Color Me Crazy (2 page)

The room spun and her head pounded as she bravely swung her feet over the side of the bed, seeking the floor with a tentative toe. Standing up was a momentous occasion. She felt like Heidi.

“Look, Grandfather,” she said to the pile of clothes on the armchair. “I can walk.”

Grabbing her phone off the nightstand, she began the short hangover shuffle toward the bathroom. An unfortunate glimpse in the mirror revealed insane hair, smeared mascara, and an Aerosmith T-shirt on backward. Because having a shirt
not
on backward would have lent entirely too much class to the scene.
Oh, Jose Cuervo, you are such a bastard.

She grabbed her toothbrush and pulled up last night’s photos on her phone, looking through squinted eyes to lessen the shock of whatever was about to pop up. She’d hoped to turn over a new leaf on her thirtieth birthday, but there she was in the first picture, brilliantly balancing a lime wedge on her nose. She sighed, set the phone down, and turned on the water.

Fresh from the shower, she towel dried her hair and frowned. Her parents were hosting a birthday dinner for her tonight. She’d have to tell them she hadn’t gotten her teaching job back. It would be one more disappointment.

As if she needed confirmation of her many disappointments, her eyes lit on the small stack of
Rock ’n’ Spin
magazines sitting on her old cedar chest. The six issues represented her short-lived career at the famous music and entertainment publication. She hadn’t the slightest idea what to do with them. Burn them? Frame them? Rip them to shreds? For now, she’d settle for putting them out of sight. Into the cedar chest they’d go.

It was some kind of irony that the monstrous chunk of furniture was romantically referred to as a hope chest. She’d received it on her twelfth birthday, a traditional southern gift from her traditional southern mother. She’d asked for an electric guitar. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear,” her mother had replied before filling the chest with what she considered a respectable trousseau.

Cleo ignored the bone china resting on top of the heirloom monogrammed napkins and looked down at the huge stack of
Rock ’n’ Spin
issues she’d saved since she was fifteen. Eddie Vedder and the rest of Pearl Jam stared up at her. She dropped the latest six issues on top of Eddie and shut the lid, watching John Mayer and his sleepy eyes disappear with a set of Oneida stainless and an embroidered linen tablecloth folded neatly at his feet.

Coffee. She needed coffee. She inhaled the rich and promising aroma wafting out of her kitchen. Wait a minute…she hadn’t made any coffee.

Frantically, she racked her brain. Only certain parts of the evening were retrievable from the old memory banks, but she definitely remembered hot, sweaty dancing and a guy with a British accent. Oh, boy. She swallowed hard. She’d met Addie’s brother.

She followed her nose, sneaking down the short hallway on her tiptoes. Would he be in her kitchen in his underwear? Would he be in her kitchen
without
his underwear? With a deep breath, Cleo peeked around the corner.

The kitchen was empty. As was her trusty French press. The coffeemaker in the corner, however, steamed away with vigor, and there was a note taped to it.
You’re welcome.
The flowing script was Addie’s.

Cleo melted into the countertop with relief. She vaguely remembered Addie driving her home last night, the two of them singing along with Depeche Mode while a heavily tattooed party pooper groaned and muttered in the backseat.

At some point in the evening, Addie’s brother had turned from a charmer into a grouch. And Cleo had the uncomfortable feeling she’d had something to do with it.

She poured a cup of coffee and glanced around the tiny boxed-in room. She missed her old apartment in Southtown. It had been small, and the ancient plumbing had ensured a refreshingly cold shower every morning, but it had oozed character from every nook and cranny. This unimaginative one-bedroom unit in a sprawling urban complex was all she could currently afford. Actually, it was more than she could afford. The not-so-friendly reminder about the back rent she owed stared up at her from the counter. Her stomach churned.

Just as she set the mug down, her phone chirped with a text: D
ON’T PANIC.
W
E’VE GOT YOUR CAR, REMEMBER?
W
E’LL POP BY AROUND NOON.

She looked out the window. Sure enough, her Honda Fit was missing. Her palm smacked against her forehead. Of course Addie had her car. How else would she have driven home? She and her brother had walked to Slammers.

