Color Me Crazy (32 page)

“Too much for you?” he asked.

“There’s something Freudian in it when it goes on too long,” she said, raising that eyebrow.

“There is not,” he said. “Mum.”

She giggled, grabbed the nearest pillow, and smacked him with it.

“Is that how you want to play, Big Red? You want to play like that?”

He yanked the pillow out of her hands and gave her a good wallop—too hard of a wallop, actually, and she rolled off the bed with a yelp.

She was beet red and madder than a wet hen when she popped back up.

“Why, you—” He took a direct hit to the face. When he opened his eyes, it was raining feathers.

Cleo wore an adorably wondrous expression, a couple of feathers, and nothing else.

“Oh, you sweet, sweet angel,” he said. “Come here and let me love you.” He plucked a feather out of the air. “This might come in handy.”

It did. And when she was properly giggled out and adequately excited, he positioned himself to take her.

“Wait, wait…no,” she said, breathless from the teasing and torture she’d endured. “I have to pee.”

“You are so fucking romantic, do you know that?”

“Spontaneous morning sex,” she said, “does have its pesky kinks.”

“Did you say kink, Big Red?”

“Don’t make me start over with the pillow.” She climbed off the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

She walked away, red hair swaying and sweet little ass intentionally sashaying. He reached beneath the covers to appreciate his hard-on.
Just checking.

Things were going to be fine. He was staying on track, staying focused, not thinking about heroin…shit, he was thinking about heroin.

“Julian?” Cleo shouted from the bathroom. “What happened in here?”

Sheer panic rolled through him. What had he left in there? He’d been so out of it, most of the waking up and getting to Sheik’s room was a total blur.

“Why is the lid off the toilet tank?” she asked.

“What?” His voice sounded high-pitched and hysterical in his head.
Calm down and think.
“The float thing got stuck last night. I fixed it—guess I didn’t put the lid back on the tank.”

He’d broken out in a cold sweat, and a quick check beneath the covers confirmed his dampened mood.

“You’re such a handyman. That turns me on, you know,” Cleo said, amid the clanking sounds of the tank lid being returned to its rightful place.

Julian ran his hands through his hair. Where had he left the bindles? He vaguely remembered taking the whole baggie of goodies into Sheik’s room. Surely, that’s what he’d done. He hadn’t left anything out on the counter or something stupid like that. He resisted the urge to barge in on Cleo for a quick look around.

He heard running water, Cleo humming, and eventually, the toilet flushing. Everything was fine. But shit, he’d lost his hard-on. The door opened, and Cleo came out. She seemed okay, and she was wearing…
What was she wearing?

“Do you like it?”

“Where did you get that? A stripper store?”

“Yeah, kind of,” she said, blushing. A black fishnet dress barely covered her ass. Were those tiny black panties crotchless? God, he hoped so.

Cleo smiled shyly, glancing at him through her lashes. “I can’t believe I’m wearing this,” she said innocently. “Maybe I should take it off?”

“Soon enough,” he said. Her breasts stretched the fishnet, pink nipples poking through the holes. Julian licked his lips. He didn’t need to peek under the sheet to know he was back in business.

“Get over here.”

Cleo came right up to him and stood with her legs apart, one taunting eyebrow perfectly arched. He pressed his face against her, inhaling her scent through the black panties. Then he took a nibble while running his hands up her thighs and pulled away with a smile.

“On top, baby. Come on.”

She pulled the sheet back and looked at him. Her pink cheeks said she liked what she saw. “Condom,” Cleo said.

“Uh-huh,” he answered. His mind was already drifting, and the desire for dope needed to be drowned by something more powerful. He wanted to fuck. With a gentle tug he pulled her on top of him—he’d get a condom in a minute, no worries.

She let out a small cry as he entered her.
Pain? Ecstasy?
Holding her hips, he gave her a couple of pumps.

“Julian!”

He crashed back into full consciousness when he opened his eyes. “Sorry, baby,” he said. “I got carried away. I’ll go get a condom.”

“Damn straight,” she mumbled.

