Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  He groaned, and Clark smiled at him. It was hard not to like Cleo’s dad. He was cheerful and sharp, and even though his hair was thinning and gray, he was a ginger through and through, ruddy complexion and all. Luckily, Cleo got her ivory skin and delicate features from her mum.

  Sophie reached over and patted Julian’s hand. “He’s a violinist,” she said.

  “Well, I play guitar now.”

  “No kidding,” Clark said. Julian narrowed his eyes—maybe the old guy was being sarcastic.

  Clark wiped his mouth and pushed his chair back. “Come with me, son.”

  “Oh God. Here we go,” Cleo said.

  Julian followed Cleo’s old man into his den, where he pulled down a battered case from a closet. Inside was an old Martin beauty. Julian ached to touch it, and he let out a low whistle. “What is that? A 1910? Or maybe ’08?”

  Clark’s eyes lit up as he recognized a fellow enthusiast. “It’s a 1910. I’d offer to let you play it, but it needs to be restrung.” He held up his hands. They displayed the classic signs of advanced arthritis. “I don’t have the strength to string it anymore, much less play it.”

  Josh came into the room. “Hey,” he said. “That looks old. What’s it worth?”

  The two guitarists gawked at him. “You mean in money?” Julian said.

  “Well, yeah.”

  Julian shook his head and peered into the case. There was a pick and a pack of strings. “How about I put some new strings on for you, Clark? It won’t take me long.”

  Clark rubbed his hands together in glee. “Only if you promise to play her when you’re done.”

  Just what Julian was hoping to hear. “You’ve got a deal.” He ran his hands up and down the instrument’s neck, caressing it like a lover, then rested it on his lap and opened the pack of strings.

  “Come on,” Clark said to Josh. “Let’s go have a cup of coffee and leave the two of them alone.” Cleo had a cool old man.

  A few minutes later, the new strings were on. Julian sat in front of Clark with the guitar resting comfortably in his lap. “What did you like to play?”

  “I doubt you’re familiar with my kind of music,” Clark said.

  “Try me.”

  “Okay. You ever hear of a fellow named Doc Watson?”

  Julian smiled. “I might have.” In fact, he’d been lucky enough to play with Doc once. But he didn’t want to brag about it. Instead, he flat-picked “Beaumont Rag,” relishing the stunned expression on Clark’s face. Clark began tapping his foot and slapping his hand against his knee. Before Julian knew it, a sweet tenor voice rang out, blue and clear, like a lake sparkling in the sun.

  This day hadn’t been so terrible, after all. Julian was actually enjoying himself when the door to the study flew open.

  “Clark,” Sophie shrieked, interrupting their jam session. “Talk some sense into your daughter.”

  The women filed into the room in various states of distress. “What the heck’s the matter?” Clark asked.

  “For one thing, she’s been evicted from her apartment.”

  The lawyer boyfriend slipped in quietly—a bit shell-shocked, if Julian had to guess. Addie wrung her hands together. Her eyes met Julian’s and then quickly flitted away. Hmm. His sister looked guilty as hell. It didn’t take a genius to figure out who had let the eviction bomb slip. She was at his side in an instant. “Just go along,” she pleaded. “And don’t be mad at me.”

  “Why would I be mad at you?” he whispered.

  “Cleo,” Sophie said. “Julian’s a nice young man. And I’m sure he has a fine recording studio.” She paused and looked at Julian with a pained smile. “But it makes no sense whatsoever for you to work there, much less move in.”

  What? Julian vigorously shook his head. Surely he’d heard wrong.

  “It makes perfect sense. He needs a manager, and I need a job,” Cleo said. “He has a manager’s flat at the studio, and I need a place to stay.”

  Julian glared at Addie. “Manager’s flat?”

  “You know,” she whispered. “Where I stayed while my place was being renovated?”

  “You mean the spare room in my loft? Are you daft?”

  “Wait a minute,” Clark said. “What about the college?”

  “I didn’t get my job back,” Cleo said. She crossed her arms defiantly and tapped her foot.

  Clark rubbed a gnarly hand over his face. “Well…”

  “What did you think was going to happen when you uprooted and followed that man to New York like some sort of stalker?” Sophie asked.

