Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

“I retreat.”

  “Retreat where?” Her fingers had stopped their nervous rhythm on his chest and smoldered there like sizzling-hot coals. Could she feel his heart pounding?

  “Into my head.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Is that what you were doing on the floor when I held you? Retreating into your head?”

  “You held me?”

  She blushed and lowered those gorgeous green eyes. Why couldn’t he remember the good stuff? “I’m afraid I’ll get too comfortable in my head one day and fail to come out.”

  The fingers started drumming again. “You’re afraid of becoming catatonic?”

  He shrugged. There was no way to describe the bliss of emptiness he felt when he came close. The peace and tranquility of blankness. The rude and horrifying jolt of the electroshock therapy he’d received as a child to bring him out of it.

  “Are you autistic?”

  The autistic/spectrum disorder label, as well as several others, had been batted about by various quacks. Like most things in his life, though, it didn’t fit. He was an oddity. A freak.

  “I don’t think so.”

  She brushed his hair out of his eyes. “You must be exhausted.”

  “I’m okay. I just got upset earlier today. Lost my focus—colors took over.”

  She lowered her eyes again. This was the awkward part. He could literally feel the invisible wall going up. Everyone erected the wall; he didn’t blame them.

  She raised her eyes back to his. “Are you hypersensitive to touch?” Her cheeks grew pinker. He’d revealed too much of himself and embarrassed her.

  “What?”

  “Are you sensitive to this?” she whispered. She trailed her fingertips down his chest to his navel, which she circled before continuing to the waistband of his jeans.

  “God, yes,” he gasped. His skin broke out into gooseflesh.

  Big Red had chosen a bizarre time to make a move, but he didn’t care. She was good at it. If she asked him to lick her cowboy boots right now, he’d gladly do it.

  A door slammed—icy blue with a red tail—and the sound cut through the sexually charged atmosphere, deflating the mood like a dart piercing a balloon.

  “Cleo?” Josh bellowed.

  “In here,” she yelled back, jumping up off the couch as if it were ablaze. Adorable. He hoped he looked half as guilty as she did.

  Josh came in, scowling like a disgruntled dick. “What’s taking you so long? I thought you were only picking up a few things.”

  “I don’t know that I should come over,” Cleo said. “Julian seems to be coming down with something.”

  “So?”

  “So I should stay here and keep an eye on him.”

  Josh eyed Julian suspiciously as he yawned and stretched. Julian couldn’t help himself—he winked. Then he stood.

  “No need to watch over me, Big Red. I’m leaving for Austin.”

  “I hardly think so,” Cleo sputtered, with her hands perched upon her hips. “You shouldn’t be going anywhere, much less driving to Austin.”

  “Thanks for sharing your unsolicited opinion about that, sweetheart, but I have a gig, and I’m leaving.” He sure as hell wasn’t sticking around now that things had been so clearly muddied up.

  “A gig,” Josh said to Cleo with an amused snort.

  Julian narrowed his eyes but then shook it off. Josh had an irritating habit of never speaking to him directly, but two could play that game, and he ignored the jab.

  “You’re the one who isn’t going anywhere, Big Red. The Dolls are coming in for a recording session. You’re babysitting a gang of naughty boys tonight.”

  Cleo stomped the two steps it took to get in his face. “You said you’d be here for that.”

  “That was before I got sick.” He smiled at Josh for effect and began gathering his things: keys, wallet, and a handful of picks.

  “I’m not ready to be left alone with a band.” Cleo lowered her voice to a whisper. “Also,” she added, “you’re not wearing a shirt. And we have some things to discuss.”

  She was right, he wasn’t. He bounded over to the closet that housed his washer and dryer and grabbed a silver bowling shirt off the rod. But then he changed his mind. He was wearing jeans. Better go with the black martini shirt with the white piping.

  Cleo was wrong. They had nothing to discuss. He slipped the shirt on while she wrung her hands and chewed on her bottom lip. He could practically hear her gears spinning.

  “I’ll stay here and help you,” Josh said.

  “Cleo,” Julian said as he slung his guitar over his back, “please make sure there are no extra people milling about getting in everyone’s way.”

