Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  From the shocked look on her face, he doubted any of Cleo’s previous or current friends or acquaintances had ever bought crack. “I had one hand on the rock and one hand on my guitar, and I just froze. I couldn’t let go of it.” He ran his fingers along the body of the Les Paul.

  “Now, the kid had his heart set on the deal, and he wasn’t going to let me off so easily. About fifteen minutes after I walked off, he and some pals jumped me and damn near killed me. I woke up with a smashed-in face, a broken arm, and no guitar.”

  Cleo made a small, strangled sound, as if she was trying very hard not to cry and was losing the battle. He didn’t do well with crying women. “Hush, sweetheart. You’re stealing my thunder.”

  She pulled it together, and he reached out and touched her cheek. “This might be a spoiler, but I promise you I lived happily ever after.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and continued. “By some miracle, I still had all my teeth, but no guitar.”

  “How’d you get it back?” she asked.

  “I was in hospital because of my injuries. The day I got out, I was walking down Sunset, thinking about how things really hadn’t changed for me all that much, and already eyeing the street corners.

  “I walked past a pawnshop window, and there it was—my Les Paul. I fell to my knees on the sidewalk. The shop owner recognized me and came out. I made quite the scene, if I remember correctly. People were gathering around, starting to enjoy the show, you know? Then this homeless guy reaches in his pocket and pulls out a dollar. He handed it to the shop owner, and then everybody started pulling out money. It was crazy. Before I knew it, the guitar was in my hands, and I took that shit as a sign. I checked back into rehab, worked my ass off to get clean, and I’ve been clean ever since. And I rarely let this guitar out of my sight.”

  “Oh, Julian, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so careless with it.”

  She got it. And he wanted to kiss her. Like, he really wanted to kiss her. “You didn’t know. I was a prick. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  “Are you going to play it for me or what?” she asked between sniffles.

  He stood and strummed the first chord. The music entered through his chest like a fist. He played it back out, sending it into Cleo in deep reds and browns, warm and smoky, like the hues of Eric Clapton.

  Her eyes drifted shut with a sigh. He smiled at how easily she was swept away.

  He built the intensity slowly through rhythm and volume, putting a knee on the love seat and lowering himself gradually until he sat. Cleo pulled her feet in to give him more room as he held out a warm note, and he watched her sink beneath its weight.

  He dropped the notes lower on the scale and picked out an intricate melody that floated down and hovered in the air above her head, misty swirls of purple and red. As the notes drifted lower on the scale, his eyes drifted lower on Cleo.

  Her hard nipples poked through her camisole. Instinctively, he tickled the strings with the tips of his fingers, watching in unbelievable awe as the perfect nubs beneath the thin blue fabric became even harder. Licking his lips, he played a pink note, wondering if those delicate delights stretching the fabric of the camisole were the color of cotton candy, or slightly lower on the subtle chromatic scale, like the juicy flesh of ripe peaches. His mouth watered.

  He played down even lower, noticing the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. Her knees parted a little, then a little more, as she leaned one leg against the back of the couch. With the neck of his guitar, he gently applied pressure to the inside of the other knee. Meeting no resistance, he pushed harder, and her legs opened wider. Her eyes were still closed, like she was in a hypnotic trance. The jewel-colored tones poured out of the Les Paul and surrounded her, shimmering and trembling like an orgasmic aura. Could she feel what he was seeing? He strummed faster, blurring the lines between making music and making love, and dropped the neck of the guitar so that it slid up the inside of her thigh. The back of his hand brushed her skin.

  A low note seeped out of the guitar, becoming one with a soft moan that came from Cleo’s lips. He shook the neck slightly, producing an aching vibrato. Cleo shone with a light sheen of sweat, and her cheeks were flushed. He brushed his knuckles across the sweet spot between her legs and watched in wonder as she arched her back, letting her head fall over the armrest of the love seat. He couldn’t believe it. One more note and she was going over the edge. He wanted to send her over the edge. “Come on, baby—”

  At the sound of his voice, everything came to a crashing halt. Cleo’s eyes flew open, and her legs snapped shut.

