Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  Morning, noon, and night, asshole. Just do it.

  The needle went in.

  “Just a little sting,” Julian said. His lame attempt at a joke.

  Julian let himself into his room. He winced as the door squeaked, freezing and sucking in his breath. Was it possible Cleo didn’t know he’d left? He’d been gone for almost two hours.

  On tiptoes, he crept into the bedroom. The light was beginning to pour through the crack in the curtains as he took off his pants and slipped silently between the sheets.

  Cleo rolled into him immediately. “Did you go somewhere?” she mumbled. “I woke up and you were gone.”

  Just went to shoot up. Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.

  “I went to get a bottle of water out of the machine.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. Relief washed over him like a cleansing blue waterfall. He had to make things right. Cleo should not be in bed with a junkie.

  After he’d gotten his shit together—thanks to a little heroin—Sheik had pleaded with him to come clean to Cleo. “That woman’s no idiot,” he’d said. “Look at you, man. You think she’s not going to pick up on something?”

  “She’ll pick up on something, but she won’t know what,” he’d replied. “I’ll tell her I’m worn-out, tired, maybe I’m getting sick. And I’m going to clean up when we get our four-week break. That’s my plan.”

  “Nice to know you have a brilliant plan.”

  “Listen, I wasn’t dope sick. I was fighting off a synesthesia episode, that’s all. I mean, I’ve been off dope for two days, and I haven’t gotten sick.”

  “Until now,” Sheik had said. He’d leaned in closer to Julian, looking him square in the eyes. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re on dope now. Julian, you were strung out, and you know it. Fucking idiot, that’s what you are.”

  Julian hadn’t said a word in his own defense. He’d just stared at an imaginary spot on the wall. Sheik was right. Julian remembered his chattering teeth, the nausea, the aches that started in his bones and worked their way outward through his skin. Dope sick.

  “I saw that your biofeedback game came in. Stop kidding yourself about cleaning up. You’ve made your choice, and that pretty redhead ain’t it.”

  It had felt like a sucker punch in the gut. But only for a moment. Heroin protected him from feeling too deeply about…well, anything.

  “Listen,” Sheik had said. “What are you dragging her into? There’s nothing but heartache ahead for that woman.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Sheik. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, unfortunately, I do. By the time I cleaned up, my woman was long gone. Some nice, respectable asshole was playing daddy to my kids. Still is. And they’re better off for it, too. Because all junkies care about is themselves. And you know what, motherfucker? I’m always just a step away from it. And here I am with a junkie for a best friend.”

  Julian had caught the embarrassed expression on Sheik’s face over the profession of friendship. Trying to hide his own embarrassment, he’d quickly muttered, “Stop calling me a junkie.”

  “You know, you’re just another shitty rock star. You don’t know what love is unless you’re looking in the mirror.”

  “You think I love what I see in the mirror? I hate myself. Cleo would lose it if she knew what was going on with me. You have no idea. But I’m not going to keep this up. I can—”

  “What?” Sheik interjected. “You can quit anytime you want? Is that what you’re about to say?”

  “I can. I can’t wait to get off this junk. As soon as we hit the four-week break, I’ll have time to kick it.”

  Even as he’d said it he’d felt panicked. The thought of getting sober gave him the chills. He was hooked again. “Cleo won’t ever have to know about any of it. And it wasn’t like I did this on purpose. If you’d done a better job of controlling those freaks, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Sheik pulled back the curtain at the window. Julian shielded his eyes as a ray of light made its way to where he sat on the bed. He wondered if it would turn him to ash.

  “Well, my man,” Sheik finally said. “There’s one thing I learned a long time ago in a little place called rehab, on my fourth and hopefully final stint, and that is you can’t blame anyone else for the shit you get yourself into. This is yours. Own it.”

  Those words rang in Julian’s ears as he stroked Cleo’s hair. Sheik was right. Still, it was hard to feel like shit about it at the moment. Fuck, he was on heroin, and he felt great.