  “Mother.”

  “You invited a stalker to move in with me?” Julian whispered to Addie.

  Things disintegrated quickly. Julian only understood every other word as Cleo and her mum stood face-to-face with their hands on their hips, gums flapping and heads bouncing like pecking chickens.

  “Now, now, girls,” Clark said, his voice soothing. They stopped talking momentarily. “Cleo, I think it makes sense to stay with us while you get back on your feet. You haven’t even looked into that job I heard about at the prep school. I know you’re overqualified, but it’s a start in the right direction.”

  Relief washed over Julian like a cleansing turquoise shower. Clark was clearly the voice of reason. But then Sophie had to open her mouth again.

  “I mean, really, dear. You made one huge mistake already. Do you want to make another?” She glanced at Julian apologetically.

  That might have been okay, but then the jock weighed in. “There’s an obvious choice here, Cleo. You can either get a professional position at a prep school with a benefits package and a future, or you can work for this guy.” He jerked his thumb in Julian’s direction and did not sound at all apologetic.

  Cleo, the little darling, puffed out her perfect chest and had the heart to look offended on his behalf. Before he knew it, he was talking. “The studio pays well, and she’s perfect for the job. And,” he added with a sneer at Josh, “I’ve been told I have a nice benefits package.”

  He was immediately covered in redhead. “Oh, Julian! Thank you.”

  The icy panic over what he’d just done thawed beneath the gratifying heat of Josh’s glare and Cleo’s soft tits pushing into his chest. He looked at Addie, who did everything she could to look elsewhere and awkwardly patted Cleo on the back. What the bloody hell had just happened?

  Chapter Four

  Cleo pulled into the gated lot as Julian had instructed. She squinted through her dirty windshield at the redbrick building. Was this it? She quickly checked the address again—hoping she had it right—because this place was freaking adorable.

  It was the right place—201 Gonzalez Street! Oh, and there was Julian’s El Camino, parked beneath the branches of a pecan tree overhanging the fence.

  Cleo climbed out of her little Honda and gazed up at the three-story structure Julian called his studio and loft. Clearly a historic building, it could have been lifted right off a western movie set. A wraparound balcony hugged the second story, and a suspiciously nonfunctioning fire escape snaked up one side. Cleo shielded her eyes against the sun with her hand and looked at the windows. Which one belonged to the manager’s flat?

  A horn honked, and she jumped two feet in the air. It was Sherry pulling into the lot in the rented U-Haul. Her eyes widened as she took in the building, then she gave Cleo a thumbs-up and parked. Cleo yanked the big door open and reached in to help Sherry out. “Isn’t it awesome?”

  “Our boy’s got some dough. The rent is astronomical in this tourist district.”

  “Oh, he’s not paying rent,” Cleo said, as Sherry hopped out of the truck. “Addie says he owns this building.”

  Sherry’s eyebrows went up, and she slammed the door closed with her hip. “He’s a hot, rich musician? And you’re moving in with him? Cleo, we’d been making such progress. And now you’re right back where you started.”

  That wasn’t true. “No, I’m not. This thing with me and Guitar Boy, it’s strictly busines
s. I’ve got Josh, remember? And the job won’t last long, anyway. I have no idea what to do in a recording studio.”

  Sherry rolled her eyes and waved her off. “It better last long enough to find another job. Let’s get your stuff inside.”

  They opened the back of the truck and gazed upon Cleo’s life in boxes. “God, I hope all this fits.”

  She’d already downsized significantly when she’d moved to New York. Surely the manager’s flat in this decent-sized building wasn’t any smaller than her New York efficiency, no matter what Addie said. Just in case, Cleo had already looked into a storage unit rental.

  The sound of tires on gravel drew their attention. Addie pulled in next to the moving truck. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, climbing out of her car.

  Cleo held out her arms, and Addie gave her a quick hug. “We haven’t seen much of you since my birthday.”

  “Yeah,” added Sherry. “And that was two weeks ago. What have you been up to?”

