A hand came out of nowhere and smacked him on top of his head. “My dream was to interview rock stars like a real writer. But I ended up being the world’s oldest and most overqualified coffee girl instead. That worked out about like you’d expect, and I returned home in humiliation. Now I’m in bed with my boss, so things aren’t really looking up.”
Her auburn curls fanned across the pillow. He’d love to run his fingers through them, but he turned over instead, reaching beneath his own pillow in the hopes of locating a guitar pick or two. He found one and began knuckle-rolling it through his fingers.
“Did you and Lou ever hook up?” he asked, lowering his voice to sound sincere and save her pride.
“That’s another story for another storm.”
Poor darling. Lou had probably passed her in the hall, bumped into her hand, and she hadn’t washed it since.
The skies opened up, and hail began pounding the roof, showering the room in a mesmerizing deluge of glowing blue streamers.
A warm behind scooted up next to his, and he rather liked the feel of it.
…
The next morning, Cleo woke with a start, as if she’d heard gunshots or a bloodcurdling scream, which of course, she hadn’t. She sat up in bed, lifting her hair out of her eyes. Where the holy hell was she?
An unfamiliar room, that’s where. In an unfamiliar bed. Lying next to a…guitar. She sighed and flopped back against the pillow. She was in Julian’s bed. Dang, but that hadn’t taken long. Sex or no sex, she’d already plowed through some boundaries.
Shit, what time was it? The sun was up, but not too up. It was maybe seven. Julian was probably in the bathroom or eating breakfast.
She rolled out of bed and crept out to the hall. The bathroom was empty, and after taking advantage of that, she headed for the stairs, combing her hair with her fingers and wiping the dried drool off her cheek. That must have been pretty. She tiptoed down and paused at the bottom to take a deep breath, then power walked into the room with her chin held high—looking as professional as one could in Hello Kitty pajama pants.
And it was all for nothing, because the kitchen was empty. So was the rest of the loft. She followed her nose to the coffee and found the mugs on her first try. Bingo! No tacky World’s Best Guitarist mugs, either. Julian had a full set of matching grown-up artisan stoneware.
She opened the refrigerator and frowned. No half-and-half. Damn vegan. She found a carton of almond milk, watered down her coffee with it, and took the first glorious sip. Her tummy growled mightily, and she realized she was in the awkward position of having no food of her own. She eased the fridge door open—sleeping with the boss and stealing his food all within the first twenty-four hours—to see what she could find.
Heavy footsteps bounded up the stairs from the studio, as if someone took them two at a time. She didn’t even have a chance to shut the door before Julian burst into the loft, shirtless and drenched in sweat. He’d been running, obviously. Which meant bad guys were after him with machetes or, worse, he was a regular morning runner. A vegan runner—she narrowed her eyes—with a man bun. Holy cow, the only way he could be more of a cliché was if he lived in Austin.
He performed some truly obnoxious stretching, and Cleo took advantage by practicing tattoo appreciation. Tribal Aztec designs on both pecs, complemented by pierced nipples (thank God they were both still there), and a musical score across a very toned lower abdomen. No point in asking where he kept the doughnuts hidden. She took a sip of coffee, swallowed, and then cleared her throat. Loudly.
Julian looked up. Blankly.
“Don’t tell me I’m going to have to introduce myself after we’ve slept together,” Cleo said.
“I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time,” Julian said with a wink and a caught you looking grin. Cleo hid behind another gulp of coffee, and her stomach created a timely diversion with a strategic growl.
“Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator or pantry,” Julian said, yanking his man bun loose. “I’ve got to hit the shower—meeting in twenty minutes.”
“Do you have actual edible things? And what meeting? Should I attend?”
Julian breezed past her, headed to the stairs. “Yes, don’t worry about it, and no.”
Okay, so not super chatty after a run. “Well, what do I do today?”
He paused at the stairs and shrugged. “Whatever you want, I guess.”
Two hours later, Cleo was showered, dressed, and fairly unpacked. Also, untethered. She floated around from one spot to the other, adrift in her new life and so-called job.
