Color Me Crazy (12 page)

By the time he hit the hot sidewalk, he was at odds and didn’t know where he wanted to go. The heat melted the traffic sounds from the nearby freeway into pea soup. He grabbed the handle of the El Camino’s door and jerked his hand away, cursing. Welcome to south Texas’s sorry-ass excuse for autumn. Using the tail of his shirt, he pulled the handle up again and yanked the door open. A belch of hot air ambushed him. He threw the stack of magazines onto the seat and slid into the oven next to them.

“Julian!”

Orange bubbles poured in through the window. Julian looked up to see a pair of perfect breasts in a horrid ruffled blouse.

“Hello, Cleo.”

She leaned in, replacing the view that caused serious shifting in the layout of his trousers with one that caused serious shifting in his heart. He smiled at her sweaty face, cheeks pink from the heat and framed by damp and curling ringlets of red hair. She was grinning and out of breath.

“I was running to catch you,” she wheezed. “Why are you leaving?”

“Where did you park, genius? There are spots all in front of this building.”

“I know. But I can’t parallel park worth a crap. I had to go into that garage by the mall.”

Julian looked about. With the exception of his car, there were no other cars on the street. Your average blind man could parallel park a double-decker bus anywhere within the block. “The list of things at which you’re inept just keeps growing. It’s impressive.”

“Thanks,” she said with a grin. “Where are you going?”

“I have someplace to be. I’ll see you later.”

Her lips did something adorable that he thought might be a pout. “Oh. Well, okay. How did the article look?”

“It was all right.” He palmed her forehead and pushed her head out of his window. Then he drove off, leaving her to her own devices with Manny Bloom.

He didn’t have a destination in mind, but a street sign reminded him he was close to Addie’s place. He might as well stop by and share Cleo’s good news.

Addie had been mysteriously absent ever since Cleo arrived on the scene. It was as if his sister had hired a babysitter for him and gone on holiday. One left turn at the next block brought him to her neighborhood. He drove slowly down the narrow street. It was lined with parked cars on both sides—some up on blocks—and he remained alert for children, dogs, or chickens, all of which had darted out in front of him on previous occasions. He drove with his window down, soaking up the sounds and colors of the neighborhood. Many of the homes and apartments didn’t have air-conditioning, and music and conversation poured through their windows. The bright, festive colors of a fiesta danced before his eyes.

Addie’s turquoise door came into view. He looked for a spot to squeeze into and found one right behind a black Lexus. What the holy fuck was a black Lexus doing in this neighborhood? He pulled in, frowning. Across the street, Addie’s ever-vigilant neighbor, Senora Lopez—the woman had to be close to a hundred years old—sat on her front porch, fanning herself with a magazine. She wore the same two things she always wore: a scowl and a faded housecoat. She was the neighborhood watch, so surely, she’d noticed the Lexus.

“
Hola,
” Julian yelled as he climbed out of his car. He lifted his hand in a wave, and Senora Lopez nodded slightly, with no change of expression. Maybe her cataracts were getting the best of her, because she didn’t seem at all concerned with the Lexus. It wasn’t pimped out, but Julian drew a conclusion anyway.
Drug dealer.

The fiesta colors disappeared as a tremor of nerves washed over him. He looked up and down the street. Where was the brazen asshole? Middle of the fucking day, and in close proximity to his sister and Senora Lopez’s great-grandsons, who would be home from school any minute.

He reached his hand into his pocket and clicked his picks together. There had been a string of home invasions in the next block. Why did Addie insist on living here and giving him one more thing to worry about?

He navigated the cracked, weed-riddled sidewalk to her front door and knocked loudly. The familiar chemicals of her dye studio—a tapestry of metallic hues—wafted under the door. The curtain in the window moved, and he waited patiently for the door to open. When it didn’t, he knocked again, louder. He reached into his pocket and found the picks. Why wasn’t she answering the door? Or even shouting
just a minute
? What if someone was in there with her, not letting her speak? The surface of his skin erupted in pins and needles, and then he pounded on the door, creating a ruckus that traveled up and down the street—and his spine—in red waves of alarm. “Addie,” he yelled. “Open up!”