  He quit playing, and silence filled the room. Why had he opened his stupid mouth? She sat up and glared at him with the outrage of a woman who’d just had her ass pinched in a bar. Not exactly the climax he’d hoped for.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, feigning innocence and trying not to look postcoital.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “What?”

  “What you just did. What were you doing?”

  “I was playing guitar is all.”

  “Ha!”

  “Well, actually I thought I was playing guitar, but baby”—he smiled and added in a low voice—“I think the guitar played you.”

  Cleo didn’t fall for it. She stood and pointed to the door. “I don’t get played,” she said. “Not by a guy and not by a stupid guitar.”

  He stood, picked up his amp, and headed out. But before Cleo could kick the door shut behind him, he replied, “Oh, but I think you just did, Big Red. And I think you liked it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Julian appeared completely relaxed. He wore an easy smile, his ankles were crossed as he leaned against the counter, and he flirted mindlessly with the hotel clerk. But Cleo noticed his fingers in his pocket, fiddling with those picks. He wasn’t as relaxed as he appeared.

  The desk clerk clicked away on her keyboard as if she were writing a dissertation rather than checking for vacancies. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wheaton, but there are no other rooms available.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked. “Don’t you have some sort of presidential suite you could upgrade us to? I don’t care how much it costs.”

  Cleo rolled her eyes. Money was no object when it came to getting away from her.

  “No, sir, all of our suites are booked. I’m so sorry, but Utopia Records only requested one room.” Glancing at Cleo, she lowered her voice. “Would you like us to send up a rollaway?”

  “By all means,” Cleo interjected. “I don’t want to be responsible for the deflowering of Mr. Wheaton here.”

  “No, we can’t have that,” Julian said, smiling. “I’m as pure as the newly driven snow.”

  The clerk gave Julian an inviting gaze that was anything but pure and probably against hotel policy. Good grief. Cleo stomped off to the elevators, arriving in time to squeeze in with a family wearing mouse ears. Julian came around the corner just as the doors slid shut.

  He was being such a baby about the room. They’d shared a bed before without incident. But ever since he’d played that stupid Les Paul for her, he seemed convinced she’d have an orgasm if he so much as looked at her. And she had not had an orgasm when he’d played. Maybe she had felt a small pre-orgasmic twitch when his hand brushed her, but luckily, she’d snapped out of it just in time.

  She shivered a little. Because it was chilly.

  “What floor?”

  “What?” Everyone in the elevator stared at her, especially the guy in the corner with his finger poised over the button panel. “Three, I guess.”

  She had no idea where their room was or what floor it was on. That explained the stupid smile she’d seen on Julian’s face as the elevator doors closed.

  Cleo got off a few seconds later and plopped down in a comfy chair by a window. Her odds of saving face were slim.

  Outside the window, the California palm trees swayed in the breeze. Houses terraced a hillside in the distance, dotting the landscape with orange and red terra-cotta
rectangles. She put her fingertips on the glass. It looked sunny and hot, just like home. But the radio in the shuttle had said it was a cool and refreshing sixty-six degrees. San Antonio was still pushing upward of ninety-five, and she preferred the Los Angeles version of October.

  According to the clock above the elevator, it was time to get ready for the Dead Ringer release party. Julian hadn’t wanted to come, but he had. And she knew it was only to keep an eye on her.

  Having learned her rock star lessons the hard way, she didn’t need Julian to watch out for her. The only idiot with a guitar she was falling for was him. And he wasn’t like the other idiots. This was a different deal. For one thing, he wasn’t a rock star. He was an artist, a musician, and a studio owner, but he was not an egotistical, maniacal, posing faker of a rock star. He was real. And her feelings for him went way beyond her usual obsessive crushes. For the first time in her life, she thought she really might be falling in love.

  Her phone rang, startling her out of her thoughts. “Hello, love,” Julian said. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “I’m exploring the hotel.”