Julian was still in a meeting down in the studio, where she hadn’t even ventured, while she was apparently expected to settle into being a fully kept woman. The whole situation reeked of New York and Lou Michaels, and she didn’t like it. She pulled her hair back, tucked her pink blouse with the Peter Pan collar into the best invention since sliced bread—dressy yoga pants in steel gray—and headed for the studio.
…
Julian tapped his pencil on the table while his lawyer, Neil, gabbed on the phone. This was taking longer than it should, and he had a million things to do. He reached over and grabbed a bottle of water from the lounge’s mini-fridge, holding it up to Neil with raised eyebrows. Neil shook his head and mouthed no, thanks, so Julian unscrewed the cap and chugged half the bottle. There were only two left. He’d have to restock the fridge before the scheduled band showed up to record tonight. That was if the bloody technician ever arrived. He was an hour late. If the bass feed didn’t get fixed today, Julian would have to reschedule the band.
On top of all that, the orange notes running through his mind tugged at him like a small, annoying child. If only he could get to his piano…
“Sorry about that,” Neil said, putting his phone on the table. They were in the lounge because every square inch of the desk in the studio’s foyer was covered. At first glance, it looked a mess. But Julian had a system. Rows of sticky notes in decreasing order of urgency. Mail to be dealt with, mail to be recycled, mail to be filed. To-do lists and contact information. He couldn’t move any of it because if even one thing were amiss, the entire system fell apart.
“Now where were we?” Neil asked.
“Carlos’s royalty payout,” Julian said.
A door slammed. The studio’s front door was locked—people had to be buzzed in. A little jolt shot through him—a bright orange one—because either they had an intruder, or Cleo had come down to the studio.
“Is somebody here?” Neil asked.
“No. Well, yes. It’s just my—” God. What was she again?
“Studio manager.” Orange bubbles floated in with Cleo’s voice. She smiled at Julian and walked right up to Neil, hand extended. “Hi. I’m Cleo Compton.”
Neil took her hand and glanced at Julian. Great. What was she doing down here? At least she was wearing real pants—Julian looked closely—or something fairly close to real pants, anyway.
“Cleo, this is Neil Martinez. You might want to jerk your hand back. He’s a lawyer.”
Cleo’s smile intensified. “I love lawyers!”
Neil laughed. “I’m not used to enthusiasm where my job is concerned.”
Julian rolled his eyes. “She dates a lawyer. She’s like a lawyer groupie.”
Cleo laughed, but it sounded wrong. It looked wrong, too. No orange bubbles, just bursts of mist. It sounded—and looked—insincere. He’d been kidding. Was she insulted?
“I’m just teasing, of course,” he said. Lame.
“I know.” She looked around the room, wringing her hands together.
“Do you need something?” he asked.
Cleo frowned at him. “No. Do you need something?”
Julian crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Nope.”
Neil had returned to his laptop screen, which displayed Carlos Tejada’s recording contract.
“You know this kid should have an agent looking out for him, right, Julian?”
“That’s the last thing he needs, believe me,” Julian said, watching Cleo out of the corner of his eye. “It would just be one more person taking a bite out of him. You shore this up and send it back to the label. If they don’t take it, I’ve got another plan in mind.”
Cleo stepped away and opened the nearest cabinet, then scribbled in a spiral notebook. What the fuck was she doing?
“How many acts are you managing for free now?” Neil asked.
Julian downed the last of his water and tossed the bottle in the recycling bin by the door. “I don’t manage acts. You know that.”
Neil pushed his glasses up on his nose and typed in a few numbers. “Right. You just pay me to negotiate contracts for people for no reason at all.”
Cleo stopped scribbling, but she didn’t look up. Nosy woman.
“It’s not for no reason at all. It’s just not for profit. Are we almost done?”
Neil shuffled some papers. “I’ll be out of your way as soon as possible.”
“Don’t be silly,” Cleo said. “Nobody’s in anybody’s way.”
