Color Me Crazy

by Carol Pavliska

  They fell onto the bed.

  He kissed her neck, and she sighed in surrender, then giggled a turquoise stream as his fingers trailed across her ribs. He dragged the tip of his tongue across her collarbone and lifted her shirt to find what he desperately craved. With his head cradled in her arms, they sank blissfully into the sanctity of him at her breast.

  “You’re so voluptuous,” he whispered. Her breasts were warm and soft—a place he could lose himself—but there were other places to explore. His hands paused at the small curve of tummy above her pubic bone. Voluptuous, indeed. Someone had been hitting the cookie dough ice cream.

  He didn’t dare comment on her sexier, fuller curves, but he loved every bit of them. The sweet swell of her belly begged for a kiss, and an inexplicable knot rose in his throat as he delivered it. Cleo squirmed, and he knew what she wanted.

  Her panties slipped off easily. “Open up for me, baby,” he whispered.

  She did, with a soft moan the color of lime sherbet, and he went straight to the soft, sweet flesh between her legs. Her lips parted for him, full and swollen like a juicy peach.

  He cupped her bottom in his hands, tilted her, and began the rhythmic sucking and licking he knew she loved. And then he touched her with the tip of his tongue, right at the perfect spot. She exploded in purple shock waves that rolled over him, caressing his skin like velvet gloves.

  He covered her with his mouth, holding on with gentle suction, until the rolling waves of her ecstasy faded.

  It wasn’t this way with other women. He didn’t know what they wanted or how to give it to them. But with Cleo, he knew what to do, as if her body were an extension of his own. With trembling lips, he kissed her one last time before laying his head to rest on her thigh, cherishing the beauty of what she’d given.

  After a moment, Cleo pulled him to her. She gripped his hips, restlessly moving against him. “Let’s make love. I want you.”

  He wanted it, too. So bad that it hurt. But he remembered a small detail. “I don’t have a condom, baby. I wasn’t expecting to get laid at my sister’s wedding.”

  She didn’t laugh. “I can’t get pregnant. It’s okay.”

  A thrill coursed through him. Problem solved. But then…why was she on birth control? His heart sank. She’d been with someone. But could he blame her for that? He’d left her, told her he cheated on her…

  “Please,” she said. “I want you.” Her eyes were filled with desire. Need. And what she needed and desired was him. Just as he was.

  Her flesh yielded instantly. He groaned with pleasure and sought a rhythm. He kept his eyes open to look at her, and she looked back, glassy-eyed with pleasure.

  Since getting off heroin, everything was more intense. Sex, it turned out, was no exception. Their bodies moved together—faster and faster—creating a symphony of colors, scents, and sounds that nearly overwhelmed him. But nothing blended. He was with Cleo, and he was safe.

  Every nerve came alive before the final thrust. He lingered for a moment, on the precipice, letting the tangerine droplets drizzle over him, bringing him closer to the edge than he thought possible. Then he drove in deeply, one last time, screaming until he was hoarse as white lights exploded around them. He collapsed on top of Cleo, gasping into the pillow as her flesh gently squeezed him.

  He nuzzled her neck before kissing his way down to her breast. And all was right with the world.

  The early morning light poured in through the stained-glass window above the bed and splashed kaleidoscope jewels across the white comforter. This was Julian’s favorite time of day—it was silent and there were no other colors bouncing off the walls or careening through his head.

  He yawned and stretched, then inhaled deeply. Cleo had made coffee. Maybe he’d sink back into the pillow for just a few minutes.

  His eyes snapped open. He was in the loft, and Cleo had made coffee.

  Springing up like a jack-in-the-box, he grabbed his trousers and ran for the door, jumping into each leg between strides. By the time he hit the stairs, he was at a full run, zipping up as he went.

  He burst into the room, but all he saw was a big, ugly, bald guy.

  “Calm down, Princess. I’m assuming she’s the one running the shower.” Sheik was perched on a bar stool, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

  Julian exhaled in relief and grabbed the stool next to Sheik.

  “Well?” Sheik barked.

  “Well, what?”

