Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  Josh went from bright pink to very pale.

  It was all true. Julian had overheard the girls discussing a polka-dot mermaid dress. They hadn’t bought it, but Josh didn’t need to know that. And besides, Cleo could have very well bought something even worse.

  “I wonder if mermaid dresses have clamshells?”

  “What?” Josh said. His eyes were ridiculously round.

  “You know,” Julian said. “Clamshells.” He cupped his hands over his chest.

  “Oh, God,” Josh said.

  Julian wished Cleo would, in fact, emerge in a polka-dot mermaid costume. It was time to put Josh to the test. Just how badly did he want to make partner? And why couldn’t Cleo see what he was up to?

  The door opened, and Josh bolted off the couch. Was he going to make a run for it? No. He wasn’t running. He was frozen in his tracks, eyebrows raised, mouth agape. Curiosity got the better of Julian, and he turned to see what their little princess wore—

  She did not wear a prom dress. She wore a very grown-up black lace evening gown that hugged every inch. And the inches formed a perfect, old-school hourglass figure. She should take off those horrible hippie dresses and yoga pants more often—let those curves out to play. Julian’s fingers moved automatically, like they did when he thought of a song and needed a guitar. Only he was not thinking about music, and what he needed…well, his romp with Sylvie obviously hadn’t scratched that itch completely.

  “Well?” Cleo said. “Do I look okay?”

  “Perfect!” Josh said. He grinned from ear to ear and his voice—usually a hunter green—sounded almost aqua. The fucker was so relieved he was changing colors.

  Cleo turned her eyes on Julian. For about three seconds, he literally couldn’t breathe. She raised her eyebrows in question.

  “You look beautiful,” Julian said. He’d wanted his voice to sound strong and sincere—gray, like slate—but it came out breathy, an embarrassing, wispy silver.

  Heat rose in his cheeks. Maybe Cleo couldn’t see sounds, but she could sure as hell hear them. And his voice sounded…hungry. She tilted her head and gazed through her lashes. The girl could work it.

  Josh seemed oblivious, probably because he was still awash in relief. “Black lace was a good choice,” he said, as if he were critiquing the red carpet. “A lot of the other ladies will be in black lace, too.”

  Cleo’s mouth turned down a little at that. “Oh. Maybe I should have bought the polka-dot one.”

  Julian grinned. “You would look lovely in anything,” he said.

  Cleo’s smile came back, full force. “Thanks. What do you guys think of my hair?”

  She turned around slowly. A river of lava spilled down her very bare back. The front of the dress covered everything, but the back covered very little. “Take a good, long look,” Cleo said. “Because I’m never straightening it again.”

  “Very nice,” Josh said. “And some things are worth the effort.”

  Cleo spun back around with a faltering smile. Julian waited for the dick to follow the statement up by saying something about lovely curls, but he just clapped his hands and said, “Ready to go?”

  “I’ll follow you out,” Julian said. “I’m going to the club to hear a band.”

  Josh laughed. “For a minute there, I thought you meant the country club.”

  “No, don’t worry,” Julian said, grabbing his keys. “No riffraff in the country club tonight.”

  Cleo lifted the hem of her dress to head down the stairs, and Julian recognized the toes of her black biker boots. Maybe there would be a little riffraff at the country club, after all.

  Chapter Seven

  Julian looked around the depressing, shabby offices of Upbeat and waited for Manny to get out of the bathroom. He took the liberty of sitting in his friend’s nasty throne of ripped vinyl, propping his feet up on the cluttered desk. He leaned back, and the springs squeaked out an alarm that made its way through the small battered door in the corner of the room.

  “Get outta my chair.”

  Julian glanced at the door. “Yeah, okay. Sure.” He leaned back and rocked in earnest. He loved fucking with Manny, and it was so bloody easy.

  The toilet flushed.

  Julian yanked his feet off the desk and leaned over to grab an issue of Upbeat off the stack on the corner. The ugly mugs of the Morones Brothers glared up at him from the cover, and a bizarre sense of pride surged through him. He opened the magazine to the proper page and began reading.

  Not surprisingly, Cleo had done a bang-up job.