Cleo wasn’t on birth control. No way she’d let him do anything without a condom. He gave her a kiss, helped her off him, and headed to the bathroom, where he checked carefully to see if he’d left anything incriminating. An alcohol prep pad sat on the counter, but he brushed it into a drawer. There was nothing else. He was relieved…at first. Then he had an urge to keep looking.

He opened drawers, checked the cabinets under the sink, and looked in the toilet tank. A pair of jeans in the corner received a pat-down, just in case he’d left something in the pocket, but there was nothing. The shaving kit was likewise empty, and he tossed it on the counter in disgust. The relief was replaced by disappointment. A little kick would be nice.

He grabbed a condom out of the drawer, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he slammed it shut. A guy who looked like shit stared back. Shiny eyes and dilated pupils—would Cleo notice? She was out there looking like every man’s fantasy in fishnet, and, well, he’d rather shoot up. It was awful, but it didn’t change anything. With a sigh, he headed back to the bed.

A couple of minutes later, he was beneath Cleo, letting her ride him for all she was worth. He loved watching her, kept telling himself how good it was, telling Cleo how good
she
was, but he hovered just outside the perimeter of being fully present.
When would he be able to sneak away?

Soon, there was no connection at all. He tried to fake it. Tried to make the proper noises, say the proper words. But he was going through the motions with an anesthetized, rock-hard cock. Heroin, if it let you get it up in the first place, helped you keep it up, sometimes indefinitely.

Memories of Slice tours and going at it for mind-numbing hours with nameless girls flooded his head. Fucking on heroin was like having an out-of-body experience—you could see what you were doing, but you didn’t care.

Cleo moaned his name, forcing him into the present. This wasn’t some nameless girl, for Christ’s sake. With renewed determination, he kissed her, just as an orgasm ripped through her body. He was still inside her, hard and dead, and she collapsed on top of him, completely spent.

It wasn’t over yet, though. He pulled out and rolled on top. She wrapped her legs around him, welcoming him back.

He started moving, and it was going along well until he realized he’d lost track of time. Had it been five minutes? Fifteen? He couldn’t feel anything, and he sensed Cleo becoming less enthusiastic by the minute.

“Oh, my,” she finally panted. “If you keep this up for more than four hours, you’re going to need medical attention, and so am I.”

Julian needed to end this thing. He gazed into Cleo’s eyes, he kissed her, he talked to her, he did everything he could think of to try to connect with her, but in the end, all he managed to do was fuck her. And not very well.

Finally, he climaxed. Not with a bang but a whimper.

Minutes later, he stared at the ceiling with her in the crook of his arm. “Julian, are you okay? You seem distracted.”

“What? No, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I mean, sorry if that wasn’t so great. I’m tired after last night.”

The bathroom beckoned. Even though he knew there was no dope in there, he wanted to check one more time, anyway.

“Don’t apologize. Everything’s good,” she said.

He grimaced.
Yeah, everything’s good except for you just having suffered the worst sex in the history of robotic fucking.

She sat up and looked at him. He wished she’d stop that.

“Have you been doing your biofeedback? Shouldn’t you have done it last night?”

“I’ll do it later. I’m fine.”

“But you’re supposed to do it at least twice a day.”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. Cleo blinked at him.

“Sorry, baby,” he said, sweetly. He kissed her. “Everything is under control. It kills me for you to worry.” All junkies were good liars.

He wanted to tell her everything. But what if she ran like hell and never looked back? Also, telling her meant he’d have to quit. And, of course, he wanted to quit, and he fully intended to quit. Just not today.

...

Cleo lay on the bed like a limp dishrag, flipping through the television channels. Julian had gone to Sheik’s room to do his biofeedback. Why hadn’t he just done it in here? One minute he was intimately connected to her, showering her with attention, and the next he was distant and practically ignoring her. Something was wrong. But what was it?

Maybe he was embarrassed after the anticlimactic morning sex, or possibly he was just tired and cranky. He’d slept most of the day. What if he was getting sick? It would be awful timing with back-to-back shows next week. If only she had the courage to broach the subject of him quitting the tour and coming home.

Her brooding was interrupted by a soft knock. Muting the television, she crawled off the bed and answered the door. She gasped to see Sheik taking up every square inch of the doorway.

