Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  Julian cleared his throat. Zachary looked up, and his jaw dropped. “Are you—I mean—are you who I think you are?”

  “I’m Julian.” He held out his hand, and Zachary pumped it furiously.

  “Oh, fuck. Dude, you’re, like, my idol.” He let go of Julian’s hand and began a flurry of not-worthy bows.

  Julian shook his head and took a step back, as if mortified. He looked at Cleo. Get me out of here.

  “Oh, look,” Cleo said. “There’s Slash.”

  “Where?” Zachary asked, eyes frantically scanning the room.

  Cleo pointed to the left. “He went thataway.”

  She giggled as Zachary took off like a preteen girl in pursuit of the latest boy band.

  “Slash isn’t here,” Julian said.

  “I know.” Cleo grabbed Julian’s arm and headed in the other direction. “But looking for him will keep Zachary occupied for a while. He’s a Slash fanatic. No offense, big shot, but during the time we dated he never mentioned you.”

  Julian froze in his tracks. “You dated him, too?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “You should stay away from rock stars.”

  “Even you?” she teased.

  “Especially me.”

  She smiled and waved a hand in the direction where Lou and Zachary had disappeared. “You’re not in their league, believe me. You’re way too—”

  “Gotta go,” he said. “I promised publicity photos.” Without so much as a good-bye, he turned and headed toward the flashes.

  That was weird. And she hadn’t even gotten to finish complimenting him. Abandoned in a crowded room, she initiated her emergency plan and made a beeline for the bar, where people were stacked three deep. Standing on her toes, she waved her hand in the air to get the bartender’s attention, but to no avail. He was probably too mesmerized by the endless Silicone Valley of boobs to notice her. Just as she was about to give up, a warm hand pressed against the small of her back. She turned and came face-to-face with Cory Maxwell.

  “You must be the fabulous Cleo,” he said.

  She stared into those famous blue eyes, or at least the one that wasn’t covered by a splash of blond hair, and couldn’t think of a single thing to say. The silence grew like a gigantic helium balloon, and that only led to one thing: a gushing of hot air.

  “Wow! You’re Cory. I knew that immediately. I’m Cleo, but you already knew that. How did you know that, by the way?” She held out her hand, but as he was about to take it, she jerked it back and wiped it on her dress, in case it was sweaty. Then she held it out again. “That was weird. Sorry.”

  Cory stared at her like she was a performance artist. She dropped her hand, but he quickly reached out and brought it to his lips. “It’s a pleasure, Cleo.”

  “Seriously, how did you know who I was?”

  “I saw you walk in with Julian, drew some conclusions,” he said with a smile. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Sure, that would be great.” With relief, she stepped back from the throng at the bar. People made way for Cory, who caught the attention of the bartender with an almost imperceptible gesture.

  Soon, he headed her way with a tray laden with colorful martini glasses. The sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up to the elbows in what was probably a calculated effort to appear casual. His expensive jeans were faded and stressed in all the right places. His dirty-blond hair was coiffed to bed-head perfection, the bleached bangs gelled flat across his forehead and hanging down the right side of his face, covering the outside corner of his eye. Every strand was exactly where it should be. In contrast, the back of his head resembled a feather duster, with tufts of hair sticking up every which way.

  “I don’t know what you like, so I brought a variety,” he said. “We have appletinis, berrytinis, even a bananatini, and, of course, the highly coveted chocotini. I’ve heard it gives women orgasms.” He winked.

  “Oh! I’ll be careful with that one.”

  “Let’s find a place to sit and get to know each other,” Cory said, leading her to a high table surrounded by stools.

  With one last look at Julian, who seemed to have forgotten all about her, Cleo followed Cory.

  ...

  Julian hadn’t seen Cleo for at least an hour. He didn’t recall when she’d wandered off; things were hectic. But wander off she had, and he was pissed. Ignoring the hands that tapped him on the shoulder or pulled on his sleeves and the random “Julian, over here!” he moved through the crowd, scanning it for the telltale flash of red.

