to look…well…as manly as possible in a girl’s shirt.

  The redhead glanced at his sleeves and cleared her throat. The corner of Addie’s mouth curled up, causing a dimple to appear out of nowhere.

  This situation was annoying as hell and hadn’t gone at all according to his plan, which had been to whip off his sunglasses and cook Lava Locks with a smoldering stare, even though nobody wearing a stained T-shirt and some sort of horrible men’s trunks deserved one. In no part of his plan was he supposed to be wearing women’s clothing while suffering the scrutiny of an unimpressed, pint-size bundle of bravado.

  He lifted his eyes toward hers and did what he did best: a perfected sexy glance, followed by a boyish gaze through the lashes. Her full bottom lip jutted out in annoyance, which pleased him immensely. He looked lower, in order to make the obligatory pause at the breasts. Okay, more than a pause. White T-shirt. No bra. Very nice.

  He was gratified by a furious blush.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I, um, probably owe you an apology for this or that, you know,” she said, glancing in the general direction of his right nipple. “I mean, nothing actually ripped out, did it?”

  She looked pale, and her eyes had turned into green saucers.

  “Nice place,” he said, ignoring her inquiry. It was, in fact, a horrid little flat.

&
nbsp; “I hate it,” Cleo mumbled.

  “Well, maybe after you’ve been here awhile you can doll it up,” he suggested.

  “Can we continue this pleasant exchange over lunch?” Addie asked. “I’m hungry.”

  “I’m not,” Cleo said, plopping down on a chair. “And I have tons of laundry to do today. He doesn’t want to hear the continuing saga of my pathetic life, anyway.”

  She was right. He didn’t. “Okay, let’s go, then,” he said, turning toward the door. “Come on, Addie.”

  Was it his imagination, or did the green-eyed monster look disappointed? He headed for the door with a smile.

  “Wait,” she called. “How about the Cove?”

  He stopped and turned. The Cove held the unusual distinction of serving as both a restaurant and a Laundromat. In fact, it also had a car wash. The red eyebrows were back up, inviting and hopeful.

  “Well,” he said, looking pointedly at her breasts as she stood there wearing her own dirty laundry, “since Addie’s hungry, and you’re obviously out of bras, the Cove is a perfect suggestion.”

  He was rewarded by another flaming blush.

  Chapter Two

  Julian struggled down a flight of stairs, burdened by two huge garbage bags of dirty clothes. “I’ll toss the other two bags over the balcony,” the little laundrophobe called down, leaving a trail of tangerine bubbles in the air.

  “There’s more?” How could one person collect that much laundry? Laundry wasn’t hard. Whites on Monday, colors on Wednesday, towels on Friday. Routines made the world go around.

  “I hate doing laundry,” she said. A huge black bag fell from above his head and landed with a padded thud in the parking lot below. Shit. Did she have any clothes left at all? That explained the outfit she’d changed into. Sporting some sort of crocheted hippie halter dress—still no bra—and a pair of worn cowboy boots, the woman was wearing the dregs of her closet.

  He paused on the steps as she caught up. He had to admit the ugly green dress clung snugly in all the right places. As he appreciated that fact, he lost his grip on one of the bags. Leaning over to get a better hold on it, he looked up to see Cleo’s purse headed straight for his face. He just had time to think, oh, crap, before the bag smacked right into his mouth and nose. Pain exploded across his face and spread throughout the rest of his head in a scarlet shock wave. He lost his balance—had he been hit by a purse or a ton of bricks?

  He was spared the indignity of a complete backward somersault, instead suffering the cartoonish bouncing on his ass down five steps before landing with his head smashed into the iron railing. For good measure, the bag of laundry landed on his midsection, bursting open and ejecting its contents. Something lavender and silky floated down dreamily before landing on top of his head. Cleo scrambled down the stairs, throwing herself onto him with a look of complete horror.

  “You’re bleeding!”

  “I am?” he wheezed. The air had been knocked out of him. He reached behind his head, expecting to feel something warm and sticky, but his hair was completely dry.

  “No, your nose.”

  “Ah. Your twenty-ton butt-ugly purse. What the bloody hell do you have in that thing?”

  “Rolls of quarters.” Her nose wrinkled as if he were a bit of distasteful road kill. “Dang, I don’t do blood very well. I need to sit down.”

  She plopped on her ass and began fanning herself with her hands.

  “I’m all right, thanks,” Julian said. “Mild to moderate concussion and a broken face is all.”

  Shit. She looked pale and shaky. He sat up, dropping items of clothing here and there on the landing.

  “Do this,” he said, gingerly pushing on the back of her head to get it between her knees. He grabbed an article of lingerie and held it to his bloody nose.

  Another black bag emerged from above. Addie peered over the top and spotted the catastrophe on the landing.

  “Oh my God,” she cried, dropping the bag and bounding down the stairs. “Cleo, are you okay?”

  “Don’t mind me,” Julian said. “I’m just bleeding.”

  “Still?” Cleo’s voice sounded muffled, having forced its way through her arms, which were snugly wrapped around her knees.

  “Whatever happened?” Addie asked. “Did the two of you fall down the stairs?”

  “Just the one of us. She pushed me, actually.”

