Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  “Not at all. Collin gave up the fight about an hour ago—he’s asleep in the lounge. Thanks for getting that guitar down for him.”

  “He’s a big Slice fan?”

  She hoped Ian would be confused and say, Slice? Julian was never in Slice.

  “He sure is. He thinks it’s classic rock. Makes me feel old,” Ian said with a shake of his head.

  Chapter Nine

  Cleo awoke to the smell of coffee and the realization she’d never made it to her own bed. She’d fallen asleep on Julian’s couch, listening for the guys to buzz her. They hadn’t, and she’d slept like the dead, or like someone in shock after finding out a friend wasn’t who he claimed to be. A soft blanket covered her, although she had no recollection of Julian coming home, much less tucking her in.

  Someone clanked around in the kitchen. She really wanted some coffee, but she’d slept in her clothes, her breath was horrid, and that was a stranger in there. Not the Julian Wheaton she’d thought she knew.

  Sitting up, she peered over the back of the couch. He stood at the stove with his back to her, cracking eggs into a bowl. His hair was caught up in a short, stubby ponytail, but a good bit of it had escaped the hair band and bounced against his neck as he worked.

  “I feel someone staring at me,” he said. He turned and tossed her a smile too dazzling for anybody who’d come in so late the previous night.

  Now that she knew, she couldn’t miss it. He was Julian Lazros.

  And he was shirtless. Her eyes drifted to his white linen pajama bottoms, the ones with the elastic waistband so worn and tired it was rendered practically useless.

  “Late night, right?” he said. “Sorry about that. I was trying to help out a friend—shouldn’t have. But at least Ian rode in to rescue my damsel in distress.”

  Blushing, she stood and pulled her attention from his slipping waistband. Avoiding his eyes, she homed in on the coffeepot. Julian followed her gaze and reached behind to grab a mug off the counter.

  “I’m making you an omelet to express my gratitude,” he said. “I’m talking eggs, cheese, and other animal-based contaminants from your side of the fridge.” He held out the mug. “I touched it with my bare fingers.” He shivered dramatically, and Cleo almost laughed as she padded toward him.

  “Did something happen?” he asked, as she took the mug and filled it. “I mean, the guys didn’t hurt your feelings or anything, did they? You’re being awful quiet.”

  “No, nothing happened. I’m just tired.”

  Julian hesitated, as if he were about to say something and then thought better of it. He went back to work, whisking the eggs with a fork. The muscles in his tattooed arms and upper back flexed, and his pajama bottoms slipped lower with every whisk.

  “You want to tell me what you were doing in my closet?”

  She burned her mouth and throat with a huge swallow of coffee. “Huh?”

  He lifted and rotated the pan, coating it with eggs before placing it back on the burner, and turned down the flame. “I mean, not that I care all that much,” he said, turning to face her, “but you messed up my T-shirts. And you left a poster on my bed. One of the reasons I like things where they belong is so I don’t sit on them in the dark and break them with my ass. I have glass shards embedded in my skin.”

  She set her mug down. “Sorry. I was putting your guitar away and—”

  “What were you doing with my guitar?”

  “A kid wanted to see it, and—”

  “A kid wanted to see my guitar? Which guitar? Where is it now?”

  “Good grief, Julian! The ugly white one, but that’s hardly the point. The point is—”

  “Hardly the point? You think you can just blatantly walk around getting into my shit and hauling it out for kids to look at? And then you don’t even put it back where it belongs?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was that special to you. It looks like any other guitar—worse, actually—and you have plenty.”

  His jaw clenched, and she knew she’d said something terribly wrong. “That ugly guitar was the only thing that kept me alive once. It means everything to me.”

  Was that how this was going to go? He was going to be pissy over a stupid guitar and pretend she hadn’t made the biggest discovery of a lifetime? “I didn’t even know who you were,” she yelled.

  “What are you talking about?” he yelled back.

  “Oh my God, are you kidding me? The poster? Hello! You’re Julian Lazros.”

