Color Me Crazy (11 page)

Sylvie gave a yelp of approval and offered up a fist bump. “I like this girl,” she said. And even though Cleo was seething with something that could not possibly be jealousy, she liked Sylvie right back. They bumped fists hard enough to slosh tea out of Sylvie’s cup.

“Oh, sorry,” Cleo said.

“She’s too enthusiastic for her own good,” Julian said, grabbing a dish towel. “About everything.”

Sylvie laughed, and Julian gently dabbed the cloth at her substantial bosom. Good grief. Cleo had unintentionally set that up for him. Why couldn’t the tea have spilled on
her
instead of Sylvie?

With the excessive dabbing finally concluded, Sylvie headed for the stairs. “I need to get dressed and head on out. Gotta be in Dallas tonight.”

Cleo and Julian stood silently as Sylvie sashayed off, her lacy black robe barely covering her ass. As soon as she was out of earshot, Cleo turned to Julian. “Oh my God. You’re a boy toy.”

He looked aghast. “I’m quite certain she loves me for my mind, Big Red.”

Cleo rolled her eyes and headed for the coffeepot. “Right.”

“And I’m hardly a boy.”

“To her you are. I mean, how old is she?”

“A gentleman never asks a woman her age. Of course, I’m no gentleman, and I happen to know she’s fifty-two.”

Cleo’s mouth dropped. She doubted she’d attract any toys at fifty-two that wouldn’t require batteries. “She’s twenty years older than you.”

“Stop exaggerating, it’s only nineteen. And she has an awesome body, which she knows how to use.” He raised an eyebrow and lowered his voice. “Sometimes, when she’s done with me, I get a cookie.”

Cleo took a sip of coffee. “How do you know her?”

“There’s cream in the fridge, if you want some.”

Cleo gasped. “You bought her
cream
?”

Julian had the good grace to lower his eyes, properly chagrined.

“You must have really needed to get laid,” Cleo said, opening the refrigerator.

There it was.
Holy namaste
, the boy had bought 100 percent organic, full-fat, anti-antibiotic, cruelty free, pasture-grazed cream! She yanked the carton out like a crack addict. The seal was unbroken—the bitch hadn’t even used it. Cleo poured a healthy amount into her coffee and took a huge sip.
Heaven.

“It’s so weird how the bodily fluids of bovines excite you,” Julian said. “Anyway, I played on one of Sylvie’s albums. That’s how we met.”

“Love at first sight?”

“What can I say?” Julian waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “She liked my instrument.”

Cleo rolled her eyes until it actually caused pain.

“Lucky for you,” Julian continued, “we’ve been friends ever since.”

“No kidding. When Sylvie’s here I get animal products.” She took another sip.

“You can buy your own cream whenever you want, you’re just too cheap. But that’s not what I’m talking about. She’s agreed to an interview.”

Cleo set her mug down. “With me?”

“Who else?”

This was way better than free cream. Cleo grabbed Julian’s hands, pulling him in for a hug. She jumped up and down while he stood as motionless as a tree stump.

“Settle down,” he said. “You’re going to come out of your anteaters.”

Gosh, he was cute with his little grin, looking so ridiculously pleased with himself. She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. His face went blank for a moment, but then he smiled and returned the hug with a squeeze so big, Cleo’s armadillos left the floor.

Julian’s nipple rings pressed into her breasts through the thin fabric of her robe. Every nerve in her body stopped what it was doing and paid attention. Julian’s did, too, and she got a healthy salute. He let go immediately and took a giant step back. But she’d felt it, and he knew it.

Good thing she was a woman. There were no telltale signs of her arousal. None whatsoever. Unless, of course, her cheeks were as hot as they felt, or her pupils were dilated like saucers.

“Right,” Julian said. “Okay, then.” He crammed his hand into his pocket, which Cleo knew was full of picks. “I’m going to the studio to lay down a track,” he said.

You do that, Guitar Boy. See if it helps.

…

Well, this was awkward.

Josh sat on Julian’s couch as if he were impaled on a large cylindrical object, right up his ass. It could be the awful tuxedo he was wearing, but more likely, he wasn’t thrilled about Cleo asking him to wait in Julian’s loft while she got ready for the stupid gala. Julian wasn’t thrilled, either, but at least he knew how to be polite.

“Seen any good films lately?” he asked.

