Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  He crossed his arms. “You don’t really suspect me of being unfaithful, do you?”

  Was now the time to take this on? And did she suspect him of being unfaithful? The last time she’d visited a rock star on tour was still fresh in her memory. “You’ve been avoiding me. And I’m not naive. Don’t make the mistake of assuming I am.”

  Julian’s jaw dropped. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” He uncrossed his arms and ran his hands through his hair. “I haven’t been avoiding you.” He didn’t say it with gusto, and the monster reared its ugly head again. What was he hiding?

  “Angel, ask anyone on this tour. Ask the guys, ask the women following us—those women in there, they all know—ask anybody.”

  A middle-aged man walked up and slapped Julian on the back. He was Seth, the band’s manager, and Cleo knew Julian couldn’t stand him. “Hey, you made it!”

  “Fuck off, Seth.”

  Seth’s bright smile didn’t falter, it simply disappeared as if it had never existed. “Okay, I see I’ve interrupted something, but Wayne wants your guitar when you get the chance. He needs to tune it.”

  He started to walk off, but Julian called him back. “Seth, have I been socializing with groupies on this tour?”

  Seth straightened up, cleared his throat, and recited, “Julian hasn’t been interested in any of the ladies. In fact, all the guys have been monogamous on the tour, as far as I’m aware.” Was he reading from a teleprompter?

  “Shit, Seth. Would you say it like you mean it?”

  Seth looked at Cleo quickly, then turned back to Julian. Heat crept up Cleo’s neck to her cheeks, and she clenched her jaw until it hurt. Humiliation had just reached new heights.

  “Honestly, Julian, I’ve been too busy to notice who’s been fucking who. Sorry. And you’d better hurry and get your guitar to Wayne.”

  Seth walked off, and Julian turned to Cleo. “Listen, I don’t have time to do this right now. You’ve just fucking got to trust me, okay?”

  Maybe he wasn’t being unfaithful. But something was going on, and Cleo was going to get to the bottom of it. “You need to know something, Julian. There is only one thing I’d never forgive you for, and it’s cheating. I don’t care about the rules on the road, do you understand me?”

  “Of course I do. And I promise you’ve got nothing to worry about. I would never, ever—”

  The dressing room door opened and Dean’s head poked out. “Julian, man! Glad you could make it. You took your sweet time, though.”

  “I had to pick up Cleo from the airport. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  Dean took the snide comment in stride, gave a little shrug, and waved at Cleo. “Hi, Cleo. Didn’t see you at first.” Looking pointedly at Julian, he added, “He didn’t tell us you were coming.”

  “Again, none of your business,” Julian said, grabbing Cleo’s hand and heading toward Dean and the dressing room.

  A young girl stood behind the door, firmly attached to Dean’s left arm. Oh, boy. Dean glared at Julian, who smirked in response. Melissa and Tanya might have a system worked out, but apparently, so did the guys. And Julian had bucked it. Not something she’d expect if he was cheating.

  Cory stepped away from the mirror, where he’d been preening. “Here’s our muse,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. Faded skinny jeans, a black T-shirt, and a studded leather jacket—as if he’d stepped right off the pages of Rock ’n’ Spin. “Julian didn’t tell us you were coming.” He set down his comb and came over for a hug. “This is your first show, right? Have you heard the song yet?”

  Julian grunted, and Cory went silent.

  “What?” Cleo asked.

  “Nothing,” Cory said, looking apologetically at Julian. “Enjoy the show.” He went back to teasing his hair.

  Cleo raised her eyebrows at Julian. He gave a blank face back. So many secrets.

  A shrill giggle came from the corner where Dean and the girl sat petting and kissing. “Stay out of it, Big Red,” Julian warned under his breath.

  “Maybe I’ll go over and inquire as to Melissa’s health?”

  “You’ll do no such thing.” Julian steered her by the elbow to a table loaded with food.

  She glared at him, but her stomach growled. She picked up a small piece of sushi and popped it in her mouth. The crowd in the arena began to chant, and she stopped chewing to listen. Lazros! Lazros! She swallowed before letting her mouth drop open. “Do you hear that?”