“That’s not entirely true,” Julian said, under his breath.
Cleo noisily scrounged through all the cabinets, the closet, and the mini-fridge.
“What are you doing?” Julian asked. He didn’t like people riffling through his shit.
“Making a list,” she said. “We need to restock the lounge.”
“No, we don’t,” Julian said. “But put water on the list.”
“Already did.”
She put her notebook down and began yanking pieces of paper off the overburdened bulletin board. Julian had been meaning to do that himself—most of the flyers and notices were outdated. She probably couldn’t ruin anything, so he tried to focus on Neil, but Cleo hummed while she worked—juicy tangerine notes that increased his desire to sit down at the piano—and he found it hard to concentrate.
In under a minute, the bulletin board was practically bare. Three notices were left, one of which he’d been looking for. Cleo tossed the excess paper into the recycling bin and, without so much as a nod in Julian’s direction, headed into the foyer, straight for his desk. “Excuse me, Neil,” Julian said, jumping up. Couldn’t let her get near the desk.
He was too slow, and Cleo reached the desk just as the phone rang.
“Soundbox Studio. How may I help you?” Bubbles, bubbles, bubbles… They floated to the ceiling, and a few popped in his stomach.
“Cleo,” he whispered. “Give me the phone.”
Cleo put her hand up and glared at him. He took a step back. She had actually given him the hand. “I’m sorry, Eddie. Why are you calling?”
“Give me the phone,” Julian hissed. Eddie was the technician. The little shit was going to try to reschedule, and Julian needed him here today.
Cleo frowned at Julian and dodged his grab for the phone. Then, while she listened to Eddie, she scanned the desk, eyes darting back and forth until she settled on the open schedule.
“No,” she said. “We’re not rescheduling. We have a band coming in tonight.” She snatched up a business card—messing up the entire perfectly aligned row sorted by color first, and alphabetically second. “If you’re not here in thirty minutes I’m calling Pete’s Pipes and Plugs.”
Julian put his hands over his face as Cleo continued threatening the recording equipment technician with calling a plumber.
“Dang right you will,” Cleo said. “And we’ll expect a 10 percent discount for the stress and inconvenience.” She hung up.
Wait…it worked? “He’s coming?” Julian asked.
“Of course he is,” Cleo said. “Let’s see, what else do we have going on here?” She fingered the sticky notes and business cards, sorting them not by color. Julian’s vision began to blur as she mucked it all up.
“What are you doing?”
“Organizing. This is a mess.”
“No, it’s not a mess. It’s a system.” And he knew how to work it. He was probably the most organized person in the world.
“Well, I don’t like it. And why on earth is everything written down on paper?”
She said “paper” like it was dirty word. What else was he supposed to write things down on? He reached in his pockets to grab his picks. Otherwise he would grab everything out of Cleo’s hands and begin lining them up perfectly. According to color.
Neil came into the room, carrying his briefcase and laptop. “We’re all done,” he said. Julian reached out for a handshake but realized too late that Neil offered his hand to Cleo. Julian’s was left hanging like a lonely matzo ball.
“I’ll email a copy of the revised contract.” Neil said.
“Okay, that would be—”
“When can we expect it?” Cleo asked.
Really? Did she even know what the contract was for? For all she knew, it was for Pete’s Pipes and Plugs.
“How does two weeks sound?” Neil asked.
Cleo raised an eyebrow. “How about one?”
“You got it.” He waved at Julian. “Later, kid.”
Seriously? Julian abandoned his picks to run both hands through his hair. He was losing control of things, but it felt…fine.
Cleo sat and turned on the computer. Strands of hair had sprung free from her ponytail and curled around her face. She tapped her fingers on the desk while waiting for the machine to boot up. “I’m going to get you all set up. Don’t worry.”
He pulled up a chair to see what she’d do next. She turned her green eyes on him. “Oh. You’re dismissed.”
“Dismissed? Are you kidding?”
“No.” She waved her hand in a shooing motion. “You’re in my personal space. Go make music or something.”