  “Lovely, isn’t it? You should see the room. Wait, you can’t. You don’t know where it is.”

  “You’re a hoot.”

  “We’re in 512. Don’t be intimidated by the king-size bed. They’re bringing up a rollaway for you.”

  “I’m sleeping in the bed. You can have the rollaway if you’re that scared of me.”

  “I’m fucking terrified of you, but since the room is in my name, I get the bed. You’re technically my guest.”

  “I received my own invitation to this affair, so if I’m anybody’s guest, it’s Cory Maxwell’s. Maybe I should see what kind of bed he has in his room.”

  Julian stuttered a little before saying, “Fine. You get the bed. And stay away from Maxwell.”

  “Maybe I will, and maybe I won’t.”

  She hung up, feeling smug. She had no interest in Cory. But she didn’t mind Julian thinking she might. Because instinct told her if he suspected how she felt about him, he’d jump right over the rollaway and hurl himself out the window.

  ...

  The familiar Los Angeles landscape rushed by. Julian hated limos and hadn’t expected Utopia Records to send one to the hotel. He’d have sent the ridiculous thing back, but Cleo would have been devastated. She was messing with the sunroof controls, as thrilled as a teenager heading to her prom.

  He took a deep, cleansing breath. He didn’t like going to large studio parties and never would have attended this one were it not for the redhead bouncing on the seat next to him. She’d made it clear she was going, with or without him. And after the picture he’d seen in her nightstand, and the incident with his guitar, there was no way in hell he was letting her walk into a nest of guitar-wielding demons unprotected. Some women were crazy for rock stars, and Cleo was one of them.

  She fidgeted next to him. “What time is your appointment tomorrow?”

  That was the other thing he was nervous about. “It’s at ten, and you can come if you want, although it won’t be fun. I’m going to be hooked up to electrodes and EEG machines all morning. And probably for nothing.”

  “Won’t it be wonderful if it works?”

  It would, but he couldn’t let himself think about it for fear of disappointment. Over the years, he’d taken countless medications, some of which had helped him control his synesthesia to a certain extent, but all of which had taken dire tolls. He always had to give something up—his creativity, his libido—it was never an equal trade. He’d quit trying new ones several years ago. But last week, a psychologist he’d worked with in the past called him about a biofeedback program. It sounded like New Age mumbo jumbo, but the clinic was in Los Angeles and so was he. He had nothing to lose.

  “I haven’t been in a limo since my uncle’s funeral,” Cleo said. “And it wasn’t this nice.” She reached over and turned up the music.

  “Really? No disco ball in the funeral limo?”

  She made a weak attempt at kicking him with a chocolate-brown lace-up boot. When she’d asked what people wore to big studio release parties, he’d replied they wore a little of everything. So, she’d thrown on a little of everything.

  A cinnamon-colored, silky, strapless dress was cinched at her waist by a western-style belt with a silver and turquoise buckle. The color was pretty on her, and the style showed off her curves. Turquoise also dotted her ears, neck, and fingers. Somehow, she’d managed to look incredibly L.A. chic without even trying. That was good. Because she sometimes seemed to dress herself by spinning through her closet like a tornado and going with whatever stuck.

  He threw his arm across the back of the seat, catching some of her hair. She’d ironed it straight. It was sexy as hell, but he missed the curls. “Sorry,” he said, raising his arm and gently lifting the glossy auburn curtain to drape across her shoulder. It slipped heavily through his fingers like liquid fire. “We’ll be there soon,” he said, resettling his arm on the back of the seat.

  Cleo’s outfit had dictated what he wore, and it had been a no-brainer. He’d chosen a 1968 western suit snagged from Threadbare Vintage. It was coffee brown with black piping along the collar and a fancy yoke on the back. The pants were slim and snug, a nice fit. He’d paired the suit with a black silk shirt and bolo tie that almost perfectly matched Cleo’s belt buckle. His hair was pulled back with a leather strap, and silver loops dangled from his ears. If he and Cleo had their picture snapped, they would make a striking pair. He’d mentioned that to her, and she’d squealed with delight. The idea of being identified as his gal pal apparently held infinite appeal for her.