  “Oh, that.” He turned back around. “Fuck. Your stupid omelet is ruined.”

  “That’s all you have to say? You can’t possibly tell me it’s not a big deal that you’re not who you’ve been pretending to be. You can’t possibly tell me your precious guitar being looked at, and, oh my God, touched, and, oh, dear, not put back in its proper place, is a bigger deal than me being intentionally misled and lied to.”

  He spun back so quickly she flinched. “It’s my favorite guitar!”

  His pajama bottoms had fallen alarmingly low, exposing the delicious V that led straight to the goods. It made it hard to concentrate.

  “Got nothing to say for yourself, have you?”

  She forced herself back on track. “How would you feel if I had been lying to you about who I was?”

  “My God, Cleo. We’re talking about more than a decade ago. I have no idea who you were or what you were doing fifteen years ago. Nor do I care…oh, wait a minute.” He held a finger up and looked into the distance as if he were thinking. “Actually, fifteen years ago, you were a teenage girl trying to fuck rock stars.” He reached behind him and grabbed the skillet, tossing it into the sink with a horrible clatter. “So, I guess you haven’t changed all that much.”

  It was like a punch to the stomach. All the air escaped her lungs, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get it back. He walked past her, adding, “As your mum would say, close your mouth, dear. It’s unattractive.”

  ...

  Julian plugged in a guitar and sat on his bed. If he didn’t play, he would burst into a million pieces. He’d been a total shit for talking to Cleo like that, but she didn’t seem to care or understand how important his guitar was to him. And he didn’t like having his past thrown in his face. It was none of her business. He had kind of deceived her, or at least kept quiet about his past, and she had every right to be surprised. But to be so hysterical about it? And so seemingly hurt by it? Women were fucking insane.

  He’d opened up to her in ways he never had with anyone else. And yet, the depth of their friendship was measured by how much of his lame-ass rock star past he’d revealed or not revealed. She was hurt? He was hurt.

  He tried to play a few licks but couldn’t focus. The perfect storm was brewing. He’d had little sleep, and he’d experienced more emotional upset in the past twenty-four hours than he’d suffered in the previous six months. He sat on the bed and held his head.

  The buzzing began.

  Shit. Could it happen twice in as many days? The colors quickly ran together, forming a wall of brown sludge. The sense of dread he always associated with a synesthesia episode washed over him.

  The sludge would drown him. It would pour down his throat, into his lungs, and he’d die.

  Logically, he knew it wasn’t possible. But logic didn’t play into this. He held his breath. If only he could call Addie. She always kept him from sliding into the darkest depths of it. But she’d chosen Mitch over him.

  He took a breath and choked.

  This was all Cleo’s fault. Cleo and her snooping and silky hair and soft breasts. He took another breath…and smelled tangerines. At just the thought of her. The colors separated like a drop of water hitting the surface of an oily puddle.

  He grabbed his phone and texted: HELP ME.

  Cleo burst into the room less than a minute later. “What’s wrong?”

  The sound of her voice was orange—angry, so it had red hues, but still a brilliant orange. He focused on it, letting all the oth
er colors fade into the background. He could breathe when he did that. He held out a shaking hand. “Come here.”

  “You’re scaring me,” she said.

  “Hold me.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Please,” he whispered. “I need you.”

  She climbed on the bed and wrapped her arms around him.

  “Now sing,” he said. “Or hum.”

  “I’m not going to do that.”

  “I need your voice.”

  She started a childish tune…this old man, he played one…and Julian clung to the color of it for all he was worth.

  Minutes later, Julian sipped water while Cleo bitched. She’d pulled him out so easily. And she had no idea what she’d done.

  “And for your information,” she rattled on, “I didn’t even know you were a rock star, which is what we were fighting about.”

  “We were fighting over you carelessly dragging my guitar around,” he reminded her. He tried to hide his smile as her curls trembled with a wave of rage.