Grabbing the phone, Cleo zipped through the frames, stopping when she came to a picture of Addie’s brother. His dark hair was wavy and shoulder length. Thick eyelashes framed chocolate eyes that turned up at the corners, like his sister’s. But that was where the resemblance ended. It was inconceivable that prim and proper Addie could have a brother so deliciously wicked. Thank God he lived on another continent. She didn’t need to get tangled up with anybody’s brother, wicked or otherwise, especially now that she’d met Josh, who was delightfully stable and thrillingly normal, two attributes she was determined to appreciate.

She opened the refrigerator and considered breakfast. A half-eaten fajita taco stared up at her, unearthing the memory of the post-bar sojourn through the Taco Cabana drive-through. Addie’s brother had self-righteously lectured her about the evils of eating meat.
Oh dear God, he was a holier-than-thou vegan.

The half-eaten taco did not tempt her in the slightest, and she shut the refrigerator, frowning a little as she remembered how grabby he’d been on the dance floor. In fact, she hadn’t been felt up so thoroughly since her junior prom and…
Oh, boy.
That brought it all back. He’d made a brazen grab at her ass during a slow rock ballad, the final song of the evening. She’d pushed him away and then, for good measure, had punished him with a pinch through his shirt, twisting his nipple.

A familiar heat rose in her cheeks. Why hadn’t she just slapped him like a normal person? Why was she so freakishly bizarre when drunk? And how in the world was she supposed to have known his nipple was pierced? She winced at the memory of his unmanly squeal. No wonder he was pissed.

She deleted every picture until all evidence of birthday debauchery was destroyed. Then she glanced at the text again.

D
ON’T PANIC.
W
E’VE GOT YOUR CAR, REMEMBER?
W
E’LL POP BY AROUND NOON.

Two things immediately stood out as alarming. The first was the word “we.” The second was the word “noon.” She had five minutes.

She bolted to her closet and spun in circles. Everything was wrinkled or dirty. She dug hastily through a basket—not even a clean bra to support the troops! Oh, what the hell. He might not even come, and if he did, she wasn’t going to be taken in by sexy bedroom eyes or drool-worthy tattoos. For the first time in her life, she would repel trouble instead of sucking it toward her at warp speed. She stepped out of the closet, ran her fingers through her curly, damp hair, and went to the kitchen to wait by the window. Barefoot, no makeup, and a Rudy’s BBQ T-shirt, complete with stains. If the wounded warrior from their dance floor battle showed up, he was about to see her in her natural habitat, with her natural hair and her natural, unsupported boobs—the trifecta of trouble repellent.

...

Julian winced beneath his dark shades. Fucking sun. He was going straight home as soon as he could. He needed one of two things: complete silence or a wailing guitar. Silence would get rid of the swirling colors that bled together in his head until his mind floated in a sea of pea soup. Playing guitar wouldn’t get rid of the colors, but it would force them to stay where they belonged, separated into a candy-coated rainbow of flavor, which he much preferred to pea soup.

The colors were only a problem if he was stressed or, like today, exhausted. He’d been in no condition to drive after Slammers and had spent an uncomfortable night on Addie’s couch. She’d insisted he follow her to the redhead’s flat so he could take her back home. He’d considered arguing, but his curiosity as to what kind of shape the woman would be in had won out in the end. He hoped she was worse off than he was. Drunk or not, there was no excuse for the humiliation—and pain—she’d dealt out on the dance floor.

“She’s on the third floor,” Addie said.

Julian let out a groan. The only thing worse than climbing stairs would be sitting in the sweltering car, so he took a deep breath and prepared to summit.

“You can do it,” Addie said, clucking her tongue. “Serves you right, anyway. And when we get inside, do you think you might avoid the groping and such? I’d hate to see you get yourself into another, er…pinch.”

“Very clever.” He ran a hand across his chest to see if his nipple still smarted. He winced. It sure as hell did.

All he’d done was brush her ass with his fingers. He’d been aiming for the small of her back, but he’d overshot. It wasn’t even intentional. So what if his hand lingered a moment or two? He closed his eyes, recalling the opening strains of “November Rain” and the way the music had surrounded him like a cloak of crushed purple velvet. Cleo’s curvy body had pressed against his, and he’d had a completely innocent and involuntary physiological reaction. She’d felt it—goddamn, she’d rubbed against it—right before his hand made the unfortunate venture south.