“What are you squeaking about, Minnie Mouse?”

With her hand at her throat, she waited for the rush of adrenaline to subside. “I didn’t squeak. You startled me.”

“Did you answer the door by accident?”

“No, but I wasn’t expecting you. And you’re terrifying. Now, what do you want?”

“Don’t raise that eyebrow at me. We need to talk, Cleo.”

He’d never used her name before. Dread slithered up her spine.
Don’t be stupid. You know what’s wrong.
Only she didn’t. Nothing she could put into words.

“What is it?” she whispered.

Sheik sighed, came farther into the room, and turned to face her. “You want to sit down or something?”

“Why do I need to sit down?”

Sheik shrugged and pointed to a chair. Cleo sat, barely feeling it.

“Your boy’s doing heroin.”

He might as well have said Julian was a hippopotamus. For a few seconds, she just sat there, trying to figure out what language Sheik was speaking. Because it didn’t make sense. Was it Greek? Latin? Yiddish?
What?

Then the first puzzle piece fell neatly into place. Her hand went to her mouth.
Oh, God.
More puzzle pieces. The room tilted as if the chair had been yanked out from under her.

“Did you hear me?” Sheik asked.

“But why?” she asked. “How did this happen?” She stood up, needing to move. “If only he hadn’t come on this stupid tour! Is he still in your room?” He needed some sense slapped into him, and she was just the woman to do it.

“Listen, why don’t you sit back down?” Sheik said. “We need to chat. It’s not what you think. Not that bad, really. We just need to—”

She stopped in her tracks and spun around to face him. “Not that bad? What is the matter with you? He’s doing heroin!” She’d been such an idiot. What had she said to him earlier?
I’m not naive, Julian.

“When is he doing it? I mean, how does it work? Is he on it
now
?”

Sheik’s eyes were wide, but he put his hands out as if to calm her. “It’s that thing, you know, that thing he does with the colors. Heroin helps with that—”

“He has a biofeedback program for that.”

“There was a little problem.”

Cleo paced the room like a caged animal as Sheik told her what had happened to the program. “Why didn’t he just replace it? That would be the normal thing to do. Not say,
Oops, I think I’ll try heroin now.
”

“Okay, you’re turning all kinds of colors. I don’t think it’s healthy. I’m not used to white girls yelling at me. Not as white as you, anyway. Shit.”

“Answer me!”

Sheik jumped. “He did order a new one, but it didn’t come in fast enough. It got lost trying to keep up with the tour. Kept arriving a day late. Jesus, girl, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

Very quietly, she asked, “Where did he get it?”

“Okay, that’s scarier. I liked you better when you hollered. Listen, he had shows to do. He couldn’t wait. I didn’t believe him—that he would go crazy and shit. But man, I saw it with my own eyes.”

He walked right up to her, until they were nose to chest. “I got it for him,” he said softly.

His T-shirt said D
EAD
R
INGER—
J
UST A
L
ITTLE
S
TING
W
ORLD
T
OUR
. Cleo’s fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. She hadn’t realized she’d balled them into fists. “I hate you,” she said.

“I don’t blame you. I wish I hadn’t done it. I wish I’d just called an ambulance, but he said they’d put him in a psych ward, and he was…” His voice caught, and he cleared it. “He was so scared.”

“You felt helpless.” And he couldn’t very well use the same methods she did to bring Julian out of it.

“He said a little sniff of heroin would clear it all up. And it did, too. But by the time his game came in, he was hooked. The fucker hasn’t even opened the package.”

“Hooked? He’s addicted?” She knew it was a stupid question. Heroin wasn’t like a Saturday night martini.

“Yeah, ’fraid so. Turns out he’s been shooting up alone.”

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God…” She began to pace again. “People die that way!” A list flashed through her mind—famous names—and she shivered. Julian was not going to be on that list. “We have to get him to rehab.”

“Listen, we’ve got a big break coming up, and I’m going to help him kick it then.”

“Um, no, you’re not. We’re going to get him help right now, this very minute.”

“We’ve got a lot of shows coming up,” Sheik said. He averted his eyes. “I can get him through until then.”

Cleo punched him on the arm. “Listen to what you’re saying,” she said.