  It wouldn’t be for long, though. The highs were getting shorter by the hit. But he found it hard to care. Heroin wrapped him in a warm, soothing blanket. From beneath the comfort of it, he could watch everything, but it didn’t affect him. Even when a dart of panic happened to find a weak spot in the opiate armor, he just examined it quizzically. Look, he’d think. I’m freaking out. Then he would just…stop.

  Cleo stirred and touched his cheek. How was he going to manage the next few days? He’d need another fix in a few hours, or he’d be sick as shit. Just thinking about the next hit thrilled him. A day and a half. That’s all he had to get through before she’d be on a plane back to San Antonio. Was he really counting down the days until she left?

  Her fingers brushed the stubble on his chin. He hadn’t shaved in days. Thank God she liked him scruffy. She moved in closer and began kissing his neck. He was overcome by love and…performance anxiety. Heroin wasn’t one of those drugs that made people want to fuck like rabbits. And he was still high.

  He trailed his hand gently down her back. She sighed and nuzzled in closer, running her wet tongue up to his ear. He squeezed a firm ass cheek, and she put her leg up over his hip, giving him full access. “Hmm, been thinking about me, have you, love?”

  His own reaction was quick and anything but wimpy. He’d be spared the embarrassment of an addict’s limp dick after all.

  In an instant, Cleo was on top of him. Well, he was up for it. With a laugh, he whipped off her T-shirt and filled each hand with a soft breast. She moaned and leaned in, allowing him to pull a nipple into his mouth.

  A pleasant popping sound set off lemon drops in his head as he let go. Then he moved to the other breast while Cleo sighed in peach-colored waves. Her skin was warm in his mouth and sweet as honey. He got lost in it for a while, in the suckling and licking and kissing, until Cleo gently pulled his head away. How long had he been doing that? Time was a slippery thing when you were on heroin.

  “Too much for you?” he asked.

  “There’s something Freudian in it when it goes on too long,” she said, raising that eyebrow.

  “There is not,” he said. “Mum.”

  She giggled, grabbed the nearest pillow, and smacked him with it.

  “Is that how you want to play, Big Red? You want to play like that?”

  He yanked the pillow out of her hands and gave her a good wallop—too hard of a wallop, actually, and she rolled off the bed with a yelp.

  She was beet red and madder than a wet hen when she popped back up.

  “Why, you—” He took a direct hit to the face. When he opened his eyes, it was raining feathers.

  Cleo wore an adorably wondrous expression, a couple of feathers, and nothing else.

  “Oh, you sweet, sweet angel,” he said. “Come here and let me love you.” He plucked a feather out of the air. “This might come in handy.”

  It did. And when she was properly giggled out and adequately excited, he positioned himself to take her.

  “Wait, wait…no,” she said, breathless from the teasing and torture she’d endured. “I have to pee.”

  “You are so fucking romantic, do you know that?”

  “Spontaneous morning sex,” she said, “does have its pesky kinks.”

  “Did you say kink, Big Red?”

  “Don’t make me start over with the pillow.” She climbed off the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

  She walked away, red hair swaying a
nd sweet little ass intentionally sashaying. He reached beneath the covers to appreciate his hard-on. Just checking.

  Things were going to be fine. He was staying on track, staying focused, not thinking about heroin…shit, he was thinking about heroin.

  “Julian?” Cleo shouted from the bathroom. “What happened in here?”

  Sheer panic rolled through him. What had he left in there? He’d been so out of it, most of the waking up and getting to Sheik’s room was a total blur.

  “Why is the lid off the toilet tank?” she asked.

  “What?” His voice sounded high-pitched and hysterical in his head. Calm down and think. “The float thing got stuck last night. I fixed it—guess I didn’t put the lid back on the tank.”

  He’d broken out in a cold sweat, and a quick check beneath the covers confirmed his dampened mood.

  “You’re such a handyman. That turns me on, you know,” Cleo said, amid the clanking sounds of the tank lid being returned to its rightful place.