  “Is he saying I can’t stay here with you? Like that’s his business?” Josh asked Cleo.

  Julian stopped at the door with Cleo on his heels. “When I said you need to make sure there aren’t any extra people milling about at the session in the recording studio I own and where I provide you with employment, I meant, for example, if Josh were to ask if he could stay, the answer would be no.”

  Cleo rolled her eyes.

  He leaned over, getting eye to eye. “You’ll be fine. I have complete confidence in you.”

  “Julian,” she whispered, “I don’t know what came over me earlier.”

  “People respond to weirdness with weirdness, that’s all. No worries.” Nothing else explained it.

  “So it was weird then?” She looked worried.

  “In a good way,” he replied. Because he’d enjoyed the fuck out of it. Then, with a quick glance at Josh, he leaned over and kissed her. It was short, sweet, and relatively innocent. But it lit him up all the way to the tips of his toes.

  Cleo stood with mouth agape and eyes wide, completely silent, which was a rare occurrence. He took advantage and made a hasty exit. He licked his lips as the door shut behind him. Tangerines.

  …

  Cleo sat behind the desk in the studio’s foyer. The place sizzled with energy, and none of it was good. The sound engineer had shown up in a drug-induced euphoria and the Dolls were idiots. To top it off, her mind was mush. What had that crazy kiss meant? She’d told Josh it was a British ta-ta for now kind of thing. He hadn’t bought it, and she didn’t know what the kiss meant or why it had happened. Apparently, neither she nor Julian would know an appropriate response to an awkward situation if it walked up and bit them on the ass.

  The sound engineer was laid out on a futon, too fucked-up to work, as Hero, the band’s singer, put it. Hero, a pierced ex-wrestler with anger management issues and a Mohawk, was as empathetic as a louse and would undoubtedly put a hole through the wall if Cleo didn’t get a handle on the situation.

  She called Julian, and he gave her the names and numbers of three other engineers.

  “What do I do with the one who’s here?” she asked. “He just threw up in the lounge.”

  “Tell the boys to keep an eye on him while you try to find a replacement. I’ll call his brother to come and get him. Get the band to start setting up. They’re going to want to stand around and bitch, but make them start on the drums. And I strongly suggest you send any nonessential guys home. They’ll be lucky to get the drum track laid tonight, and it’ll go smoother if you can get rid of some of them.”

  “Who are the nonessential guys?”

  “Anyone who’s standing around bitching instead of setting up.”

  An hour later, Cleo wondered if she should call it quits. No engineers had called back, and the high one hadn’t been picked up.

  “This is the last time we ever record in Julian’s studio,” Hero said. “And it figures his engineer’s a junkie. Some things never change.”

  Her blood boiled. Soundbox was the best studio in town, especially for analog recordings, which in the digital age were an art form in and of themselves. “Well, good luck finding another studio to cut a demo for what Julian’s charging you.” She narrowed her eyes at Hero, knowing Julian was doing it on credit and didn’t even expect to
get paid.

  Hero glared but didn’t challenge her. Maybe she should reschedule the session. She didn’t know how much more of Hero she could take.

  The door buzzed, and her phone rang. She dealt with the door first. “Who is it?” she said into the intercom.

  “It’s Kyle, man. I’m here to haul off my brother.”

  Good. She let him in.

  She grabbed the ringing phone next. It was Ian McConleigh, the first engineer on Julian’s list. Was it possible things were looking up?

  “So he needs me in a pinch,” Ian said. “He should have called me first, but he had to give that addict another chance. Didn’t work out for him, did it?”

  What could she say? Obviously, it hadn’t worked out.

  “Look, I’ve never done this by myself,” she said. “Julian left me to go save the world for what is probably another group of idiots. There’s a big guy with a tattooed face yelling at me. I just cleaned up vomit. I need to pee, but I’m afraid to leave the room. Also, I am not above crying at this point.”

  “Are you threatening me with girl tears?” asked Ian.

  “It’s not a threat.”

  “In that case, I’ll be there in an hour. Can you survive that long?”