  “Oh, just lots of work,” Addie said. She brushed invisible lint off her shirt and glanced around the parking lot—eyes flitting about but never landing directly on Cleo’s. She and Sherry exchanged a brief glance. They’d have to dig up the dirt later. Addie obviously wasn’t offering anything up at present.

  “Well,” said Sherry, tossing a curtain of shiny dark hair over her shoulder, “what are we all standing around out here for? I want to see this joint.”

  “He’s done a lot of work to it,” Addie said, locking her door with a chirp. “It really is a beautiful building.”

  Cleo and Sherry followed Addie down the sidewalk. Conjunto music from Sunset Station across the street floated festively on the air, but Cleo checked her enthusiasm. This was a short-term gig. She was only sticking around until she could find a real job. Because this was not a real job. And Julian was not a real boy.

  Addie paused at the big double doors nestled into the corner of the building. Shaded by the balcony, the entrance was cool and comfortable, and the sidewalk and steps were clean and freshly swept. A neon sign lit up the window: SOUNDBOX STUDIO.

  Addie bypassed the doorbell and opened the lid on a discreet keypad. She entered a code and turned the handle on the door. “After you,” she said, extending an arm.

  The big door closed behind them, and the outside world disappeared. It was so quiet—like a museum or a library—that Cleo whispered. “Wow. Look at this place.”

  The brick walls were adorned with autographed photos and posters of the bands who’d recorded here. Concert promotion posters, audition notices, and job opportunities covered the supportive columns in the center of the room.

  Cleo and Sherry walked quietly around, taking in everything. A small anteroom sat off to the side, and Cleo poked her head in the door. A couple of ratty futons were pushed against the wall next to a small kitchenette.

  “Is this my apartment?” she asked. The futons would have to go. She could probably squeeze her love seat in, but where the hell would she stick her bed?

  “Goodness, no,” said Addie. “Your flat doesn’t have a kitchen.”

  Cleo spun around. “I don’t have a kitchen? Are you kidding me?”

  “Julian’s going to take care of that straight away. No worries. Anyway, that’s just a lounge for musicians. Sometimes they need a comfortable place to take a break, especially if they’re recording all night.”

  “Oh. So where is my apartment?”

  “It’s upstairs,” Addie answered.

  Cleo automatically looked at the ceiling. Didn’t Julian live upstairs?

  “You can peek in at the studio, if you want,” Addie said, flipping a light switch. A window to the right lit up, revealing a room filled with Persian rugs, plump cushions, and overstuffed chairs. Guitars and percussion-type instruments rested in stands or on tables, and some were mounted on the walls. In the back was another small window. It was dark—must be the actual recording room where the equipment was. A stinging dart of panic pierced Cleo’s armor of optimism. What was she doing here? Had she ever made a decision in her life when she wasn’t drunk?

  Addie moved past the recording studio to the back of the room. “Let’s go upstairs.” She pushed a button on an intercom to the right of a narrow door.

  Julian’s tinny voice came through the speaker. “It’s unlocked.”

  Addie opened the door and led the way up narrow, steep stairs. Dim wall sconces did little to light the way, and Cleo grasped the wooden handrails. Julian stood at the top, appearing in silhouette with light pouring in from behind. His hair was a wild tangle of waves and a guitar hung on his back. A laser show would have been a nice touch.

  He waved. “Howdy, girls,” he said, allowing the rock star facade to go up in an anticlimactic puff of smoke.

  Thank goodness.

  ...

  Julian beamed as Cleo soaked everything in. He couldn’t help it. Even though he did not want anyone living in it with him, he’d worked hard at fixing up the loft, and she seemed to appreciate it. The hardwood floors were polished to a gleam, and nothing was out of place. Tidy, just as he liked it.

  A Steinway baby grand piano sat off to the left, its lid open and sheet music resting on the bench. The pages tugged at him. He’d been writing all morning—orange notes mostly—to distract himself from worrying about his newly acquired employee. And roommate.