  Julian shrugged it off, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  A long-haired boy burst into the dressing room. “We killed them!” he shouted. Cory, Dean, and Gus clapped, but Julian stood silently impassive. Actually, he wasn’t impassive. He crammed his hand in his pocket, clenched his jaw, and his right eye twitched.

  “Opening band,” he said to Cleo. “Zombie Scourge. Idiots. And shits, too. Do you know they set their bus on fire?”

  “Smitty’s awesome on the guitar, Julian,” Dean said. “You’re just a jealous prick.”

  “He’s nothing but a fucking shredder,” Julian said. “No soul and no art. You don’t recognize that because you’re nothing but a mediocre bassist.”

  “Fuck you,” said Dean.

  “Fuck you,” said Julian.

  They were really not getting along. “What’s a shredder?” Cleo asked, hoping to stop what might prove to be an unending volley of profanity.

  “Someone who plays furiously fast riffs,” Julian said. “They’re a dime a dozen.”

  He dug through his duffel bag and pulled out a pair of baggy cargo shorts and some old-school Doc Martens. She frowned as he stripped right in the middle of the room, then had to stifle a gasp. She could count all of his ribs. “How much weight have you lost?”

  Dean let out a nasty laugh. “Yeah, Julian, why are you so skinny? Lost your appetite?”

  “Shut up, man,” Cory said, tensely.

  Julian shot Dean a look that would have frozen fire before stepping into his shorts. They hung so low they were almost obscene. Only his boxers kept him from breaking laws.

  “I’m fine, love. I don’t eat much on tour.”

  Maybe so. But still. While she was here, she was going to feed the hell out of him. “I guess it’s hard being vegan on the road.”

  Seth walked by and slipped a stinky, lit joint between Julian’s lips. “This will make you hungry,” he said.

  Julian took a huge drag and handed it back to Seth. Cleo felt like the nerd kid at the party—she’d never seen Julian smoke pot—and tried to look cool with it. Most likely a big fail.

  Holding the smoke in his lungs, Julian leaned over and laced up his boots. Then he stood, blew the smoke out with a grin, and slapped a beanie on his head. No shirt, of course. He was ready to rock.

  The VIP pit wasn’t a pit at all—you actually had to climb steps—and contained the best seats in the house. Donnie sat next to Cleo, having shed his chauffeur’s hat and jacket, and he screamed himself hoarse.

  “I could so get fired for this,” he yelled in her ear. “And it would be worth it.”

  Cleo oscillated between being a fun-loving concertgoer and a shell-shocked Alice in Wonderland. She hadn’t really known what to expect from Julian’s performance. She knew Dead Ringer was a physically active band onstage, but she hadn’t been sure of what that would look like for Julian.

  It looked hot.

  Her man had some moves, and Cleo felt every one of them. His thinner torso was still sexy as hell, and it gleamed with sweat. His hips seemed connected to his guitar, and oh, how they moved. She was flushed and embarrassed by how he made her ache, right there among hordes of people. Donnie’s cheeks were flushed, too, although she assumed for entirely different reasons.

  The show was almost over, and Dead Ringer still hadn’t played “Just a Little Sting.” Cory stood at the mic and signaled he had an announcement to make.

  “You are some lucky motherfuckers tonight,” he yelled. The noise level in the arena rose, indic
ating the crowd definitely felt they were lucky motherfuckers.

  “You’re about to be the first people ever”—he paused for effect—“to hear Julian’s new song.”

  Julian had written a new song! Cleo cheered with the masses until her voice blended in with the communal roar. Now she understood the meaning behind raising the roof. How did Julian stand it? Was the biofeedback that effective? It must be. Otherwise the tour would have ground to a screeching halt.

  Cory walked off to the side of the stage as everyone quieted down as much as a crowd that large could. Then he sat himself on an amp, and the spotlights went crazy. They combed the entire arena, cutting out slices of mayhem here and there, before finally settling on Julian, who stood at the center mic.

  Cleo’s heart banged away. He was going to sing. Holding her breath, she watched him fiddle with his guitar and pedals amid the continuing roar of the crowd. He adjusted his pants, shook the hair out of his eyes, wiped his hands on his rear, messed with the guitar strap, and relocated his beanie to the back of his head.