  “From the racket I heard last night, you two are back together. You gonna cancel that offer on the L.A. house and stick around here like a man?”

  “That will be up to Cleo. But that’s what I’m hoping.”

  He was invincible. Fucking great. There was absolutely nothing standing between him and the rest of his glorious life.

  He looked toward the stairs and ran a hand over his head to straighten his hair, only to discover he still had none. He wished he’d at least brushed his teeth. Sheik splashed some dubious black goo into a mug and slid it over to him.

  A phone rang, and Julian jerked, spilling coffee onto the bar. He was wound a little tightly.

  “This must be the redhead’s,” Sheik said, picking up the phone at his elbow. “She’s got a text,” he said, squinting, “from some guy named Marcus.”

  A flash of alarm went off in Julian’s head, a literal red alert. “A guy named Marcus?” He yanked the phone out of Sheik’s hand. Don’t look at it. It’s just a text. It’s just a text from a guy named Marcus.

  He looked at it.

  DARLING, GLAD YOU STAYED IN SAN ANTONIO AND DIDN’T TRY TO DRIVE HOME IN THE STORM. I HAVE A BIG SURPRISE WAITING FOR YOU. AND I DO MEAN BIG.

  Followed by two obnoxious hearts and a cartoon dog holding a bouquet of roses.

  What the fuck? Julian slammed the phone down.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Sheik asked.

  God, he’d been so stupid. So fucking stupid thinking everything could work out. Things didn’t go that way for him. He ran a hand over his head, wishing he had hair to grab. How could she do this to him? How could she tell him she loved him—wait—she’d said she had loved him. And she’d said she wanted him. Not the same thing. And she was on birth control because she had a motherfucking boyfriend named Marcus.

  The red began to deepen… Don’t let it turn brown, don’t let it turn brown… He covered his eyes with his fists and gulped deep breaths.

  “Oh, shit,” Sheik said. “Where’s your little happy vial?”

  He felt Sheik digging around in his pocket. Then the scent of tangerines floated under his nose. The colors dispersed, and his head cleared. He still loved Cleo, loved her with all his heart, or the vial wouldn’t work that way. But she didn’t love him. She’d moved on. It’s better that she has. You’re a freak, and you’re no good for anybody. “Let’s go. I need out of here.”

  “Wait a minute. Aren’t you even going to tell Cleo good-bye?”

  “No.” He grabbed his keys off the counter. “She’s got a boyfriend, Sheik.”

  With Sheik barreling after him, Julian ran for the door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cleo’s throat felt like sandpaper. She looked in the cup on her nightstand—empty. She sighed in disgust and rolled her eight-months-pregnant self out of bed to get some water. She’d retired early, hoping to be unconscious when The Big Talk Show with Andy Harris came on. Julian was scheduled to be a guest. Instead, she’d woken up in time for it to start.

  Ben and Marcus wouldn’t resist tuning in, even though they’d promised not to. But Cleo was not going to watch. She’d go down to the kitchen, and if the television happened to be on, after murdering Ben and Marcus, she might glance in its general direction.

  She hadn’t seen Julian since the night after Addie’s wedding a whopping four months ago. Wham bam. What had she expected? He was a rock star who’d found a girl in his bed. So he’d done what rock stars did in that situation. He’d fucked her. Oh, he’d been all wah, wah, I want you to l
ove me. But in the morning? He’d fled the scene.

  She was glad she hadn’t blabbed about the baby. She’d almost done it. What had she thought? That he’d fall to his knees, cry tears of joy, and profess a fetish for pregnant women?

  Maybe she’d write an unauthorized biography about him like she was doing about Lou. She gulped her water and slammed the glass down on the counter. Okay, so she’d never do that. He was the sperm donor for her child.

  She glanced at the living room, where, sure enough, the television was on. She waddled toward the sound of canned laughter, ready to rip the two tittering Benedict Arnolds apart. They jumped when she entered the room.

  “What are you doing?” she asked icily.

  “It was his idea,” her brother said, pointing at Marcus, whose glasses and bald head reflected the glow of the television.

  “Throw me under the bus, why don’t you? You wanted to watch, too.”