  Manny emerged from the bathroom, lighting a cigarette. He nodded in Julian’s general direction. “Move.”

  Without taking his eyes off the article, Julian stood. The chair squeaked as Manny slid in and leaned back. “Your girl delivered, pal.”

  She really had. The Morones boys hadn’t made it easy for her. They’d shown up with shaved heads and wearing stupid gangbanger outfits. Cleo had arched those eyebrows, indicating she recognized posers when she saw them, and before the Morones Brothers knew it, they were calling her ma’am and politely answering questions quicker than you could roll an enchilada.

  Manny Bloom was ecstatic. His old rag had finally managed to run a real story instead of its usual sad array of upcoming calendar events.

  “Where’s the redhead?” Manny asked.

  “Late, as usual,” Julian mumbled, still scanning the article. “She’s going to go insane over the monthly feature. She’s going to hug you. Consider yourself warned.”

  “Yeah?” Manny blew a cloud of smoke out of his mouth, and Julian wrinkled his nose. Manny ran a hand over his bald, shiny head. “I think I can handle a hug or two from your girl. I just hope she doesn’t like the feel of my Manny meat so much she dumps you.” He made a thrusting gesture with his hips that was meant to be obscene but was closer to hilarious.

  “She’s not my girl, but try to keep your meat in your pants, anyway.” He grinned and nodded at Manny’s tired slacks, stained and spotted with cigarette burns. “Nice pants, by the way.”

  “Right? They look like yours. Who knew I was a fashion plate?”

  Julian smirked and adjusted his gray and black indie mod hipsters. “I got mine last month from an expensive vintage dealer in L.A. I’m guessing you got yours at JCPenney back in 1962?”

  “It was 1963, asshole. And hey, if she flips over the monthly column, I wonder what she’s going to do when I tell her about the Sylvie Sandstone article.”

  “What about it? You’re running it, right?”

  “Nope. I sold it to Country Times. She hit the big leagues with that one.”

  Julian dropped the magazine into Manny’s lap. Holy shit. She was going to flip. Country Times was country music’s equivalent to Rock ’n’ Spin.

  “So, Julian, if you’re not banging this chick, how come you’re helping her out, huh? You like this woman or something?”

  “Or something.”

  Manny raised his bushy eyebrows, and Julian pretended to ignore him. He wasn’t going to spill his guts. What would he even say? Manny took the hint and changed the subject. “The Up and Coming segments are going to be great, but there’s something that would be even better.”

  “Forget about it, Manny.”

  “Come on, man! How about a nice, juicy article that starts with, ‘Whatever happened to Slice?’ Mitch Landrum lives in Austin now. I bet he’d be game for an interview.”

  A shiver traveled up and down Julian’s spine at the mention of Mitch’s name. It was true that Mitch was in Austin—so fucking close—but Julian had been lucky enough to never run into him. “I hear he’s in a band with a bunch of middle-aged freaks playing pool halls and bar mitzvahs. He’d probably appreciate the publicity. But being your has-been of the week doesn’t hold any appeal for me, so fuck off. Stop bringing that Slice shit up every time I see you.”

  “You’re hardly a has-been, brother. And I hear the Roustabouts are tight. Austin loves them, and it seems they’re having a good e
nough time. Maybe you and Mitch should bury the hatchet, huh? I mean, how long’s it been?”

  Not long enough. Suddenly, Julian didn’t feel like sticking around. An urge to escape came over him. He needed to do it before Cleo showed up and Manny helped her connect the dots in his convoluted life story. She’d figure it out on her own, but he’d prefer she not do it today.

  “I have to head out now. I just came by for a few of these.” He grabbed a stack of the magazines off the table.

  “Hey, wait a minute—”

  “Tell Cleo I’ll see her later. And keep my has-been status to yourself.” He turned and left Manny stuttering in his wake.

  By the time he hit the hot sidewalk, he was at odds and didn’t know where he wanted to go. The heat melted the traffic sounds from the nearby freeway into pea soup. He grabbed the handle of the El Camino’s door and jerked his hand away, cursing. Welcome to south Texas’s sorry-ass excuse for autumn. Using the tail of his shirt, he pulled the handle up again and yanked the door open. A belch of hot air ambushed him. He threw the stack of magazines onto the seat and slid into the oven next to them.