  “I did not,” Cleo said. She lifted her head and eyed him through the wild mess of auburn chaos. “Not intentionally, anyway. And are you seriously sniffing my underwear?” She grimaced in revulsion.

  “What?” He yanked the item away from his face. “No, I was just—”

  “Bleeding? You were just bleeding on my underwear?”

  That was exactly what he’d been doing. He hoisted himself up by the railing and offered a hand. “We’re not aborting this mission,” he insisted. He held what he now realized were a pair of pink panties with the tips of his fingers. “I’m still hungry, and your laundry is dirtier than ever.”

  Cleo’s brows drew together as she accepted his hand. He yanked a little too hard, and she barreled right into his chest, setting him off balance. For a brief, horrible moment, he teetered on the edge of the step. Cleo gasped—her face a comical distortion of disbelief—and grabbed for him. Luckily, she missed, and Julian caught himself by the railing. When his heart rate returned to normal, he hoisted up the bag as if nothing had happened.

  “Whew!” Cleo said. “That was close. You’re a bit accident-prone, aren’t you?”

  Surely she wasn’t serious. Was she? Julian extended his hand toward the stairs. “Ladies first.”

  Addie patted his cheek. “What a gentleman.”

  “Just afraid to turn my back,” he said. “Cleo seems determined to kill me.”

  ...

  Cleo and Addie walked with Julian toward an ugly old brown car—one of those half-car, half-pickup contraptions. Even in a girl’s shirt, Julian was all man. The silly T-shirt showed off more of his arms than what he’d worn last night, and she loved every inch. Stop being a sucker for tattoos. Tattoos start with T, just like trouble. At least her repellent was working. The attraction didn’t seem to be a two-way street.

  Julian casually tossed the bags into the hideous vehicle’s open bed. “We’ll take my car,” he said. “All the bags will fit in the back.”

  She was confused. “Unless you rented that from Clunkers ’R’ Us, I assume it’s yours?”

  “Clunker? Are you kidding me? This is a classic El Camino. It’s been refurbished to perfection, I’ll have you know. And yes, it’s mine. Why else would I be driving it?”

  Someone was sensitive about his car. “How did you get it here?”

  “I drove it. I’d have pushed it, but it’s just so hot, you see.”

  “You’re not visiting from England?”

  “Why would you think that? I have a loft downtown. Not too far from Addie’s place.” He hesitated, then realization dawned on his face. “I guess she hasn’t talked about me much.”

  No, she hadn’t. Of course, Cleo didn’t talk about her brother, either. He was the family’s golden boy, and she’d grown up floundering in his overachieving shadow.

  Julian opened the passenger side door. “I embarrass Addie,” he stage-whispered.

  “You do not,” Addie said. “You just never came up. It’s not like I know how many siblings Cleo has.”

  Cleo gulped down a guilty knot. “I have a brother, too,” she admitted. “He’s perfect in every way, an orthopedic surgeon in Portland.” And I’m an unemployed thirty-year-old with a hangover.

  “Well,” Julian said, “Addie’s brother is far from perfect, and he’s been nothing but trouble.” He held the passenger door open and extended a hand toward the leather bench seat.

  “Stop being so pathetic,” Addie snapped.

  “I wasn’t bragging about my brother when I said he was perfect,” Cleo said. “And I’m the sibling who’s been nothing but trouble in our family.”<
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  Julian gave her a sympathetic nod. “Hurry up, hop in. Addie’s too gangly to sit in the middle. Hope you don’t mind straddling a stick.” He winked.

  She climbed in, and Addie followed. Julian slammed the door, a little too hard. Great, Cleo thought, as she awkwardly attempted to get one leg over the long-handled shifter in a dress. This is going to be fun.

  Julian came around and slid into the driver’s seat. “It’s only second and fourth that’ll give you any trouble,” he said, with an intentional glance at the stick between her knees.

  He turned the key and brought the old car roaring to life. “Oh, and reverse, of course. But I’ll do my best to remain a gentleman during the shifting.” The mischievous smile he produced was cute but not convincing.

  With hardly a glance in the rearview mirror, he threw the car into reverse, and they shot out of the parking space. Cleo’s stomach flip-flopped, and she put a hand on her tummy to settle it.

  “You okay?” Julian asked, raising an eyebrow.

  A cleansing breath in through the mouth, out through the nose. She could do this. “Yeah. But do you think we could take it easy? I don’t like roller coasters even when I’m not hungover.”

  Julian made a little sound in his throat that wasn’t quite a snort. Then he shifted smoothly into first, and Cleo’s stomach didn’t protest in the slightest. Another equally smooth shift into second landed the stick back between her legs—she stared straight ahead—and they pulled out onto the highway that ran in front of her apartment complex. Julian skipped third and went directly to fourth, forcing her to open her knees even farther—hard to ignore, so she pushed herself as far against the back of the seat as she could, and the car rumbled down the road.

  Brake lights ahead. “Fucking hell,” Julian said. “Road works.”

  Coming to a stop in the unending line of cars, trucks, and SUVs, Julian reached down and flipped on the old-fashioned radio, spinning the dial to find a station. Then they sat there, waiting for their turn to inch up. Even though Julian appeared practiced at driving a stick, they lurched along, with him riding the clutch, and Cleo’s stomach began to complain with rolling waves of nausea.