Color Me Crazy (10 page)

Cleo waved her hand as if she weren’t worried, even though she was. “No problem. I used to teach at a community college.”

The Morones Brothers were a Latino hip-hop group who’d recorded their demo at Soundbox. They had a reputation for being bad
vatos
. But that wasn’t what concerned Cleo. She gulped at the memory of her self-assured response of
Sure!
when Julian had asked her to interview the trio and write an article. Julian’s longtime friend Manny Bloom had promised to publish it in
Upbeat
, a local arts and events rag that barely stayed afloat. It was hardly a
Rock ’n’ Spin
assignment. But still, what if it ended up being a steaming pile of bullshit? She didn’t want to let anyone down.

Julian grinned and followed her to the staircase. “You keep going over all the questions you’ve prepared, and mumbling to yourself, and doing that thing you do with your knuckles. You’re an annoying little fucker when you’re nervous.”

Cleo stopped on the second step and turned around to protest being referred to as an annoying little fucker. Julian bumped into her, then took a step back. They were nose to nose. Perfect kissing height.

“Josh doesn’t find me annoying.”

“That’s because he’s too self-absorbed.”

Josh wasn’t self-absorbed, he was just busy with important things like contracts and golf and avoiding words like “fucker.” And he still managed to make time for her. At least weekly. Or every other week, anyway. Busy, mature people ran busy, mature lives.

She spun back and marched up the stairs, pushing the door open at the top. The loft was, as usual, pristine, orderly, and humming with the buzz of the amplifiers plugged into every outlet. Four guitars rested on the couch, lined up like perfect soldiers. She headed for the kitchen. “Sorry I annoy you. You have no annoying habits at all, of course.”

She touched his red Stratocaster as she passed, intentionally moving it a couple of inches to the left. Julian came right along behind her and straightened it.

“No annoying habits at all,” he said. There was a smile in his voice, and she grinned in response.

Cleo began pulling out salad fixings, because ham and cheese for a sandwich would result in a vegan diatribe for which she currently had no patience. “You want kale?” she asked, knowing that of course he wanted kale. Vegans always wanted kale.

“I can do that,” Julian said, grabbing the greens away and pointing at a bar stool. “Stop acting like the fucking maid.”

He couldn’t do anything nice without making a girl feel like it was all her fault.

“Thanks for trusting me to do this interview.”

“You can write, right?” he asked. “Not that anybody is going to read it.”

“Of course I can write. And if not, I make a killer cup of coffee.”

“So far, I’ve seen evidence of neither.”

That was true. By the time she got up in the mornings, he’d already made coffee. And because she could smell it from her apartment, she didn’t see the point of brewing her own.

Julian quickly prepared a salad and set it in front of her, along with a bowl of strawberries. “Don’t be nervous,” he said quietly. “You’ll do fine. More than fine, probably, just like you’ve done everything else.”

He patted her hand, and the contact sizzled, causing her heart to pound. Good grief. That should have stopped by now.

“Dressing’s in the fridge. I’m going upstairs for a few minutes.”

“You’re not going to eat?” she asked. “You said you were hungry.”

“Changed my mind.”

He loped casually toward the stairs, but Cleo had the distinct impression he was trying not to run.

...

Julian tingled all over. His vision was clouded with colors that weren’t even associated with sounds. A guitar would help.

Cleo was killing him. It was time to power through the outer edges of lust and get to the eye of the storm. In other words, to where reality set in and her endless faults irritated him instead of turning him on.

She had moved in under the guise of working until she could get back on her feet. Nobody had come out and said that, but it was the unspoken understanding. Instead, she was working her sweet little ass off and doing a bang-up job. And if that weren’t bad enough, he fucking liked her. And he didn’t want to like her.

He sat on the bed and reached for his faithful Fender. Predictably, it was already plugged into an amp. He liked predictable. He ordered his life around it. And now Cleo had muddied it all up by barging into his life—and his heart—uninvited.

That had only happened once before, and it had been disastrous.

He ran his fingers over the tattoos on his forearm, feeling the small scars beneath the ink. If only everything in his past was as easy to hide.

He leaned back against the headboard, letting the weight of the guitar settle into his lap. If he was patient, a song would come.