  “I’m excited about meeting Cory Maxwell,” she said, cutting into his thoughts. “I hope I don’t make a fool out of myself. Sometimes I get a bit starstruck.”

  “Cory Maxwell,” he said. The name left a bitter taste on his tongue. He couldn’t let Cleo get caught up in Cory’s clutches tonight. “Try not to have an orgasm when you see him, and you should be fine.”

  Cleo’s mouth fell open. “You were waiting for the perfect time to bring that up, weren’t you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Right. You set me up with that stupid guitar. And for your information, I did not have an orgasm. You’d have to work a lot harder than that, buddy.” She scooted away, crossed her arms over her chest, and took to huffing and puffing.

  “It was an expression, love. No need to get excited and build this to a climax.”

  The pain of her elbow in his ribs put an immediate end to his teasing. Harassing her was fun. She turned interesting colors when she was embarrassed or furious, and usually, those two emotions rolled out together.

  “You give me chills when you play guitar,” she said, turning suddenly serious and thoughtful.

  “Come again?” He couldn’t resist.

  She sighed, and he feared another elbow jab. “You heard me,” she said. She looked out the window, and her voice grew softer. “Sometimes, when I watch you play, I lose you for a moment, like you disappear in the music. You become the music. But then you look at me or flip your hair out of your eyes, and I see you again. I love it when that happens.” She rubbed her hands up and down on her arms as if she had goose bumps.

  What could he say? The woman was nuts for a guy with a guitar. Luckily, he had several. “I really like you, too,” he blurted.

  He cringed. He’d managed to sound like a six-year-old boy talking to a little girl on the playground. She laughed at the awkward sentiment. “Of course you like me. I’m extremely likable.”

  The driver announced they were almost there, and their B-list status was confirmed when he offered to let them out on the curb. They were still half a block from their destination.

  “Let’s go, Big Red,” he said, taking her hand as she exited the vehicle like a pro. Two guys on the sidewalk did an immediate double take as she straightened her dress.

  “Are you sure I look a
ll right?”

  “You’ll do,” he said, grinning like a fox.

  ...

  They were swarmed by people the moment they entered the party, and although Julian did his best to keep introductions flowing, it was obvious to Cleo that he didn’t know the names of half of the people clamoring for his attention. At least her concerns about standing out and drawing unwanted attention to herself were alleviated. She was, in effect, invisible. All eyes were on Julian.

  “No fucking way,” boomed a voice from across the room. Cleo’s stomach lurched. She knew that voice.

  “Julian Lazros. I don’t believe it.”

  Lou Michaels moved toward them through the crowd. Of course Julian knew Lou. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? More importantly, where could she hide?

  Lou smothered Julian in a bear hug, and Cleo tried her best to disappear. But Lou spotted her. The shocked blankness on his face quickly shifted to a sneer of contempt.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, Cleo.”

  “Hi,” she squeaked.

  “She’s here with me,” Julian said.

  Lou faltered for a moment, but then delivered an icy kiss to her cheek. “I had no idea you two were an item.”

  “She works for me is all.”

  Lou seemed to wrap his mind around that. “I see. She used to work for me, you know.”

  Cleo cringed. She was certain Julian didn’t miss the implication, but his face gave nothing away. He was good at impassive.

  Lou looked across the room, pretending to be beckoned. With an apologetic smile, he excused himself.

  “Wee bit awkward,” Julian said, grinning as he watched him go.

  Someone tapped her shoulder. “Cleo?”

  It was Zachary Sims, the guitarist for Stalemate. She’d met him through Lou, and they’d had a whirlwind rebound romance for about two months before she’d realized there were three other women going around the whirlwind with them.

  “Hey, Zachary,” she said. “It’s so good to see you.”

  That was a lie. He was an ass. To prove it, his eyes took the creepy scenic route over her body, and the gleam in them left no doubt that he remembered every curve of the road in detail. “You look hot.”