  He had stupidly assumed she’d feel insecure in the glitzy surroundings and cling to him like a trembling fawn. But the last time he’d seen her she was playing footsies with Cory Maxwell, and that was after brushing off two Grammy-winning former boyfriends who, she’d casually stated, were out of his league.

  She was right, of course. Lou was an icon, Zachary was a rising star, and Julian was a freak who’d made it halfway up the mountain before sliding pathetically back down on his ass.

  He didn’t know Cory well. He’d spent a few weeks with him and the rest of the band while working on their album. But Cory was a singer, and all singers had insatiable egos they fed with women. They preferred ones they could bedazzle and impress easily, and no woman was more bedazzled by rock stars than Cleo. Her obvious attraction to Julian was proof of that. He closed his eyes and balled up his fists. Where was she?

  “Hey, kid, you okay?”

  It was Lou. “Just a headache, man.” And I’ve misplaced a redhead.

  “It’s a madhouse in here, and you’ve been mobbed the entire time.”

  He avoided eye contact and continued scanning the crowd. Maybe Lou would take the hint that Julian wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

  “How long have you been seeing Cleo?”

  So much for hints. “I told you. She works for me. We’re not seeing each other.”

  Lou dismissed that with a snort. “You’d better have some good tricks up your sleeve if you’re going to keep her,” he said.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Don’t be fooled, man. If you’re making a splash, she’s at your side. But she swims away at the first sign of a bigger fish. That’s her modus operandi.”

  “You’re always the bigger fish, Lou. Why would she swim away from you if that’s all she wanted?” He didn’t need this conversation. “You’re an icon, and I’m a studio musician,” he added.

  Lou let out a belly laugh. “I’m washed-up, man. I’m more of a businessman now. And you’re easily the most brilliant musician in this room. Don’t let her know you put your pants on one leg at a time like everyone else, or she’ll be gone quicker than you can say has-been.”

  “Yes, well, it was lovely chatting with you, but I’ve got to go find her now.”

  “Look for the shiniest star, that’s where she’ll be,” Lou said. Then he slapped Julian on the back and sauntered off.

  Shiniest star? Where the bloody hell was Cory Maxwell? Before he could take a step toward finding him, he was stopped again. He wanted to scream in frustration. This time it was Dave Gutierrez, the guitarist for Dead Ringer.

  “Here’s the belle of the ball,” Dave said.

  He’d gotten to know Dave while working on Just a Little Sting. He liked him all right. “Hey, Dave, how’s it going?”

  “Decent, I guess. You’re getting a lot of attention tonight. Not that I mind. Your guest appearance on Just a Little Sting is going to sell a shitload of records. And that’s what it’s about, right? Making money? Selling records? So it’s a comeback for you and money for us. Win-win situation.”

  A comeback? What the hell? And unless he was mistaken, Dave was drunk.

  “An artistic collaborative effort is how it was explained to me,” Dave slurred. “I just don’t remember being included in the collaboration. I remember walking into the studio to find you wailing on that butt-ugly Les Paul while everyone said how awesome it sounded, and before I knew it, you’d stolen my solo.�
��

  Christ. This shit had to go down right now? “Did you just insult my guitar? Listen, you guys asked me to write a song. I did. You guys—”

  “Our fucking management asked you write a song, Lazros. Let’s get that straight.”

  “Whatever. I was asked to play in the studio sessions. I can’t help it if—”

  A pregnant girl walked up and grabbed Dave’s arm. “C’mon,” she said in a soothing tone. “Let’s get this night over with. I need to put my feet up.”

  She seemed to take all the wind out of Dave’s sails. He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Look, man,” Julian said. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t want your job. I’m not looking for a comeback or anything like that.”

  The girlfriend glared at Dave, and he shrugged sheepishly. “He’s drunk,” she said to Julian. “I’m Marcie. And I’m the reason he’s falling apart, so I apologize.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Dave asked.

  Marcie pointed at her protruding belly.

  Dave sighed loudly. “Baby, don’t start with that. You know I’m happy.”

  “Doesn’t he look happy?” Marcie asked.