At first, it was a single turquoise note, but he quickly teased a rainbow out of it. A few sexy thoughts of Cleo were teased up as well, and he settled the guitar lower on his hips. His head sank back as a melodic strain poured through him. The instrument moaned in ecstasy as he bent a note up, coaxing, enticing, and sweet-talking a candy-apple wail out of it before bringing it down with a shudder.

With Cleo in mind, he tickled the strings and stroked the neck, caressing a deep, mellow tone from somewhere inside the guitar’s polished wood. He raised his hips and built a crescendo, bringing the guitar to a fucking scream.
He’d like to make Cleo scream…

“Knock, knock. Julian?”

With a pathetic flat wail, he tossed the guitar aside and hastily sat up.

“Excuse me,” Cleo said, exploding into a scarlet blush. “I’m sorry…”

“I was just playing guitar,” he stammered.
Not wanking off.

“The Morones Brothers are here. Um, take your time, though,” Cleo said. Then she fled as if a swarm of bees was on her heels.

Julian cringed and closed his eyes. He allowed exactly ten seconds of utter humiliation, then got up and gathered his wits. As he headed for the door, his phone buzzed with a text. He looked at it and smiled. He could practically hear the overdone Texas drawl of one of his favorite female pastimes.

H
EY, Y’ALL—BOOTY CALL!
I
’LL BE IN TOWN TOMORROW IF YOU FEEL LIKE WRINKLIN’ SOME SHEETS.

This was exactly what he needed—to wrinkle some sheets with a woman who didn’t frazzle him. With a woman who, unlike Cleo, had somewhere to go the next morning.

Chapter Six

Cleo lay in bed, keeping a wary eye on the ceiling fan. The creaking thing rocked back and forth, whirring and humming, its blades squeaking in time with the box spring upstairs. She couldn’t believe it had taken this long for the headboard to start hitting the wall—no part of Julian suggested a life of celibacy—but it sucked that she had to listen to it.

She flopped over and sighed. Her pillow was flat, so she fluffed it. With her fist. It was also hot in the room, so she kicked her covers off. Her feet became tangled, so she went to war, kicking and shoving and grunting until she had them in a wad of a mess that she kicked to the floor. There now. That was better.

She lay back down and closed her eyes.
Creak, creak, creak…whir, whir, whir…bang, bang, bang.
It was hard to relax while imagining the gruesome details of being chopped to bits by a ceiling fan. Or while imagining Julian on top of her, making her moan like that obnoxious woman—whoever she was—upstairs.

Something that felt like plaster hit her face. She swatted it away. The entire ceiling would come down if they didn’t finish soon. Finally the squeaking and whirring became faster, and the woman’s moans turned into a frenzied chorus of, “Oh God, oh God, oh God…Julian!”

“
Oh God, oh God, oh God…Julian!
” Cleo mimicked in her best whiny voice, the one she could do while sticking her tongue out. Then it was quiet. Blissfully, awesomely, peacefully quiet. Her ceiling fan settled down to its usual death rattle, and she retrieved her bed linens from the floor. Now she could finally get some sleep. It was five in the morning. What kind of people had sex at five in the morning?

She turned over, pulled the covers up, and relaxed into her pillow. But then she heard something. She held her breath to hear it better. Giggling. Great. And creaking floorboards. It was Julian’s footsteps…
one, two, three, four, five—pause—one, two, three, four, five
. He’d walked to the guitar stand and back. More giggles. More squeaking bedsprings. The rhythm of conversation.

Cleo put her pillow over her head. One simply
must
get some sleep, after all.

She closed her eyes. Were they still talking? She lifted the pillow—didn’t hear anything, so she held her breath and waited…sure enough. They were still talking! Were they just going to
blab, blab, blab
until the sun came up? How was a girl to get any sleep?

Finally, the slow, familiar wail of Julian’s guitar rang out. It was his lullaby song, the one he played almost every night. Only it wasn’t doing its job. Instead of being lulled into sleep, Cleo was edgy, irritable, and…
horny
.