  “Julian!”

  Orange bubbles poured in through the window. Julian looked up to see a pair of perfect breasts in a horrid ruffled blouse.

  “Hello, Cleo.”

  She leaned in, replacing the view that caused serious shifting in the layout of his trousers with one that caused serious shifting in his heart. He smiled at her sweaty face, cheeks pink from the heat and framed by damp and curling ringlets of red hair. She was grinning and out of breath.

  “I was running to catch you,” she wheezed. “Why are you leaving?”

  “Where did you park, genius? There are spots all in front of this building.”

  “I know. But I can’t parallel park worth a crap. I had to go into that garage by the mall.”

  Julian looked about. With the exception of his car, there were no other cars on the street. Your average blind man could parallel park a double-decker bus anywhere within the block. “The list of things at which you’re inept just keeps growing. It’s impressive.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a grin. “Where are you going?”

  “I have someplace to be. I’ll see you later.”

  Her lips did something adorable that he thought might be a pout. “Oh. Well, okay. How did the article look?”

  “It was all right.” He palmed her forehead and pushed her head out of his window. Then he drove off, leaving her to her own devices with Manny Bloom.

  He didn’t have a destination in mind, but a street sign reminded him he was close to Addie’s place. He might as well stop by and share Cleo’s good news.

  Addie had been mysteriously absent ever since Cleo arrived on the scene. It was as if his sister had hired a babysitter for him and gone on holiday. One left turn at the next block brought him to her neighborhood. He drove slowly down the narrow street. It was lined with parked cars on both sides—some up on blocks—and he remained alert for children, dogs, or chickens, all of which had darted out in front of him on previous occasions. He drove with his window down, soaking up the sounds and colors of the neighborhood. Many of the homes and apartments didn’t have air-conditioning, and music and conversation poured through their windows. The bright, festive colors of a fiesta danced before his eyes.

  Addie’s turquoise door came into view. He looked for a spot to squeeze into and found one right behind a black Lexus. What the holy fuck was a black Lexus doing in this neighborhood? He pulled in, frowning. Across the street, Addie’s ever-vigilant neighbor, Senora Lopez—the woman had to be close to a hundred years old—sat on her front porch, fanning herself with a magazine. She wore the same two things she always wore: a scowl and a faded housecoat. She was the neighborhood watch, so surely, she’d noticed the Lexus.

  “Hola,” Julian yelled as he climbed out of his car. He lifted his hand in a wave, and Senora Lopez nodded slightly, with no change of expression. Maybe her cataracts were getting the best of her, because she didn’t seem at all concerned with the Lexus. It wasn’t pimped out, but Julian drew a conclusion anyway. Drug dealer.

  The fiesta colors disappeared as a tremor of nerves washed over him. He looked up and down the street. Where was the brazen asshole? Middle of the fucking day, and in close proximity to his sister and Senora Lopez’s great-grandsons, who would be home from school any minute.

  He reached his hand into his pocket and clicked his picks together. There had been a string of home invasions in the next block. Why did Addie insist on living here and giving him one more thing to worry about?

  He navigated the cracked, weed-riddled sidewalk to her front door and knocked loudly. The familiar chemicals of her dye studio—a tapestry of metallic hues—wafted under the door. The curtain in the window moved, and he waited patiently for the door to open. When it didn’t, he knocked again, louder. He reached into his pocket and found the picks. Why wasn’t she answering the door? Or even shouting just a minute? What if someone was in there with her, not letting her speak? The surface of his skin erupted in pins and needles, and then he pounded on the door, creating a ruckus that traveled up and down the street—and his spine—in red waves of alarm. “Addie,” he yelled. “Open up!”

  Someone tapped on his shoulder, and he spun, hand clenched in a fist, picks pressed against his palm. Senora Lopez stared stoically at him, concern etched in her ancient forehead. “Mijo, it’s okay,” she said. “Your hermana is fine. Her novio is in there.”

  “Her novio?”

  “Si.”