  “As I was saying,” she continued, barely moving her luscious lips and glaring at him. “I didn’t even know you were a rock star, so it was completely stupid of you to say I’m just out to”—she glanced away, and her cheeks flushed brilliantly—“pardon me, fuck rock stars.”

  Ah. It killed her to say the word “fuck.” He loved it. “I wasn’t talking about me,” he said, grinning.

  “Then who?”

  “Lou Michaels.”

  “Lou?” she stammered. “What are you talking about?”

  “Please, love. I saw the picture.”

  It was a huge mistake, and he knew it as soon as he’d said it.

  “Are you talking about the one in my nightstand drawer?”

  Her eyebrows were arched to ridiculous heights. He tried changing the subject. “I’m feeling better now. I’d like to take a nap.”

  “I don’t think so, buddy. You were rummaging in my drawer.”

  “It was more like poking. I was poking in your drawer.” He was tempted to tell her to shut her mouth again but figured he’d better not risk it.

  She made several idiotic attempts at speech before sputtering, “Do you know what I think?”

  He had no clue, so he shook his head.

  “I think we’re even. At least, we should be in your twisted mind. I was in your closet, and you were in my nightstand drawer. So, let’s put that part of this to rest. But the other part…”

  “Look, Red,” he said. “I wasn’t keeping anything from you that I felt was important. That’s the truth.” Taking her hands in his, he looked into her eyes. “I’ve shared everything with you. Don’t tell me you don’t know who I am because of a dumb poster that represents the smallest, worst parts of me. I’ve trusted you with who I am.”

  Nobody had ever been able to hold on to him the way she’d done. She’d reached into the deepest part of him, grabbed a handful of his soul, and saved him. She knew him better than anyone ever had.

  She turned his hands over and ran her fingers across the tattoos at his wrists. He knew what she was searching for, and her breath caught when she found it. A lump rose in his throat when she lowered her head and delivered a soft kiss on the raised scars across each wrist.

  When her eyes met his again, they were filled with tears. “Why?”

  He pulled his hands gently away and tried to shrug. He’d bared enough already. “Shall I have another go at that omelet?”

  Julian knocked softly on Cleo’s door. She might be napping, and if that was the case, he didn’t want to wake her. The Dolls were coming back in a couple of hours to finish their session. It would probably be another late night.

  “Come in,” she said.

  She was curled up on her love seat, hair damp from a shower.

  “I’ve brought someone for you to meet,” he said.

  Cleo stood and crossed her arms in front of her breasts. “Wait, I’m not dressed—”

  “We don’t mind,” he said, casually strolling in. She looked ready to make a run for it. “Hold on, it’s just me and my guitar.”

  She rolled her eyes and plopped back down. “You had me in fight-or-flight mode.”

  “I know,” he said, smiling. “That was my intention.” He set a small amp on the floor next to the love seat. “Scoot.”

  Cleo moved over to make room, and he sat. She leaned back, not the least bit uncomfortable with him seeing her in a worn pair of pajama shorts and a camisole top so thin you could almost see through it. Actually, you could see through it. He cleared his throat and tried to appear as if he weren’t staring at her breasts, which was hard, because he was.

  “You’re ridiculous,” she said. “And so is that guitar.”

  He forced his eyes away from the outline of a nipple back to her face. “No need to be jealous, Lava Locks. It’s not a woman. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s distinctly male.”

  “Of course it is. It’s a phallic symbol with strings. Does it have a name?”

  He laughed. “No name. Our relationship transcends the need for such things.”

  She rolled her eyes, but they were keenly alert. He knew she was interested in hearing the story. It was a tough one to tell, but in light of her recent frustration over not knowing every single detail of his past, he’d decided to tell it.

  She pulled up her legs and settled back against the armrest as if awaiting a bedtime story.

  “My dad—well, actually Addie’s dad, Paul Wheaton—bought this guitar for me when I was eight years old. It was a consolation prize for taking Addie away from me. He’d remarried, and Addie was going to live with him. He offered to take me, too, but Mum wouldn’t let him. I was garnering attention with the violin, and she loved it. She also loved gin and vodka, but that’s another story.”