  The crowd went silent. “This is for the love of my life, the woman who holds my heart, and it’s called ‘Playing Cleo.’”

  Cleo went numb, then she sizzled and tingled all over. Julian looked in her direction, and everybody and everything else disappeared. It was just the two of them, alone among thousands of people. She blinked back tears and held her breath as the first note rang out from the white Les Paul, soaring like an arrow to her heart. It was the song he’d played on the love seat that night. He’d fine-tuned it and turned it into a slow, soulful ballad, but it was the same song. The memory of what it had done to her made her squirm in her seat. And that was before he began to sing.

  I’ll play you, baby

  You’re my symphony

  I’ll play you, baby

  Like a melody…

  The crowd swayed with their arms in the air, like a giant sea anemone. The refrain came along, the melody turned catchy, and Cleo instinctively knew Julian had a hit on his hands.

  I’m playing Cleo and I’m playing her fast

  I’m making her wail, making it last

  She’s every color there ever was

  Every person I’ve ever loved

  She’s every note that’s ever been played

  Every promise I’ve ever made

  When it was over, the arena exploded. Julian, seemingly oblivious to all the excitement, simply waved toward the VIP pit where Cleo stood, then threw her an over-the-top Dating Game kiss. “I love you, baby,” he yelled. In front of tens of thousands of witnesses. He loved her. He handed his Les Paul to the guitar tech, then strutted offstage, hair swinging back and forth.

  Cleo finally got it. He was good at this. It was who he was, and who he wanted to be. How could she ever ask him to stop?

  The concert wasn’t over. The crowd was on its feet, stomping, clapping, and yelling. Soon a cadence emerged as they chanted, “Sting! Sting! Sting!”

  Dead Ringer came back out, and Cleo screamed her throat raw with everyone else. Julian donned a guitar, a Fender this time, and turned to face Gus, who had climbed back onto his impressive throne of drums. With psychic skill and perfect synchronicity, the two of them broke instantly into the intro of “Just a Little Sting.”

  Julian shone like a brilliant beacon of awesomeness, and Cleo was up on her feet dancing the entire time. He wailed out an unbelievable solo, the same one a rock critic in Denver had said was “like the world’s longest orgasm.” Cleo agreed, and as the final note faded away, she did, too.

  She came to in seconds, confused by the sea of fuzzy, nameless faces staring down at her.

  “Are you okay? We’re calling for help.”

  She sat up against protestations, and the room spun. “No, no. Please don’t do that. I’m just a little dizzy.”

  “You passed out,” said Donnie. “Don’t try to stand.”

  “I’d do what he says,” said a gravelly voice. Cleo winced at the sound and looked over Donnie’s shoulder to see Sheik barreling her way. He pushed through the small gathering of the curious and knelt beside her, staring into her eyes before announcing, “She’s all right.”

  “Are you a doctor? Your bedside manner needs some work.”

  “Nah, but I know a swooner when I see one.” He held out his hand. “Let’s get you backstage with some cool water.”

  “I did not swoon.”

  “Then we’d better call an ambulance,” he snapped.

  “Okay, so I swooned.” She stood—knees shaking—and clasped Sheik’s meaty hand.

  Come to think of it, except for the one piece of sushi she’d had backstage, she hadn’t eaten anything all day. She’d meant to get something at the airport during a layover but hadn’t had time.

  “I’m not sure you’ve apologized for how you spoke to me earlier,” she said, trying to gain her balance on her platform boots.

  “I spoke to you earlier? I don’t even remember. Now let’s get your ass down these steps.”

  Before she knew what was happening, Sheik had picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Swooner coming through!” he shouted to no one in particular.

  Cleo resisted the desire to pound on Sheik’s back. It would only draw more attention. Donnie scuttled along behind them but didn’t dare initiate a confrontation with Sheik, who unceremoniously plunked Cleo down as they arrived at the stage.

  “Follow me,” he said. The crowd parted for him like the Red Sea, and he led Cleo backstage.

  “Cleo, if you’re okay, I’m going to go get the car,” Donnie said.