She dragged her hands across the sheet, pressing her palms into the textured pattern of the mattress, digging her nails in slowly. What would it feel like to run her hands all over Julian’s back? She closed her eyes. The strains of music entered her room through the ceiling, and their ghostly, melodious fingertips brushed her skin, leaving trails of gooseflesh. A long note ached with passion as Julian milked it for vibrato. It shook Cleo to the core, and in her mind she saw his face—eyes closed, lips parted, brows drawn in an excruciating mix of pain and pleasure—his sex face.

She swirled in an erotic whirlwind, stirred by Julian. If only she could seamlessly transfer those feelings to Josh.

Josh. She wasn’t trying to string him along. He was a great guy, a handsome guy, an almost perfect guy. But her tiny obsession with Julian—yes, she admitted it—was getting in the way. Why couldn’t she get past musicians? What was it about them that turned her into a spineless, quivering mess?

But she wasn’t spineless around Julian. She was competent and strong and…a quivering mess.

The Strut and Putt Gala at Josh’s country club was tomorrow evening, looming like prom night. All the big decisions had been made: shoes, dress, hair. But what about the big one? Would she put out or not? It should be a no-brainer. Especially after what she’d listened to all night.

Her mind followed one train of thought—
guitars and tattoos
—to the next—
tuxedos and ball gowns
—until it finally veered off into the murky world of dreams.

She woke up a couple of hours later, feeling hungover from both the quantity and quality of the sleep she’d snagged. What she needed more than anything was coffee. And while she owned a perfectly good French press, normally she had coffee with Julian. In his kitchen and with his organic, free-trade coffee she couldn’t afford but had come to appreciate.

She listened to the sounds from the other side of the wall—pipes groaning, cabinet doors slamming, teakettle whistling. Wait a minute, a teakettle? Julian might be British, but she’d never seen him drink tea. He drank coffee in the mornings. Cleo narrowed her eyes.
He was still entertaining his guest.
She smacked her empty mug against the palm of her hand. Crossed and uncrossed her legs, knocking off an armadillo slipper in the process. Her phone buzzed with a text: Y
OU UP?
W
ANT COFFEE?

Oh, she was definitely up. And she wanted coffee. But—she bounced her foot up and down—was he really inviting her to have it with his morning-after buddy?

She texted back. I
SN’T THREE A CROWD?

She was already standing, though.

I
’M INVITING YOU FOR COFFEE.
N
OT A THREE-WAY.

Cleo ran a hand through her hair, retrieved her errant armadillo slipper, and opened the door. Julian stood near the stove, shirtless. He was pierced, inked, and ripped as hell. The familiar sight got her juices flowing more effectively than a triple shot of espresso. She forced her eyes up to his face.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

There was enough sauciness in his tone to indicate he knew darn well how she’d slept. “You should call an exterminator,” she said. “I think we have rats.”

Movement caught her eye, but it was no rat. A small blond head peeped around Julian’s shoulder.

“Hello, there,” the head said.

“Oh,” Cleo said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.” She did her best to smile.

The woman came around to stand beside Julian, and he casually slipped an arm across her slim shoulders. She was vaguely familiar—tiny, like a delicate pixie, and drop-dead gorgeous. She was older than she looked, though. The neck and eyes did not match the perky boobs. She’d had some star-quality work done, for sure.

“Cleo, this is Sylvie Sandstone,” Julian said.

No freaking way. What the heck was a legendary country music star doing in Julian’s kitchen? While wearing something black and lacy?

The country crooner smiled graciously. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

“Holy cow,” Cleo gasped. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m Cleo. I manage the studio. And I live here. Well, not here, as in this very spot. I live there.” She pointed to the open door next to the refrigerator, which looked seriously inadequate as a boundary. “We just work together.”

She heard herself talking, but she didn’t know how to apply the emergency brake. “We have a professional relationship and nothing more.”

She slapped her hand over her mouth. Why had she said that? Julian choked on his coffee, dribbling it onto his bare chest. And she did
not
want to lick it off. Much.

“Yes, she’s right,” Julian said. “It’s strictly professional around here, as you can probably tell from the way she flounces about in a ratty bathrobe and anteater slippers.”

“I don’t flounce.” She glanced down at her bathrobe. Dust bunnies clung to its hem, but it wasn’t ratty. “And these are armadillos,” she said, sticking a foot out. “If you were a real Texan and not some Stevie Ray wannabe with a weird accent, you’d know that.”