  Ben ignored Marcus and held his arms open to Cleo. He was tall, dark, and handsome. With the exception of the green eyes, he didn’t resemble her in the slightest. “Don’t be mad,” he said.

  Cleo didn’t take a step toward his open arms, and he lowered them. “Has he come on yet?”

  “Shh,” Marcus hissed. “Right now. It’s time, and you’re right. I want to watch.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose and scooted over, giddy as a schoolgirl, patting the cushion for Cleo to sit.

  She sat and propped her feet up on the coffee table.

  Ben sat next to her. “You up for this?”

  She didn’t answer, just stared at the television, where Andy Harris smiled into the camera.

  “Our next guest is in the midst of a huge musical comeback,” he said to an already cheering audience. “We knew him as the teenage bad boy of Slice, and more recently as the bad boy of Dead Ringer. But now he’s gone bad boy solo. Please give a warm welcome to Mr. Julian Lazros!”

  The crowd cheered, and the studio band played a version of the old Slice song “Walk You Home.”

  Julian hated that song.

  “Sweet baby Jesus,” said Marcus, fanning himself as Julian walked out. “He’s so hot.”

  Ben reached behind Cleo to thump Marcus on the back of his head.

  Cleo’s heart pounded away. Julian was dressed in jeans, a vintage western suit jacket with rhinestones that she knew had once belonged to Glen Campbell, and black cowboy boots. He smiled shyly at the audience and shook hands with Andy. He ran a hand through his short waves—they’d grown back—and flashed a grin at the camera before taking his seat.

  Cleo wanted to touch him. Her fingers tingled with the desire to comb through his hair. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she shake him after everything he’d put her through?

  Andy delved into Julian’s comeback, mentioning his work with Dead Ringer and the Just a Little Sting single that had brought him into the spotlight. Julian acknowledged his contribution to the album, and the next topic was the tour and how he’d brought it to a grinding halt.

  “You were drawing them in like crazy,” Andy said. “Then you, uh, had a little trouble?”

  Andy made a ridiculous face, indicating he knew very well that Julian had more than a little trouble. Dean had done an interview with Hot Gossip, leaking the news of Julian’s heroin relapse to the world.

  “You could say that,” Julian said, seemingly unaffected.

  “Do you think the band will regroup?”

  “I have no idea. I wish them the best of luck, though. They didn’t deserve what I put them through. I’m not good in a band—it’s well documented that I don’t play well with others.” The audience laughed at the understatement.

  “Aren’t you in a band now?”

  “Yeah, but it’s different. No manager, no major label. It’s just me and my friends making music together.”

  “So, you’re in a garage band, is that what you’re saying?” Andy tapped his pencil on his useless, oversize desk.

  Julian laughed. “Pretty much. We don’t tour. We’re not out to produce record after record. In fact, I don’t know that we’ll ever make another one. The other guitarist is Dave Gutierrez, also formerly of Dead Ringer.”

  “Dave is a new father, right?”

  “Yeah, he’s back in the green room with the baby right now, probably trying to breastfeed.”

  “He’s one of those dads, huh? Does he wear the kid in a pouch and change its diapers?”

  “Yeah, he does all that,” Julian said with a grin.

  “You’ll never see me in that situation,” Andy said, sticking out his chest and pounding on it. “I’m a father like my father was a father. I yell at the kids, tell them they’ll never amount to anything, and hand them off to the nanny.”

  Julian laughed. Asshole.

  “So, do you have any kids? I mean, that you know of?” Andy asked.

  Julian shook his head. “Parenthood is not in my past, present, or future,” he stated. “I look at poor Dave covered in spit-up, and Joey Ramone is cute and chubby and all that, but really, I’d rather hand my balls over on a silver platter.”

  “Nice,” Cleo said, just as the baby gave a rib-splitting kick. The poor thing probably heard it.

  “He didn’t mean that,” Marcus said.

  Her heart, currently scrunched up against her windpipe with the rest of her organs, deflated like a sad balloon. “I’m pretty sure he did,” she answered.

