Color Me Crazy (35 page)

“Julian?”

“Who else?”

“Oh my God,” she said, yanking her wrists free and smacking him one more time for good measure. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“This is my loft. What the bloody hell are
you
doing here?”

She looked so completely perfect in his bed that it seemed a silly question. She was there because she
belonged
there. He shook his head to clear it of the orange bubbles. They made it hard to think.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing here.” Cleo sighed and moved toward the edge of the bed. “I’ll leave. I’m sorry.”

The loft shook with a rumble of thunder, followed by the machine-gun rat-a-tats of hail pelting the roof. Cleo grabbed Julian’s neck, burying his nose in her hair.
Tangerines.

“I’ve got you,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist. “It’s just a storm.”

He was home, in his loft. And Cleo was in his arms. He squeezed her tightly, willing the rest of the world to disappear, until there was nothing left but the two of them.

His clothes were wet, but Cleo was the one shivering. Her red hair cascaded down her back, and he ran his fingers through it. They came to rest above the swell of her ass. He swallowed as the shirt rode up to reveal bare cheeks and a thong. And now a wet T-shirt, thanks to him. His jaw clenched as his cock grew hard. How was he ever going to let her go?

Her fingers brushed his jaw. He tensed. Did she still hate him? Her hand moved to his head, and she ran it softly across the bristly stubble of his scalp.

“Why did you shave your head?”

He swallowed, trying to find his voice. “I don’t know. I guess I wanted to be different.”

“Are you?” she whispered.

How could he answer that? He was better, and he was worse. Better, because he was off heroin. Worse, because he was without Cleo. “I’m sorry I made such a mess of things,” he finally said.

There was a long pause before she answered. “Why? Why did you do it? Why did you have to join that band?”

Was it really not obvious? He pulled away just enough so that he could look at her. “I wanted you to love me.”

Her mouth opened as if to speak. Her brows rose in question, then furrowed in confusion and something akin to anger. Finally, she said, “I did love you.”

No. She just thought she did, after she’d discovered he was Julian Lazros. Only he hadn’t really
been
Julian Lazros. And never would be.

“You don’t understand. I don’t want to be a rock star. I’m just a studio musician—and I
like
being a studio musician. You needed more than—”

“How dare you tell me what I needed?”

Was she serious? It was obvious what she needed. She loved the thrill of being around famous performers. Her romantic relationships had been with rock stars. She’d been obsessed with rock stars since childhood. And now she’d made it her fucking
job
to be with rock stars. “But—”

Cleo’s lips were drawn in a tight line, and she trembled, but not from the cold. He’d obviously pissed her off. She hastily wiped a tear away. “Because of some childish obsessions in my past, you believe I’m nothing more than a
groupie
. That at my very core, I’m capable of nothing deeper than a
crush
. That I was willing to give my heart and soul to you because of a
guitar
. How could you claim to have loved me while thinking so poorly of me?”

“Cleo, even my own
mum
couldn’t love me if I wasn’t on a stage.”

He covered his mouth with his hand. Where the fuck had that come from? It wasn’t even true and…
yes, it was
. He lowered his eyes and pulled away a bit more. This was all stupid. What was he doing here?

Cleo lifted his chin. “Look at me.”

He didn’t want to. He knew his eyes were filled with shame and embarrassment, and the only thing worse than him knowing it would be Cleo knowing it, too.

“Why did you cheat on me?”

His eyes snapped up to hers. “
What?
”

Cleo raised an eyebrow. “You
did
cheat on me, didn’t you?”

“No, of course not. I just wanted to get rid of you. For your own good, because I’m toxic to people I love.”

“Oh, Julian. You don’t have to be. And I need to tell you something—”

He crushed her mouth in a kiss. He simply couldn’t wait any longer. He hadn’t been with a woman since their breakup—hadn’t even considered it—but now the pent-up longing came crashing through, and he just wanted to kiss her, love her, and
fuck
her.