  “Addie doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

  Senora Lopez gave him a look that suggested she knew better. The door behind him swung open, and he spun back around. A tall man stood in Addie’s doorway. Julian’s heart jumped to his throat. Addie never had men over. And this one looked vaguely familiar.

  “Whoa now, settle down there, cowboy.”

  That voice—an amber rumble with piss-yellow edges—was unmistakable. What the bloody hell was Mitch Landrum doing in his sister’s flat?

  The shocking blue eyes were the same, although Mitch had obviously spent the past twelve years etching laugh lines into his formerly pale and ashen face, which was now a healthy tan. There was barely any resemblance to the angst-ridden young man Mitch had been when he’d fronted Slice. The dark and brooding expression had been replaced by a buoyant and cheerful countenance, and it looked fucking ludicrous.

  Mitch’s eyes were on guard but twinkling. The motherfucker was practically smirking. Without thinking, Julian punched him—right in the face—and picks flew as if he’d struck a piñata.

  Mitch went down, writhing, groaning, and holding a hand to his bloody nose. The asshole needed to get up so Julian could hit him again. He gave him a little prod with his foot, and Senora Lopez mistook it for a kick and exploded in a fit of Spanish, no doubt a scathing annihilation of his character. She even swatted him with her magazine, and it kind of hurt.

  “Ouch! Stop that. This guy is”—he searched his limited vocabulary of Spanish curse words—“a pendejo.”

  The old woman gasped and reached into the pocket of her housecoat. He flinched, but she didn’t pull out a paddle for his ass or a bar of soap for his mouth. It was a handkerchief for Mitch’s bleeding nose.

  Where the fuck was Addie? The bathroom door at the back of the flat creaked open, and her dark head peeked out. Her mouth gulped like a goldfish out of water as she took in the scene.

  “Addie—”

  “Julian, what have you done?” She ran out in nothing but a towel and joined Senora Lopez in fawning over Mitch.

  “What is Mitch Landrum doing in your flat?”

  Mitch had the audacity to look him in the eye with a smirk that answered the question—I’ve been doing Addie.

  “Good to see you again, punk. As you can see, I’ve met your sister.”

  ...

  Cleo was walking on air, or rather, driving on air. She’d already been by her parents’ house to brag
, and even her mom had seemed pleased. Her dad had been downright proud. An article in a national magazine! A local monthly feature!

  She pulled up to a stoplight and looked at her phone. Had she missed a call from Julian? She’d texted him a million times, but he still hadn’t responded. She was dying to talk to him. She longed for that stoic British look, the one that said he’d known she could do it all along. The look that made her feel as if she could do anything.

  The Morones Brothers had landed a producer, and tomorrow they were all going out to dinner. Now they’d have even more to celebrate. The light changed, and her phone rang. Julian always did that—called or texted just as she was thinking about him. She hit the phone button on her steering wheel—hands free, San Antonio—“Guess what?” she blurted.

  There was a quiet pause. “Hello? Is this Soundbox Studio?”

  The studio’s calls were forwarded to Cleo’s phone. In her excitement, she hadn’t even looked to see who called.

  “Sorry,” she said. “You’ve got the right number. What can I do for you?”

  “This is Cory. I’m calling to let Julian know about a release party. This is the only number I have. Is it the best way to get in touch with him?”

  “A release party?”

  “For our new album. Julian played on it.”

  Cory must be with one of the local bands that recorded at Soundbox.

  “Details, Cory. I need details.”

  He laughed. “Well, I’m not certain of all the details. It’s just my job to show up. But let’s see, there will be people. There will be food, some kind of L.A. crap only the record label executives can stomach.”

  “You mean Los Angeles?”

  “Yes. We love Julian, but not enough to bring the party to him. He’s going to have to drag his ass to us. But even he will need an invitation to get in, and we don’t have his address.”

  This wasn’t the band next door. “What band are you with again?”

  “Dead Ringer. This is Cory Maxwell with Dead Ringer.”

  “Are you for real?” She pulled into a convenience store parking lot so she wouldn’t crash the car. “Julian knows you guys? He played on your album? Oh my God, you’re Cory!”