  This was interesting in a car accident sort of way, but Julian needed to find Cory. “Have you seen Maxwell?” he asked.

  “Yeah, he’s holding court in there with a redhead,” Dave said, nodding in the direction of the room set up for dancing and mingling.

  “That’s my bloody redhead,” Julian muttered, turning to head that way.

  “Wait a minute,” the girl called. “Would you mind signing my belly?”

  Julian looked at Dave, who effectively relinquished his balls at that point. “Go ahead,” he said with a sad shake of his head.

  Julian obliged and signed the girl’s stomach. He’d signed his share of tits over the years, but this was his first pregnant belly.

  A moment later, he came upon Cory and Cleo. Cleo was surrounded by empty martini glasses as she jabbered and waved her hands all about. Her eyes were shiny as hell, and her movements were clumsy. Cory had gotten her wasted.

  Cory spotted him. “Lazros! Dude, come have a seat. Cleo’s telling me about the first recording session she managed by herself. Never a dull moment, huh?”

  Julian tried not to sneer as he sat.

  “Look,” Cleo said. “My tongue is blue.”

  She stuck her tongue out, and Cory laughed. “Tastes like blueberries,” he said.

  Maybe it tasted like blueberries—Julian tried not to think about how Cory would know—but the dick gazed at Cleo as if she was a succulent chunk of lobster dripping butter.

  “Can I have a word with you, love? In private?”

  “Sure,” Cleo said, reaching for a martini glass full of chocolate milk. “As soon as I have an orgasm.”

  Julian frowned.

  “What?” she asked. “You didn’t think it was only nasty white guitars, did you?”

  Julian stood. “That’s it. Time to go.”

  “Chill out, Lazros. We’re only having some fun,” Cory said, likewise standing.

  “Fun’s over. Get up, Cleo.”

  “Settle down, man,” Cory said. “I’m not comfortable with you bossing her around like this. And we were just talking. I’m not trying to steal your girl.”

  “Bloody hell, for the last fucking time, she’s not mine.” The music was loud, so only the people at the surrounding tables stared. He smashed his fists into his eyes, hoping it would quell the colors bleeding together—the dark purple bass beat threatened to explode in his head.

  “Julian, calm down,” Cleo said. Essence of tangerine filled his nasal passages. The purple pulses and blinding lights vanished.

  More forcefully than he intended, he grabbed Cleo’s arm. He wanted out of there before he fell apart.

  “Shit, dude,” Cory whined. “Don’t make me fight you. It took two hours for the stylist to get my hair like this.”

  “Well,” Cleo cut in, yanking her arm out of Julian’s grasp, “it took Julian two hours to get the seams of his pants lined up perfectly. I’m sure a fight between you two would be a thrilling display of blood and guts, but we’re calling it a night.” Reversing their roles, she grabbed Julian’s arm and yanked. “Come on. I’m taking you out of here.”

  Julian knew he should feel humiliated, but he was too relieved by how the colors acquiesced at the sound of Cleo’s voice. He inhaled deeply, letting the scent of tangerines saturate his body.

  “Great,” he heard Cleo mumble. “He’s freaking out.”

  ...

  Cleo fumed like a cartoon character with smoke coming out its ears. She crossed her arms across her chest and stared out the window. Julian had attempted to drag her from the party like a sixteen-year-old girl caught sneaking out. She didn’t understand it at all. If it hadn’t been for Cory, she’d have stood alone like a wallflower all evening.

  “What are you so upset about?” she asked as the limo pulled away from the curb. He’d obviously come close to having a full-blown synesthesia episode, but he seemed more pissed than shaken. The man had some major nerve.

  “I’m not upset,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I am. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

  “So sorry,” Julian hissed. “That’s what happens when you hang out with a freak. I told you I didn’t want to come to this stupid thing.”

  “You being a freak has nothing to do with why I’m embarrassed.”

  That came out wrong. Julian wasn’t a freak.