  “I’ll try.” After a few more details were exchanged, she hung up, relieved to know help was on the way.

  Meanwhile, the guy she had buzzed in stood at the desk, glowering. He seemed to think it was her fault his brother was a mess. “Well? Where is he?”

  She gave him the evil eye.

  “I’m sorry,” he added, softening his tone. “It’s just that this gets old for me, you know? It’s frustrating. And Julian will never call him again, so he’s blown his last chance.”

  “I’m sure he’ll give him another shot,” she said.

  Kyle looked at her like she was crazy. “No,” he said. “You can’t show up here if you’re on drugs. Julian is hard-core about that.”

  At a loss for words, she merely pointed to the lounge.

  Her phone chimed with a text.

  DID IAN CALL?

  She was about to text back when Hero barked at her. “Well? You gonna sit there and text all night? What the fuck is going on?”

  She’d had her fill of foul-mouthed musicians. “Another engineer is on his way. In the meantime, you can help set up, as I’ve already suggested. Better yet, help Kyle get his brother out of here.”

  To her surprise, Hero did just that. When she buzzed him back in, he was on his phone, laughing.

  “She just let me in. No, man, you know me. I won’t give her a hard time. Thanks, bro.”

  Cleo crossed her arms and stood in front of the desk. Hero put his phone in his pocket, smiling. “That was Julian,” he said.

  “What did he want?”

  “He told me to do what you say and nobody will get hurt.” He snorted. “He didn’t think you were gonna let me back in the studio.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have. Now make yourself useful while we wait for Ian to get here.”

  “Ian McConleigh? Seriously? I hate that dude. He’s a stupid shit,” Hero said.

  “Well, he doesn’t like you, either. At least, I’m assuming that’s what he meant when he called you a dickhead.” The room erupted in laughter as Hero headed toward the drum set, shaking his head.

  When Ian arrived, he had a teenage boy with him. “This is my cousin Collin,” he said.

  Collin didn’t say anything. He just looked around, wide-eyed and starstruck to be in a real recording studio with an actual band.

  Ian and Hero briefly exchanged insults, then got down to work. Collin looked at all the guitars lining the walls. “Where’s the famous one?”

  “The famous what?” she asked.

  “His guitar,” Collin said.

  “He doesn’t keep that thing down here, you goof,” Ian hollered from the board. “I’m sure it’s behind lock and key.”

  Cleo frowned.

  “He’s talking about the Les Paul,” Ian said. “You know, Julian’s guitar.”

  “Julian has approximately twenty bazillion guitars,” she said. “And more than one Les Paul.”

  “He means the white one. Do you think Collin can see it? He’s so disappointed Julian’s not here. It would be great if he could at least see the guitar.”

  She thought she knew which one he meant, a nasty old thing Julian dragged out a lot. It was one of his three main squeezes.

  “Is it kind of banged up?” she asked.

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Do you mind letting him see it?”

  She thought for a moment. She wasn’t comfortable letting this Collin kid up in Julian’s loft. But she could bring the guitar down. “I don’t see what it’ll hurt, but you have to promise not to touch it, okay?”

  The kid grinned from ear to ear. “I promise,” he said.

  Cleo brought the guitar down and set it in front of Collin. It didn’t look like anything special to her. In fact, she wanted to take a rag to it. But Collin was tickled to death.

  “Can you get a picture of me with it?” he asked.

  “Sure. Squat down.”

  Collin handed her his phone and knelt next to the guitar as if he were in church. Then he smoothed his hair back and smiled for the photo. Cleo was sure as hell going to ask Julian about the guitar when he got home. This kid acted like it had belonged to Kurt Cobain.

  With more reverence than she’d brought it down with, Cleo hauled Julian’s white Les Paul back up to the loft. And although she’d found it on his bed, she decided to put it in his walk-in closet for safekeeping.

  She stepped into the spacious, cedar-lined room and quashed a brief wave of closet envy. It smelled like cedar and that special scent that was pure Julian. She inhaled deeply, clutching the guitar to her chest. Did Josh have a scent? She’d never noticed anything beyond his cologne, which was a tad heavy.