There was nothing he wanted to do more, but he put it aside. “Would you like to learn a little about recording?”
Chapter Five
The daily recording lessons on the mixing board were fun. Three weeks ago, Cleo had been intimidated by it all, but with Julian’s help, she’d become more comfortable and was having a blast with the levers and knobs. She’d never get to record anyone—Soundbox used engineers for that—but she’d learned some basics. Guitar Boy was a surprisingly good teacher. And he loved his studio.
Cleo had worked extra hard over the past few weeks. She’d overseen a website launch because the idiot hadn’t even had one, had written marketing literature—he didn’t have any of that, either—and was in the process of updating the billing system because the current one consisted of Julian telling the bands how much they owed as they walked out saying they’d pay him later.
She was enjoying herself. And she was mingling with more artists than she ever had at Rock ’n’ Spin. Maybe they weren’t famous, but they were interesting and talented.
This was beginning to feel like a real job and not just something to do while waiting for plan B to materialize out of thin air.
Julian sat next to her. He put his hand over hers and pushed a lever up. “Did you know you poke your tongue out when you’re enthralled with something?” he asked.
If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was flirting.
“I don’t poke my tongue out, and stop staring at my face.”
“What would you have me stare at instead?”
Okay. He was flirting. And she didn’t dignify it with a response. “Can we go over clipping again? Or how to reduce the system gain?”
Julian uncrossed his arms and slid off the stool. “What do you say we go grab some lunch? You’re starting to ask questions for an engineer to answer. You’ve exhausted me.”
“Poor baby. I know you’re not used to working hard.”
That was a lie. He was an incredibly hard worker. Devoted to helping the artists who came to the studio, he often played on their albums, and not just guitar, either. He was wicked with a set of drumsticks, and he pounded the piano like a pro. He produced new arrangements on the fly, made subtle suggestions that yielded huge results, and she suspected he could out-engineer the enginee
rs.
She stole a sideways glance at him. His hair stuck out like Einstein’s. Must have been writing music earlier. His concert T-shirt—Better Than Ezra—had creased sleeves, as if he’d ironed it. Tousled hair, vintage T-shirts. A relaxed exterior disguised an inner control freak. His right hand tirelessly worked the guitar picks he kept in his pocket, making soft clicking sounds.
“Let’s go grab a taco before the lunch crowd,” he said. “I’m hungry.”
“The Morones Brothers are coming by at two o’clock. Did you forget?” The look on his face told her he had. Honestly, how had he ever managed without her?
“We’ll eat lunch here then,” he said, nodding toward the stairs that led to the loft. “By the way, don’t let them scare you. They’re pussycats.”
Cleo waved her hand as if she weren’t worried, even though she was. “No problem. I used to teach at a community college.”
The Morones Brothers were a Latino hip-hop group who’d recorded their demo at Soundbox. They had a reputation for being bad vatos. But that wasn’t what concerned Cleo. She gulped at the memory of her self-assured response of Sure! when Julian had asked her to interview the trio and write an article. Julian’s longtime friend Manny Bloom had promised to publish it in Upbeat, a local arts and events rag that barely stayed afloat. It was hardly a Rock ’n’ Spin assignment. But still, what if it ended up being a steaming pile of bullshit? She didn’t want to let anyone down.
Julian grinned and followed her to the staircase. “You keep going over all the questions you’ve prepared, and mumbling to yourself, and doing that thing you do with your knuckles. You’re an annoying little fucker when you’re nervous.”
Cleo stopped on the second step and turned around to protest being referred to as an annoying little fucker. Julian bumped into her, then took a step back. They were nose to nose. Perfect kissing height.
“Josh doesn’t find me annoying.”
“That’s because he’s too self-absorbed.”
Josh wasn’t self-absorbed, he was just busy with important things like contracts and golf and avoiding words like “fucker.” And he still managed to make time for her. At least weekly. Or every other week, anyway. Busy, mature people ran busy, mature lives.
Color Me Crazy Page 7