  “Speaking of embarrassed, it felt great to have the girl I came with glue herself to Cory Maxwell. I turned my back for one fucking minute—”

  “Is that what you call ignoring me for the entire evening so you could entertain groupies? Turning your back for a minute?”

  “You’re mental. I spent most of the night looking for you. And sweetheart, you were the only groupie I saw tonight.”

  She gasped. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nobody else was swapping spit with rock stars.”

  “Cory knew my tongue tasted like blueberries because he had a sip of my martini. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Julian pouted with his arms crossed. He jutted his jaw out and turned his head. Then it hit her.

  “You were jealous!”

  “I was trying to keep you from making a fool out of yourself.”

  He’d lost his hair band. He ran his hands through the inky waves and went back to staring out the window, scooting over as far away from her as he could and sulking like a pro. The sight of him simmering like that caused her heart to beat in an erratic pattern.

  Erratic seemed to be the theme of the evening.

  Before she could chicken out, she scuttled across the seat, grabbed his gorgeous face, and kissed him. He was unreceptive, with stone-cold lips. Having successfully made a fool out of herself, she let go, and they stared at each other in silence.

  “This is a huge mistake,” Julian finally said. He slipped a hand behind her head and pulled her in for a kiss. His tongue wasted no time, and she was startled by the silver stud. Then she was thrilled by it. Everything was soft and warm except for the cold metal ball brushing her sensitive tongue and lips.

  Julian groaned into her mouth and broke the kiss. “Jesus,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “We need to stop. You’re going to wake up sober in the morning and hate me.”

  “I could never hate you.”

  “Never say never. Listen, this was a bad idea.”

  “No, it’s not.” She clambered awkwardly onto his lap. “Don’t change your mind,” she pleaded.

  “I already have. Get down, Big Red.”

  “You want me down? As in you want me to go down?” Good grief. She really was drunk. And she had every intention of making the most of it.

  He rolled his eyes. “Enough groupie play,” he said, grabbing her hips to lift her off. “I’m calling this game over.”

  “That w
ould work if you were calling the shots. But you’re not.” She wrenched his hands off her hips. He’d been steaming hot three seconds ago, and he could damn well heat back up. She kissed his neck and felt him shiver. He was sweet and salty, like a margarita, and she greatly preferred him to a martini.

  “Off,” he panted. “I need to think.”

  She stayed on his lap and pulled her phone out of her purse. “While you’re overexerting yourself with that, I’m going to call someone who knows how to have fun.” She pretended to scroll through her contacts. “Aha! Here’s Cory.”

  “Give me that.” Julian ripped the phone out of her hand. “You don’t know what you want. Thanks to Cory, you’re wasted.”

  She was. And suddenly she felt silly. So silly she wanted to cry. So she did…a little.

  “What is this?” Julian asked. “Are you crying?” He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the seat. “You’ve passed through the euphoric, horny phase into the depressed, crying phase with record speed. And the depressed, crying phase is my least favorite of the drunk girl life cycle.”

  “I was trying to be sexy, but I’m just drunk and disgusting.”

  He cupped her cheeks. “You’re not disgusting. But you are a bit blasted. And shouldn’t you save the sexy stuff for Josh?”

  “I’m not seeing Josh anymore,” she whispered. “I don’t think he really liked me all that much. I think we both wanted to like each other, but things don’t always work out that way.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “After the guitar sex.”

  He smiled. “Not to disappoint you, Lava Locks, but I suspect my guitar is better at sex than I am.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.” She kissed him on one cheek, then the other.

  He talked a good game, but he couldn’t play it. Surrender shone in his eyes. When she kissed him again, he kissed her back. She sensed he was perfectly willing to be taken down if she was woman enough to do it.

  The limo pulled to a stop. “We’re here,” he said weakly. “I think we should take a few minutes to think about this.”

  She’d had enough. “My God, will you shut up? You’ve got stamina, I’ll give you that. Let’s hope it isn’t limited to whining. Now, listen to me. You’re going to get out of this car, and you’re going to follow obediently, do you understand? And when we get to the room, you’re going to continue that obedience, and do whatever I say.”