  Meanwhile, Andy blabbed to the camera. “The new album is called Lazros: Mayhem in Memoriam,” he said. “And the single on it, ‘Playing Cleo,’ is topping the charts.”

  “Seventy percent of the profits go to a charity dedicated to addiction outreach programs,” Julian stated. The audience applauded.

  “It seems as if he’s gotten his life on track,” Ben said.

  “Don’t you dare start.”

  “I think it’s wrong not to tell him, that’s all.”

  “Nobody asked you. And we all just heard what he thinks about parenthood. He said it’s not in his past, present, or future. Now shut up so Marcus can hear.” Cleo wiped angrily at a tear as it slipped down her cheek.

  “A lot of people say they don’t want kids before they actually have them,” Ben said. “You know that.”

  No way. She couldn’t let a sliver of hope that Julian would ever want the baby feed some sort of fantasy that he’d also want her.

  “A baby deserves a father,” Ben said, just under his breath. “You’ll never know what Julian wants if you don’t tell him.”

  Cleo stared at the television.

  “Before you play,” Andy said, striking a serious tone, “I’d like to give you an opportunity to confirm or dispel a rather persistent rumor.”

  Julian stuffed his hand in his pocket, seeking his picks. He was nervous—and obviously didn’t know what Andy was going to ask. Cleo’s stomach, located just beneath her deflated heart, twisted into a knot. The baby had probably given it a spinning roundhouse kick. She crossed her arms and sank farther into the couch. Why should she care if Julian felt uncomfortable or made a fool out of himself?

  “The rumor is—” Andy paused, intentionally building the suspense. “The rumor is that you have a very distinctive tattoo.”

  Relief flooded Julian’s face as Andy continued. “It’s supposedly in a very delicate place.” He winced.

  Julian gazed at the camera through his thick lashes. “I’ll confirm it.” The audience cheered and catcalled.

  “Good grief,” Cleo said.

  “It’s just a tribal band,” Julian continued, nonchalantly. He stood and reached for the button on his jeans. “Care to see?”

  Andy waved his hands in front of Julian. “Keep your pants on, friend!”

  The audience booed. When things finally settled down, Julian removed his jacket and pulled up his sleeve. “It’s like the one I’ve got on my arm, only a wee smaller.”

  “Dude, that had to hurt.”

  “I was illegally anesthetized at the time. Really, you don’t end u
p with ink on your dick unless you’re on drugs.” Julian looked into the camera. “Don’t do drugs, children, or you’ll end up discussing indelicate matters on late-night telly.”

  “And with that public service announcement, we’ll go to a commercial,” Andy said. The audience cheered, and the studio band began to play.

  What an embarrassing spectacle. “Yeah,” Cleo said to nobody in particular. “That’s my baby’s daddy up there talking about his penis tattoo on national television.”

  “Oh, my,” Marcus finally said, looking at Cleo with wide owl eyes. “Have you seen it?”

  Cleo patted her tummy. “Ya think?”

  “That’s probably not an exclusive club,” Ben said. “You could Google it right now and see it for yourself. Although I’d rather you didn’t.”

  Marcus feigned offense with a gaping mouth and a hand to his heart. Ben raised his eyebrow, in true Compton fashion, and nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “You want to put some water on to boil? Maybe make Cleo some tea?”

  Marcus sniffed and left the room.

  Cleo leaned her head on her brother’s shoulder. “I hate that he’s looking like a shallow idiot.”

  “He can’t help it. It’s the way he’s made,” Ben said. “And I just can’t quit him.”

  “I’m talking about Julian, you goof.”

  “Oh. Well, he’s not looking so bad, Cleo. It’s to be expected on a show like that. He’s supposed to entertain people, and people find this shit entertaining. That was all scripted, you know. You’re sensitive because you love him.”

  Her stomach dropped—to where she didn’t know, but it definitely dropped. “I do not love him. I had a crush on him the same stupid way I had a crush on Lou Michaels and a million other rock stars. It’s just that he’s an artistic genius, a virtuoso guitarist and violinist, and people are laughing at him.”

  She could acknowledge his talent without loving him. And if tears welled up, it was strictly hormones. She’d cried over a tractor commercial earlier.