Someone tapped on his shoulder, and he spun, hand clenched in a fist, picks pressed against his palm. Senora Lopez stared stoically at him, concern etched in her ancient forehead. “
Mijo
, it’s okay,” she said. “Your
hermana
is fine. Her
novio
is in there.”

“Her
novio
?”

“Si.”

“Addie doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

Senora Lopez gave him a look that suggested she knew better. The door behind him swung open, and he spun back around. A tall man stood in Addie’s doorway. Julian’s heart jumped to his throat. Addie
never
had men over. And this one looked vaguely familiar.

“Whoa now, settle down there, cowboy.”

That voice—an amber rumble with piss-yellow edges—was unmistakable. What the bloody hell was Mitch Landrum doing in his sister’s flat?

The shocking blue eyes were the same, although Mitch had obviously spent the past twelve years etching laugh lines into his formerly pale and ashen face, which was now a healthy tan. There was barely any resemblance to the angst-ridden young man Mitch had been when he’d fronted Slice. The dark and brooding expression had been replaced by a buoyant and cheerful countenance, and it looked fucking ludicrous.

Mitch’s eyes were on guard but twinkling. The motherfucker was practically smirking. Without thinking, Julian punched him—right in the face—and picks flew as if he’d struck a piñata.

Mitch went down, writhing, groaning, and holding a hand to his bloody nose. The asshole needed to get up so Julian could hit him again. He gave him a little prod with his foot, and Senora Lopez mistook it for a kick and exploded in a fit of Spanish, no doubt a scathing annihilation of his character. She even swatted him with her magazine, and it kind of hurt.

“Ouch! Stop that. This guy is”—he searched his limited vocabulary of Spanish curse words—“a
pendejo
.”

The old woman gasped and reached into the pocket of her housecoat. He flinched, but she didn’t pull out a paddle for his ass or a bar of soap for his mouth. It was a handkerchief for Mitch’s bleeding nose.

Where the fuck was Addie? The bathroom door at the back of the flat creaked open, and her dark head peeked out. Her mouth gulped like a goldfish out of water as she took in the scene.

“Addie—”

“Julian, what have you done?” She ran out in nothing but a towel and joined Senora Lopez in fawning over Mitch.

“What is Mitch Landrum doing in your flat?”

Mitch had the audacity to look him in the eye with a smirk that answered the question—
I’ve been doing Addie.

“Good to see you again, punk. As you can see, I’ve met your sister.”

...

Cleo was walking on air, or rather, driving on air. She’d already been by her parents’ house to brag, and even her mom had seemed pleased. Her dad had been downright proud.
An article in a national magazine! A local monthly feature!

She pulled up to a stoplight and looked at her phone. Had she missed a call from Julian? She’d texted him a million times, but he still hadn’t responded. She was dying to talk to him. She longed for that stoic British look, the one that said he’d known she could do it all along. The look that made her feel as if she
could
do anything.

The Morones Brothers had landed a producer, and tomorrow they were all going out to dinner. Now they’d have even more to celebrate. The light changed, and her phone rang. Julian always did that—called or texted just as she was thinking about him. She hit the phone button on her steering wheel—
hands free, San Antonio
—“Guess what?” she blurted.

There was a quiet pause. “Hello? Is this Soundbox Studio?”

The studio’s calls were forwarded to Cleo’s phone. In her excitement, she hadn’t even looked to see who called.

“Sorry,” she said. “You’ve got the right number. What can I do for you?”

“This is Cory. I’m calling to let Julian know about a release party. This is the only number I have. Is it the best way to get in touch with him?”

“A release party?”

“For our new album. Julian played on it.”

Cory must be with one of the local bands that recorded at Soundbox.

“Details, Cory. I need details.”

He laughed. “Well, I’m not certain of all the details. It’s just my job to show up. But let’s see, there will be people. There will be food, some kind of L.A. crap only the record label executives can stomach.”

“You mean Los Angeles?”

“Yes. We love Julian, but not enough to bring the party to him. He’s going to have to drag his ass to us. But even he will need an invitation to get in, and we don’t have his address.”

This wasn’t the band next door. “What band are you with again?”

“Dead Ringer. This is Cory Maxwell with Dead Ringer.”