  Cleo’s mouth opened briefly, but she shut it. She furrowed those brows, though, and crossed her arms in front of her chest.

  “And I changed my name to Wheaton, with Paul’s blessing, in my midtwenties. So, I never lied to you about my name. Julian Andrew Wheaton is my legal name. I’ve only met my birth father two times, didn’t see the need to keep his name.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It doesn’t sound like you had much going on in the parenting department.”

  “It wasn’t that bad. At least I had my guitar when Addie left. For a long time, it was the only friend I had. And for a short while, it was the only possession I had. Because when I was twenty-two, a couple of years after I’d been kicked out of the band, I sold everything I owned, except for this”—he held up the guitar—“in order to buy drugs.”

  “You don’t have to talk about this with me. You’re right. Who you were isn’t who you are now. I don’t need to know everything.”

  He suppressed a grin. If he walked out right now, she’d pop an aneurysm. “Shut up, Big Red. You’re dying for the details.”

  She frowned but didn’t deny it.

  “My years in Slice were hell. I wasn’t mature enough for the stress of being in a band, much less a successful one. The constant touring, the ego wars…it exhausted the shit out of me. Playing guitar helps the synesthesia because I can control the colors, but doing it in front of tens of thousands of people is another story. One guitar can’t cancel out the roar of a crowd, and I barely held it together on stage. I began having more and more debilitating episodes, so many the band was crippled with cancellations. But then I found a magic cure.”

  “You did?” She looked up at him, her eyes full of hope.

  “Heroin.”

  Her face fell. “Sorry. I’m stupid.”

  “You’re just innocent. Anyway, heroin stopped the episodes cold.”

  He longed to tell her that her voice, or lately, even the thought of her, had the same miraculous effect. But instead, he continued his tale. “Soon, I not only loved heroin, I needed it. I went from being a functioning junkie to a nonfunctioning junkie pretty quickly, and Mitch—he was all heart, you see—kicked me out. It was
especially shitty of him, since he was the one who turned me onto it in the first place.”

  Cleo gasped.

  “Not you, too,” he said. “What is it with women thinking Mitch is an angel?”

  “I’m just surprised, is all.” She reached out and laced her fingers through his. Warmth descended like honey, settling in his groin.

  “Nobody helped you? Where was Addie?”

  He gently removed his hand from hers so he could concentrate on his story. “Addie tried to help, believe me. But I wouldn’t let her because accepting help meant giving up the drugs. I had a ton of money and wasn’t ready to do that. The money, by the way, was completely gone in months.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Habits are expensive. Anyway, soon I’d sold everything, all my other guitars and instruments. Every piece of furniture, the gold records on my walls, the Grammys on the mantle, the toaster, the fish aquarium—you get the idea. All gone. Eventually, I was evicted, so I walked the streets with this guitar strapped to my back, looking for my next score. Sometimes, I played on the corner, with no amp, mind you, and people tossed me money out of pity.”

  Her hand moved toward his again. Pretending not to notice, he shoved his fingers in his pocket. “So, one evening I was walking down the street, freshly released from rehab and already scheming on my next fix and how to get it.”

  “Rehab didn’t help you?”

  “You have to want to get better, and what I wanted…” He stopped. What he’d wanted was to die, and he’d been pissed that he hadn’t managed to pull it off.

  Too intuitive for her own good, Cleo gently pried his hand from his pocket and ran her fingers over the raised scar at his wrist. He wasn’t ready to reopen that wound, and he pulled his hand away.

  Cleo got the message. She leaned back, digging her bare toes into the couch cushion beneath his thigh. Thus anchored, she looked deeply at him through shiny green eyes and waited for him to continue.

  “The only thing I had left was slung across my back. There was a dealer on the corner. Knowing desperation when he saw it, he lit up at the sight of me. He was about to give me a twenty-five-dollar rock—um, that’s crack, by the way—for a four-thousand-dollar guitar.”