  He suddenly remembered his hair. When he wrote music, he tousled it like a madman. He must look like he’d licked his finger and stuck it in an electrical socket. He ran his fingers through his hair while he led the women past the couch, which held three guitars: a red Fender Stratocaster, a white Gibson Les Paul, and a Martin acoustic. He had over a hundred guitars, but those three were his workhorses. “Watch out for cords,” he warned, kicking one out of the way. Amps were everywhere, and their relaxing buzz bathed the place in a golden hue.

  Cleo’s eyebrows shot up, clearly appreciating the hammered tin tiles on the ceiling. “Original?” she asked.

  People rarely noticed the ceiling, even though he had painstakingly cleaned and painted each tile. “Yes,” he said. “I have more in storage, because I tore out most of the third floor—only my bedroom is up there now. Don’t know what I’ll do with them but can’t bear to part with them just yet.”

  Cleo put her finger on her chin, as if she were actually considering what to do with the tiles. “They’d make a great backsplash in a kitchen or bath.”

  “That’s actually one of the projects I’m considering,” Julian said.

  “Oh, wow,” Sherry said. “Do you guys know what just happened?”

  “No, what?”

  “I got bored.”

  Cleo laughed and elbowed Julian in the ribs. “Sherry was an art history major. Talk about boring.”

  “Hey, there’s lots of sex in art,” Sherry said. “Right, Addie?”

  Addie stood quietly by the window, gazing out. “Right,” she said, clearly distracted. That was the first word she’d said since coming up the stairs. Something was up.

  “Ooh,” Cleo said, tilting her head back. “So much natural lighting through those windows.” Her deep red curls trailed down her back toward the swell of her ass, which was encased in a ridiculous patchwork skirt of crazy colors—like a jazz saxophone riff. A treasure of a Flogging Molly T-shirt topped off the ensemble. It was a shame she hadn’t taken proper care of it. The logo was cracked and peeling.

  “I hate artificial lighting,” he said. It was a bit of an understatement. He could fucking hear artificial lighting.

  Sherry had wandered over to the stairs, which were hidden in a polished oak cylinder jutting out of the brick-and-mortar wall. “What is this?”

  “It’s an enclosed spiral staircase. Addie can tell you about it. She’s the one who found it while on holiday in Spain.”

  It was one of Addie’s favorite stories—one of her greatest finds—and she never tired of telling how she’d rescued the staircase from destruction and the huge headache involved in getting it t
o the States. Julian waited for her to pick up the thread, but she remained silent, staring out the window. “Addie?”

  She looked up at the sound of her name, but her eyes were glazed and distant.

  “Julian says there’s a story with the staircase,” Sherry prodded.

  “Huh? Oh, yes. It was in an old cathedral they were tearing down,” Addie said. Then she went back to staring out the window.

  Okay, this thing with Addie was getting weird. He caught a furtive glance dart between Sherry and Cleo—apparently, they didn’t know what the fuck was going on, either.

  “Moving on to the kitchen,” he said. “Your flat doesn’t have one yet, so make yourself at home in mine.” He tried to smile, but it severely pained him.

  “And where is my flat?” Cleo asked, gazing around the loft.

  Julian pointed to a door to the left of his refrigerator. “In there.” He swallowed. “And I’m warning you. It’s not very impressive.”

  “Oh,” Cleo said weakly, “I don’t need much. As long as my folks aren’t in there, I’m good to go.”

  “I doubt they’d fit,” he said. “Now, normally, you’d enter through your own door that comes off the parking lot. There’s a set of stairs that lead straight to your flat.” In other words, don’t traipse through my place to get to yours.

  He walked over and threw the door open with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

  Cleo walked in first, followed by Sherry. They both stopped just inside the doorway. “Oh, Cleo,” Sherry said. “This totally sucks.”

  Julian’s skin prickled over the insult. Cleo stood in the doorway, gawking at the single room with a tiny alcove off to the side. The walls were brick, covered over with cement and mortar that was peeling off in chunks. The wood floors needed refinishing. No kitchen, as he’d already pointed out. His face grew hot with embarrassment.

  Cleo inhaled deeply and clapped her hands over her mouth. Her green eyes were huge with shock, the eyebrows arched to the point of ridiculousness. He swore her hair was blushing. At the first smart-assed remark, he’d bloody well remind her that beggars could not be choosers.