  Julian ran his hands through his hair. Where had he left the bindles? He vaguely remembered taking the whole baggie of goodies into Sheik’s room. Surely, that’s what he’d done. He hadn’t left anything out on the counter or something stupid like that. He resisted the urge to barge in on Cleo for a quick look around.

  He heard running water, Cleo humming, and eventually, the toilet flushing. Everything was fine. But shit, he’d lost his hard-on. The door opened, and Cleo came out. She seemed okay, and she was wearing… What was she wearing?

  “Do you like it?”

  “Where did you get that? A stripper store?”

  “Yeah, kind of,” she said, blushing. A black fishnet dress barely covered her ass. Were those tiny black panties crotchless? God, he hoped so.

  Cleo smiled shyly, glancing at him through her lashes. “I can’t believe I’m wearing this,” she said innocently. “Maybe I should take it off?”

  “Soon enough,” he said. Her breasts stretched the fishnet, pink nipples poking through the holes. Julian licked his lips. He didn’t need to peek under the sheet to know he was back in business.

  “Get over here.”

  Cleo came right up to him and stood with her legs apart, one taunting eyebrow perfectly arched. He pressed his face against her, inhaling her scent through the black panties. Then he took a nibble while running his hands up her thighs and pulled away with a smile.

  “On top, baby. Come on.”

  She pulled the sheet back and looked at him. Her pink cheeks said she liked what she saw. “Condom,” Cleo said.

  “Uh-huh,” he answered. His mind was already drifting, and the desire for dope needed to be drowned by something more powerful. He wanted to fuck. With a gentle tug he pulled her on top of him—he’d get a condom in a minute, no worries.

  She let out a small cry as he entered her. Pain? Ecstasy? Holding her hips, he gave her a couple of pumps.

  “Julian!”

  He crashed back into full consciousness when he opened his eyes. “Sorry, baby,” he said. “I got carried away. I’ll go get a condom.”

  “Damn straight,” she mumbled.

  Cleo wasn’t on birth control. No way she’d let him do anything without a condom. He gave her a kiss, helped her off him, and headed to the bathroom, where he checked carefully to see if he’d left anything incriminating. An alcohol prep pad sat on the counter, but he brushed it into a drawer. There was nothing else. He was relieved…at first. Then he had an urge to keep looking.

  He opened drawers, checked the cabinets under the sink, and looked in the toilet tank. A pair of jeans in the corner received a pat-down, just in case he’d left something in the pocket, but there was nothing. The shaving kit was likewise empty, and he tossed it on the counter in disgust. The relief was replaced by disappointment. A little kick would be nice.

  He grabbed a condom out of the drawer, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he slammed it shut. A guy who looked like shit stared back. Shiny eyes and dilated pupils—would Cleo notice? She was out there looking like every man’s fantasy in fishnet, and, well, he’d rather shoot up. It was awful, but it didn’t change anything. With a sigh, he headed back to the bed.

  A couple of minutes later, he was beneath Cleo, letting her ride him for all she was worth. He loved watching her, kept telling himself how good it was, telling Cleo how good she was, but he hovered just outside the perimeter of being fully present. When would he be able to sneak away?

  Soon, there was no connection at all. He tried to fake it. Tried to make the proper noises, say the proper words. But he was going through the motions with an anesthetized, rock-hard cock. Heroin, if it let you get it up in the first place, helped you keep it up, sometimes indefinitely.

  Memories of Slice tours and going at it for mind-numbing hours with nameless girls flooded his head. Fucking on heroin was like having an out-of-body experience—you could see what you were doing, but you didn’t care.

  Cleo moaned his name, forcing him into the present. This wasn’t some nameless girl, for Christ’s sake. With renewed determination, he kissed her, just as an orgasm ripped through her body. He was still inside her, hard and dead, and she collapsed on top of him, completely spent.

  It wasn’t over yet, though. He pulled out and rolled on top. She wrapped her legs around him, welcoming him back.

  He started moving, and it was going along well until he realized he’d lost track of time. Had it been five minutes? Fifteen? He couldn’t feel anything, and he sensed Cleo becoming less enthusiastic by the minute.