“Are you for real?” She pulled into a convenience store parking lot so she wouldn’t crash the car. “Julian knows you guys? He played on your album? Oh my God, you’re Cory!”

“And you’re enthusiastic. I love that about you.”

She blushed. “I’m usually very cool,” she stammered. “This is probably the first time I’ve ever not been cool.”

A hearty laugh filled her ear. “I’m flattered.”

“You should be. Can you send an autographed picture with that invitation? I swear I won’t sell it on eBay.”

“How about I send you an invitation to the release party and you can get something signed in person?” Was he flirting with her? She managed to give him the mailing address for Soundbox, then hung up with a squeal. This had been a spectacular day.

Back at the loft, Cleo shouted Julian’s name and took the stairs two at a time. He couldn’t hear her over his guitar, but she shouted anyway. A screeching wail from his bright red Stratocaster met her as she burst through the door.

“Julian, I just talked to—”

The note ceased as if cut by sharp scissors. Cleo cleared her throat. The tension was thick, but why? The only sound came from an amp buzzing at his feet.

“So, guess who called?” she said.

With no warning, Julian exploded into a blur of motion and kicked the amp, jerking it free of his guitar. It careened across the room, narrowly missing Cleo.

“Dammit, girl,” he yelled. “You can’t barge in here while I’m playing. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Cleo’s pulse pounded in her head. She took a small step back toward the door. Was Julian joking? The veins bulging in his neck, trembling hands, and clenched jaw said no. Cleo would probably do well to quietly retreat down the stairs she’d just clambered up. But her pounding pulse had turned from fright to rage.

“What’s wrong with
me
?” she shouted. “How about what’s wrong with
you
?”

Julian smacked his hands over his ears and shut his eyes.

“Very mature.” She walked over and yanked his hands away. “You can damn well take it if you can dish it out, buddy. Don’t you
ever
yell at me like that.
Comprende?
”

No
comprende
. He stood there with his hands at his sides, eyes squeezed shut, swaying. “Open your eyes and look at me,” she said.

He didn’t. Holy cow.

“Hey,” she said, instinctively lowering her voice to a whisper. “You okay?”

No response. She timidly touched his cheek, and the contact severed the invisible strings holding him up. He dropped to the floor, landing in a heap with his guitar in his lap. He lowered his head to his hands, rocking back and forth.

The tension fizzled out of the room, replaced by a still and suffocating blanket of silence. “Julian?”

He rocked faster.

What should she do? Turn out the light and leave? Call an ambulance? She was in over her head. Her phone buzzed with a text, and she snatched it in irritation. Oh, it was Addie!

H
AVE YOU SEEN
J
ULIAN?
H
E ISN’T ANSWERING HIS PHONE.

Cleo hit call. This required voice to voice.

Addie answered almost immediately. “What’s he done?”

“Um, he’s acting weird.” She glanced at him. “Rocking and stuff. I don’t know what happened. I just walked in and—”

Addie sighed in her ear. “He’ll be fine. Make everything quiet, give him some space, and he’ll pull out of it.”

“What the hell is wrong with him?”

Addie laughed, but it was bitter. “I don’t even know where to start. Basically, he’s upset because I have a boyfriend.”

Cleo frowned. It made no sense. “I don’t understand. And really? You have a boyfriend?” Wow. She’d love to dig deeper into that, but not while Julian was doing whatever it was he was doing.

“Listen, I don’t really know how to say this, but I’m done,” Addie said. “He’s all yours.”

“Addie—”

“I can’t, okay? He gave me an ultimatum. And I didn’t choose him.” She hung up.

Cleo stared at the phone in her hand. Apparently, Julian and Addie had synchronized their timing in going off their rockers. She lowered herself to the floor next to Julian, because somebody had to help him, even if it was just to sit with him. She gingerly lifted a few strands of hair out of his face.

He stopped rocking, hesitated for a moment, then leaned over and buried his face in her neck. She wrapped her arms around him as he curled up and leaned into her, warm and heavy. He was shirtless, and his skin was hot and slick with sweat. His warm breath tickled her neck as he settled in completely, almost knocking her over with his weight. Letting go of his guitar, he wrapped his arms around her waist. A soft moan escaped his lips as his breath brushed the sensitive skin beneath her ear.