  “I’m fine,” Cleo reassured him. “See you later.”

  Donnie glanced at Sheik, who nodded his head. “It’s under control. This is my watch.”

  Backstage, there were even more people than before the show. Many were fans, and an air of expectation hovered, so tangible it almost crackled. “Meet and greet time,” Sheik said, opening the door to the dressing room. “You’ll be spending it in here.”

  The door opened right into Julian. People screamed his name at the sight of him, but he only had eyes for Cleo, and they were frantic.

  “Are you okay? I heard you’d fainted.” He looked her up and down for injuries.

  “She swooned,” Sheik said.

  “I did not. I felt faint, that’s all. Haven’t really eaten today.”

  “She hit the floor,” Sheik said. “Swooned from your guitar playin’ and hip swayin’.”

  Cleo rolled her eyes, but Julian didn’t smile. He led her to the couch as if she were an invalid, kissed her forehead, and started screaming for someone to bring her a cookie.

  “How are you feeling now?” he asked.

  “Fine. Honestly, I’m embarrassed. Of all the things I thought I might do to make a fool out of myself, this wasn’t even on the list.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said. “I’ll sit with you until you’re better.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t, Princess,” Sheik snapped. “She’s not going to die. Get your fucking ass out there and schmooze with your adoring fans. I’ll get Louis to take care of her.”

  “Sheik, under the circumstances, I think I should be excused from the meet and greet.”

  “That’s why I call you Princess,” Sheik said. “They paid good money for meet and greet passes, and we gotta give ’em what they paid for.”

  “Go on, Julian. Good grief, I’m fine.” Spoken like a true rock star girlfriend.

  Julian sighed, stood, and went to the door. He glanced back one last time before opening it, then screams rose as he stepped out.

  After finishing off a couple of cookies and sitting mindlessly for fifteen minutes, Cleo couldn’t stand it any longer. She stood, felt fine, and headed for the door. Bracing herself for the din, she yanked it open. But there was no more screaming, just a manageable buzz of what seemed like a million conversations. The crowd, content and patient, stood in line for turns with the band mem
bers. Cameras flashed, and mild applause and laughter rang out here and there.

  Cleo nudged her way through the fans. One of the lines was longer than the others, and it was Julian’s. A girl kissed him on the cheek and walked away, and another took her place. Julian exchanged a few words with her, smiled wickedly, and popped the cap off his magic marker. Then he aimed it at…what the heck?

  The girl had yanked her shirt up! And she wasn’t wearing a bra. The fans waiting in line shouted encouragement, and without the slightest reservation, Julian cupped a breast with one hand and signed it with the other. When he was done, she jiggled the other at him. But instead of signing it, he grabbed it and posed as if he were going to bite it.

  “I like to leave an impression,” he joked. The fans roared as if it were the most hilarious thing in the world. Cleo turned on her heel to march back to the dressing room and ran smack into a brick wall of muscle.

  “Hold on there, champ,” said Sheik. “No need to get your panties in a bunch. It’s all part of the show. This sort of thing is expected—he’s just doing his job.”

  “It’s his job to fondle breasts?” So much for the good and brave rock star girlfriend. Bitchy and possessive felt better.

  “I don’t know that you could call it fondling. Chill out. You want some wine, or a soda, maybe?”

  “No. What I want is for this to be over.”

  Sheik’s granitelike brow softened. If Cleo didn’t know better, she’d swear he had feelings. “Well, you’re in luck,” he said, turning his attention to the crowd. “Okay, folks! The meet and greet is over,” he bellowed. Sounds of disappointment rang out, but nobody argued with Sheik.

  Julian’s face lit up as he spotted her. He hurried over. “Somebody’s feeling better,” he said.

  “Actually, I’m not.” She tried to be curt, but Julian didn’t pick up on it. His eyes filled with concern as he gently placed a hand on her forehead.

  “Let’s get you sitting down again. Are you dizzy?”

  “No, you idiot.” She spun to walk away and caught Sheik miming to Julian, snapping his teeth together.

  “Oh,” Julian said, spinning her around to face him. His eyes twinkled. “That was nothing. Just a publicity stunt.”