  “Oh, my,” she finally panted. “If you keep this up for more than four hours, you’re going to need medical attention, and so am I.”

  Julian needed to end this thing. He gazed into Cleo’s eyes, he kissed her, he talked to her, he did everything he could think of to try to connect with her, but in the end, all he managed to do was fuck her. And not very well.

  Finally, he climaxed. Not with a bang but a whimper.

  Minutes later, he stared at the ceiling with her in the crook of his arm. “Julian, are you okay? You seem distracted.”

  “What? No, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I mean, sorry if that wasn’t so great. I’m tired after last night.”

  The bathroom beckoned. Even though he knew there was no dope in there, he wanted to check one more time, anyway.

  “Don’t apologize. Everything’s good,” she said.

  He grimaced. Yeah, everything’s good except for you just having suffered the worst sex in the history of robotic fucking.

  She sat up and looked at him. He wished she’d stop that.

  “Have you been doing your biofeedback? Shouldn’t you have done it last night?”

  “I’ll do it later. I’m fine.”

  “But you’re supposed to do it at least twice a day.”

  “I said I’m fine,” he snapped. Cleo blinked at him.

  “Sorry, baby,” he said, sweetly. He kissed her. “Everything is under control. It kills me for you to worry.” All junkies were good liars.

  He wanted to tell her everything. But what if she ran like hell and never looked back? Also, telling her meant he’d have to quit. And, of course, he wanted to quit, and he fully intended to quit. Just not today.

  ...

  Cleo lay on the bed like a limp dishrag, flipping through the television channels. Julian had gone to Sheik’s room to do his biofeedback. Why hadn’t he just done it in here? One minute he was intimately connected to her, showering her with attention, and the next he was distant and practically ignoring her. Something was wrong. But what was it?

  Maybe he was embarrassed after the anticlimactic morning sex, or possibly he was just tired and cranky. He’d slept most of the day. What if he was getting sick? It would be awful timing with back-to-back shows next week. If only she had the courage to broach the subject of him quitting the tour and coming home.

  Her brooding was interrupted by a soft knock. Muting the television, she crawled off the bed and answered the door.
She gasped to see Sheik taking up every square inch of the doorway.

  “What are you squeaking about, Minnie Mouse?”

  With her hand at her throat, she waited for the rush of adrenaline to subside. “I didn’t squeak. You startled me.”

  “Did you answer the door by accident?”

  “No, but I wasn’t expecting you. And you’re terrifying. Now, what do you want?”

  “Don’t raise that eyebrow at me. We need to talk, Cleo.”

  He’d never used her name before. Dread slithered up her spine. Don’t be stupid. You know what’s wrong. Only she didn’t. Nothing she could put into words.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  Sheik sighed, came farther into the room, and turned to face her. “You want to sit down or something?”

  “Why do I need to sit down?”

  Sheik shrugged and pointed to a chair. Cleo sat, barely feeling it.

  “Your boy’s doing heroin.”

  He might as well have said Julian was a hippopotamus. For a few seconds, she just sat there, trying to figure out what language Sheik was speaking. Because it didn’t make sense. Was it Greek? Latin? Yiddish? What?

  Then the first puzzle piece fell neatly into place. Her hand went to her mouth. Oh, God. More puzzle pieces. The room tilted as if the chair had been yanked out from under her.

  “Did you hear me?” Sheik asked.

  “But why?” she asked. “How did this happen?” She stood up, needing to move. “If only he hadn’t come on this stupid tour! Is he still in your room?” He needed some sense slapped into him, and she was just the woman to do it.

  “Listen, why don’t you sit back down?” Sheik said. “We need to chat. It’s not what you think. Not that bad, really. We just need to—”

  She stopped in her tracks and spun around to face him. “Not that bad? What is the matter with you? He’s doing heroin!” She’d been such an idiot. What had she said to him earlier? I’m not naive, Julian.

  “When is he doing it? I mean, how does it work? Is he on it now?”