Josh tore his eyes away from Cleo’s door and looked at Julian as if he had just now noticed him. “I don’t really have a lot of time for movies right now,” Josh said. “I’m trying to make partner and…well, you wouldn’t understand. Let’s just say we can’t all sit around playing with guitars and watching movies.”

Right.
Trying to make partner by dating the boss’s daughter.
“Can I get you something to drink? You look nervous.”

Josh tugged at his collar. Julian didn’t blame him—it was at least a half size too small. “No, I’m fine. So tell me, have you seen what she’s wearing tonight?”

Julian stifled a grin. Maybe it wasn’t the collar that was making Josh sweat. “I haven’t seen anything, but I did hear the girls talking earlier. Something about a pink and white polka-dot mermaid dress. Sherry referred to it as a prom dress explosion. Or maybe it was implosion. Sorry, I can’t remember exactly.”

Josh went from bright pink to very pale.

It was all true. Julian had overheard the girls discussing a polka-dot mermaid dress. They hadn’t bought it, but Josh didn’t need to know that. And besides, Cleo could have very well bought something even worse.

“I wonder if mermaid dresses have clamshells?”

“What?” Josh said. His eyes were ridiculously round.

“You know,” Julian said. “Clamshells.” He cupped his hands over his chest.

“Oh, God,” Josh said.

Julian wished Cleo would, in fact, emerge in a polka-dot mermaid costume. It was time to put Josh to the test. Just how badly did he want to make partner? And why couldn’t Cleo see what he was up to?

The door opened, and Josh bolted off the couch. Was he going to make a run for it? No. He wasn’t running. He was frozen in his tracks, eyebrows raised, mouth agape. Curiosity got the better of Julian, and he turned to see what their little princess wore—

She did not wear a prom dress. She wore a very grown-up black lace evening gown that hugged every inch. And the inches formed a perfect, old-school hourglass figure. She should take off those horrible hippie dresses and yoga pants more often—let those curves out to play. Julian’s fingers moved automatically, like they did when he thought of a song and needed a guitar. Only he was
not
thinking about music, and what he needed…well, his romp with Sylvie obviously hadn’t scratched that itch completely.

“Well?” Cleo said. “Do I look okay?”

“Perfect!” Josh said. He grinned from ear to ear and his voice—usually a hunter green—sounded almost aqua. The fucker was so relieved he was changing colors.

Cleo turned her eyes on Julian. For about three seconds, he literally couldn’t breathe. She raised her eyebrows in question.

“You look beautiful,” Julian said. He’d wanted his voice to sound strong and sincere—gray, like slate—but it came out breathy, an embarrassing, wispy silver.

Heat rose in his cheeks. Maybe Cleo couldn’t see sounds, but she could sure as hell hear them. And his voice sounded…
hungry
. She tilted her head and gazed through her lashes. The girl could work it.

Josh seemed oblivious, probably because he was still awash in relief. “Black lace was a good choice,” he said, as if he were critiquing the red carpet. “A lot of the other ladies will be in black lace, too.”

Cleo’s mouth turned down a little at that. “Oh. Maybe I should have bought the polka-dot one.”

Julian grinned. “You would look lovely in anything,” he said.

Cleo’s smile came back, full force. “Thanks. What do you guys think of my hair?”

She turned around slowly. A river of lava spilled down her
very bare
back. The front of the dress covered everything, but the back covered very little. “Take a good, long look,” Cleo said. “Because I’m never straightening it again.”

“Very nice,” Josh said. “And some things are worth the effort.”

Cleo spun back around with a faltering smile. Julian waited for the dick to follow the statement up by saying something about lovely curls, but he just clapped his hands and said, “Ready to go?”

“I’ll follow you out,” Julian said. “I’m going to the club to hear a band.”

Josh laughed. “For a minute there, I thought you meant the country club.”

“No, don’t worry,” Julian said, grabbing his keys. “No riffraff in the country club tonight.”

Cleo lifted the hem of her dress to head down the stairs, and Julian recognized the toes of her black biker boots. Maybe there would be a little riffraff at the country club, after all.

Chapter Seven

Julian looked around the depressing, shabby offices of
Upbeat
and waited for Manny to get out of the bathroom. He took the liberty of sitting in his friend’s nasty throne of ripped vinyl, propping his feet up on the cluttered desk. He leaned back, and the springs squeaked out an alarm that made its way through the small battered door in the corner of the room.