He narrowed his eyes at the stairs leading to her flat. Maybe there was an apology waiting up there.

“Come along,” Addie chirped. Confident that he’d snap to and follow orders, she marched off without so much as a glance over her shoulder.

He’d already taken a step to follow, but at her bossy tone he stopped and reached his arms over his head for a nice, long stretch. A light breeze brushed his stomach as his T-shirt rode up. He’d found it at Addie’s, and she’d sworn it was hers, but what would she be doing with a Sex Pistols T-shirt? It had to be his, even though he rarely wore the T-shirts in his huge collection. It was clean, so he’d put it on, dismayed that Addie had shrunk it. His shirt from the previous evening wasn’t exactly fresh. In fact, thanks to his overzealous dance partner, it had a tiny bloodstain on it.

He let Addie get to the second landing before sprinting across the parking lot to catch up. Breathless from the effort, he stopped at her side and bent over, gasping. Stupid move under the circumstances. He rubbed his temples, hoping his head wouldn’t explode.

“You know,” Addie said, “you really shouldn’t drink like you did last night.”

“I was fine,” Julian said. He’d been pretty plastered. “And it’s not your problem, anyway. Butt out.” He straightened, squared his shoulders, and exhaled. Running a hand through his hair, he subtly sniffed an armpit. Not too bad. Still smelled like soap. He’d refused his sister’s Sensual Secrets deodorant.

Addie snorted.

“What now?” he said.

“Going to try again, are we?”

“Try what? It’s not like I’m even attracted to her.” At least not now that he was sober.

“You should reconsider the type of women you
are
attracted to. Maybe if you were to get to know some strong, intelligent women—”

“Addie,” he said, through clenched teeth, “I’m quite happy with my life just as it is.”

“You are not,” she said.

“Focus on your own lack of happiness, would you?”

A secretive smile formed on her lips. “I have.”

Julian eyed his sister. “What is that supposed to mean?”

She turned her face away, but not before he’d seen the blush.
What the—

The door jerked open, and there stood the redhead, satisfyingly disheveled. Her damp hair stuck out in every direction, and she hadn’t a spot of makeup on her freckled face. A mess in every sense of the word. So why was she looking at him as if she were the queen and he the hired help?

“Addie!” she said, giving his sister a vigorous hug. At the sound of her silvery voice, Julian experienced the same odd phenomenon he had last night—pale orange bubbles popped gently along the edges of his peripheral vision. He was used to living his life inside a psychedelic kaleidoscope, but the redhead had just added another dimension.

He received a less enthusiastic welcome from his effervescent hostess. “Well,” she said. “Here you are again.” As though he were a stray dog who kept turning up.

He scowled. “Too hot to wait in the car.”

She gazed at him with a critical eye. Her lashes were pale, but long and thick. One eyebrow raised, a dainty red arch that seemed to say,
Oh, really?
She stepped back and extended her arm toward the interior of the flat. “Won’t you bring yourself, your lovely sister, and your bloodshot eyes into my humble abode?”

The two stepped in. And even though he wasn’t feeling charitable, he said, “You don’t look the worse for wear, Big Red.”

“Really? I feel awful. You?”

“I’m perfectly fine, thanks for asking.”

“Oh. Well, you looked better last night,” she said. “Of course, you know what they say. The girls all get prettier at closing time.”

Was she really insinuating that last night’s advances—and she
had
made advances—were the result of dim lighting? And worse, was she really quoting a Mickey Gilley song? The slow burn of irritation spread through him. The woman literally made him see red.

He didn’t usually respond so foolishly to what might only be good-natured ribbing, but he was inexplicably rattled, as if he were a monkey in a cage that had been given a good jiggle.

Wanting to get rid of the smirk tugging at the left corner of Cleo’s upper lip, Julian gave her a quick and intentional once-over. “That’s most definitely true,” he replied. “At closing time, guys make overtures they often regret the next morning.”

The hint of a smirk disappeared, and the other eyebrow rose to match the first. Then they both dived down to form a vicious scowl. She looked like a teakettle just before it whistled. Slamming the door behind her, she said, “At closing time, some people become desperate gropers.” Her eyes dusted over him. “And yet somehow they manage to appear even more pathetic the next morning by showing up stubbly and wearing a girl’s shirt.”