  Holding the guitar, she snooped through Julian’s clothes. He had snazzy rags and plenty of them. Plaid shirts, western shirts, and dress shirts hung on one rod, long-sleeved together, short-sleeved together, sorted by color. Tons of T-shirts folded neatly in celled blocks lined an entire wall. She squinted at the shelves. Good grief, they were labeled. It was like the Dewey decimal system for T-shirts.

  She picked the nearest shelf, marked F Concerts, and pulled out a Flaming Lips T-shirt, followed by Flock of Seagulls and Foo Fighters. She laughed out loud. Nobody could accuse Julian of having limited musical tastes.

  Her fingers trailed over his vintage jackets and blazers, feeling wool, polyester, and silk. She wrinkled her nose at a seersucker jacket and dropped her jaw when she came across rhinestones. With a roll of her eyes and a shake of her head, she pushed aside a row of perfectly creased slacks in order to rest the guitar in a corner. An old Rock ’n’ Spin cover leaned against the wall. It was framed and enlarged and featured the guitarist from the band Slice. One just like it had hung in the Rock ’n’ Spin lobby.

  She squinted to get a better look, then her eyes flew open wide, and the spacious closet seemed to shrink until she couldn’t breathe. She steadied herself, dragged the poster out, and plopped it on the bed for a better look. He was younger and looked completely different—long, matted hair and pale, thin face—but it was Julian!

  She was such an idiot. Did everybody know but her? Did everybody know that Julian Wheaton was actually Julian Lazros of Slice?

  He must be having a good laugh at her expense. She’d worked at Rock ’n’ Spin—the hub of the rock-and-roll world—and hadn’t recognized a guitar legend when she was freaking living with him. She smacked her hand over her eyes and threw herself on the bed next to the poster. He and Addie shared the same last name but had different fathers. That was a clue that had flown right past her. Along with a million others.

  Had this been a game to see how long it took for her to figure it out? Or was she just that insignificant to him?

  She sat up and looked at the poster again, pressing her fingers against the cool
glass. No tattoos adorned his outstretched arms. His arms. The rumor was the magazine had airbrushed over the track marks. Julian Lazros had been a heroin addict. She shivered.

  Maybe this was a weird coincidence. She looked closer. Nope. Low on his hips hung that nasty guitar, the same banged-up Les Paul she’d just placed in the closet.

  She hadn’t been a Slice fan, but everyone had heard of Julian. He’d been a tabloid favorite, a young English virtuoso who’d rocketed an American band to the top of the charts, and a hellion to boot. There’d been fights, arrests, and infamous court-ordered stints in rehab before the band finally kicked him out for good.

  She’d never once wondered what happened to Julian Lazros.

  After quickly checking on Ian, she sat at the studio’s desk and got online. The live concert video of “Trap Me” was the first one she watched. Julian would have been sixteen, a child compared to his bandmates. Fans screamed, cried, and chanted his name. He was drenched in sweat, wailing on the Les Paul while Mitch Landrum competed for volume with a rough, jagged voice. Mitch Landrum—she’d mentioned meeting him, and Julian had said nothing!

  She spent the rest of the evening babysitting the Dolls, watching Slice videos, and digging up dirt on the ghost of a boy she didn’t know. In some performances, he was a brilliant young musician; in others, he was staggering, incoherent, and obscene. She watched and read some things that made her blush and some that made her laugh. But one piece in the L.A. Times made her cry.

  “…was found by his sister, Adelaide Wheaton, with wrists slit…twenty years old…”

  On top of the shock, she felt a tremendous amount of guilt, as if she’d read his diary. Her stomach grumbled and lurched, its usual reaction to stress and turmoil. She leaned over the desk and rested her head on her arms.

  “Cleo,” Ian said as he came out of the studio. “You feeling okay?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “We’re almost done. Why don’t you go on upstairs? I’ll buzz the intercom if we need you, but the guys are about to start packing up.”

  It was almost three o’clock in the morning, and Julian should be back from Austin soon. Her stomach flip-flopped at the thought.

  “If you’re sure you don’t mind?”