“Get outta my chair.”

Julian glanced at the door. “Yeah, okay. Sure.” He leaned back and rocked in earnest. He loved fucking with Manny, and it was so bloody easy.

The toilet flushed.

Julian yanked his feet off the desk and leaned over to grab an issue of
Upbeat
off the stack on the corner. The ugly mugs of the Morones Brothers glared up at him from the cover, and a bizarre sense of pride surged through him. He opened the magazine to the proper page and began reading.

Not surprisingly, Cleo had done a bang-up job.

Manny emerged from the bathroom, lighting a cigarette. He nodded in Julian’s general direction. “Move.”

Without taking his eyes off the article, Julian stood. The chair squeaked as Manny slid in and leaned back. “Your girl delivered, pal.”

She really had. The Morones boys hadn’t made it easy for her. They’d shown up with shaved heads and wearing stupid gangbanger outfits. Cleo had arched those eyebrows, indicating she recognized posers when she saw them, and before the Morones Brothers knew it, they were calling her ma’am and politely answering questions quicker than you could roll an enchilada.

Manny Bloom was ecstatic. His old rag had finally managed to run a real story instead of its usual sad array of upcoming calendar events.

“Where’s the redhead?” Manny asked.

“Late, as usual,” Julian mumbled, still scanning the article. “She’s going to go insane over the monthly feature. She’s going to hug you. Consider yourself warned.”

“Yeah?” Manny blew a cloud of smoke out of his mouth, and Julian wrinkled his nose. Manny ran a hand over his bald, shiny head. “I think I can handle a hug or two from your girl. I just hope she doesn’t like the feel of my Manny meat so much she dumps you.” He made a thrusting gesture with his hips that was meant to be obscene but was closer to hilarious.

“She’s not my girl, but try to keep your meat in your pants, anyway.” He grinned and nodded at Manny’s tired slacks, stained and spotted with cigarette burns. “Nice pants, by the way.”

“Right? They look like yours. Who knew I was a fashion plate?”

Julian smirked and adjusted his gray and black indie mod hipsters. “I got mine last month from an expensive vintage dealer in L.A. I’m guessing you got yours at JCPenney back in 1962?”

“It was 1963, asshole. And hey, if she flips over the monthly column, I wonder what she’s going to do when I tell her about the Sylvie Sandstone article.”

“What about it? You’re running it, right?”

“Nope. I sold it to
Country Times
. She hit the big leagues with that one.”

Julian dropped the magazine into Manny’s lap. Holy shit. She was going to flip.
Country Times
was country music’s equivalent to
Rock ’n’ Spin
.

“So, Julian, if you’re not banging this chick, how come you’re helping her out, huh? You like this woman or something?”

“Or something.”

Manny raised his bushy eyebrows, and Julian pretended to ignore him. He wasn’t going to spill his guts. What would he even say? Manny took the hint and changed the subject. “The Up and Coming segments are going to be great, but there’s something that would be even better.”

“Forget about it, Manny.”

“Come on, man! How about a nice, juicy article that starts with, ‘Whatever happened to Slice?’ Mitch Landrum lives in Austin now. I bet he’d be game for an interview.”

A shiver traveled up and down Julian’s spine at the mention of Mitch’s name. It was true that Mitch was in Austin—so fucking close—but Julian had been lucky enough to never run into him. “I hear he’s in a band with a bunch of middle-aged freaks playing pool halls and bar mitzvahs. He’d probably appreciate the publicity. But being your has-been of the week doesn’t hold any appeal for me, so fuck off. Stop bringing that Slice shit up every time I see you.”

“You’re hardly a has-been, brother. And I hear the Roustabouts are tight. Austin loves them, and it seems they’re having a good enough time. Maybe you and Mitch should bury the hatchet, huh? I mean, how long’s it been?”

Not long enough. Suddenly, Julian didn’t feel like sticking around. An urge to escape came over him. He needed to do it before Cleo showed up and Manny helped her connect the dots in his convoluted life story. She’d figure it out on her own, but he’d prefer she not do it today.

“I have to head out now. I just came by for a few of these.” He grabbed a stack of the magazines off the table.

“Hey, wait a minute—”

“Tell Cleo I’ll see her later. And keep my has-been status to yourself.” He turned and left Manny stuttering in his wake.