Soon, their lips and tongues found familiar patterns, and Cleo made a sweet, helpless sound in her throat. She wanted him. She fucking
loved
him. Julian felt a rush of euphoria—it set him on fire and lit him up more than heroin ever could. He wanted to pounce on her like a hungry puma on a skittish rabbit.

They fell onto the bed.

He kissed her neck, and she sighed in surrender, then giggled a turquoise stream as his fingers trailed across her ribs. He dragged the tip of his tongue across her collarbone and lifted her shirt to find what he desperately craved. With his head cradled in her arms, they sank blissfully into the sanctity of him at her breast.

“You’re so voluptuous,” he whispered. Her breasts were warm and soft—a place he could lose himself—but there were other places to explore. His hands paused at the small curve of tummy above her pubic bone. Voluptuous, indeed. Someone had been hitting the cookie dough ice cream.

He didn’t dare comment on her sexier, fuller curves, but he loved every bit of them. The sweet swell of her belly begged for a kiss, and an inexplicable knot rose in his throat as he delivered it. Cleo squirmed, and he knew what she wanted.

Her panties slipped off easily. “Open up for me, baby,” he whispered.

She did, with a soft moan the color of lime sherbet, and he went straight to the soft, sweet flesh between her legs. Her lips parted for him, full and swollen like a juicy peach.

He cupped her bottom in his hands, tilted her, and began the rhythmic sucking and licking he knew she loved. And then he touched her with the tip of his tongue, right at the perfect spot. She exploded in purple shock waves that rolled over him, caressing his skin like velvet gloves.

He covered her with his mouth, holding on with gentle suction, until the rolling waves of her ecstasy faded.

It wasn’t this way with other women. He didn’t know what they wanted or how to give it to them. But with Cleo, he knew what to do, as if her body were an extension of his own. With trembling lips, he kissed her one last time before laying his head to rest on her thigh, cherishing the beauty of what she’d given.

After a moment, Cleo pulled him to her. She gripped his hips, restlessly moving against him. “Let’s make love. I want you.”

He wanted it, too. So bad that it hurt. But he remembered a small detail. “I don’t have a condom, baby. I wasn’t expecting to get laid at my sister’s wedding.”

She didn’t laugh. “I can’t get pregnant. It’s okay.”

A thrill coursed through him. Problem solved. But then…why was she on birth control? His heart sank. She’d been with someone. But could he blame her for that? He’d left her, told her he cheated on her…

“Please,” she said. “I want you.” Her eyes were filled with desire. Need. And what she needed and desired was
him
. Just as he was.

Her flesh yielded instantly. He groaned with pleasure and sought a rhythm. He kept his eyes open to look at her, and she looked back, glassy-eyed with pleasure.

Since getting off heroin, everything was more intense. Sex, it turned out, was no exception. Their bodies moved together—faster and faster—creating a symphony of colors, scents, and sounds that nearly overwhelmed him. But nothing blended. He was with Cleo, and he was safe.

Every nerve came alive before the final thrust. He lingered for a moment, on the precipice, letting the tangerine droplets drizzle over him, bringing him closer to the edge than he thought possible. Then he drove in deeply, one last time, screaming until he was hoarse as white lights exploded around them. He collapsed on top of Cleo, gasping into the pillow as her flesh gently squeezed him.

He nuzzled her neck before kissing his way down to her breast. And all was right with the world.

The early morning light poured in through the stained-glass window above the bed and splashed kaleidoscope jewels across the white comforter. This was Julian’s favorite time of day—it was silent and there were no other colors bouncing off the walls or careening through his head.

He yawned and stretched, then inhaled deeply. Cleo had made coffee. Maybe he’d sink back into the pillow for just a few minutes.

His eyes snapped open.
He was in the loft, and Cleo had made coffee.

Springing up like a jack-in-the-box, he grabbed his trousers and ran for the door, jumping into each leg between strides. By the time he hit the stairs, he was at a full run, zipping up as he went.

He burst into the room, but all he saw was a big, ugly, bald guy.

“Calm down, Princess. I’m assuming she’s the one running the shower.” Sheik was perched on a bar stool, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

Julian exhaled in relief and grabbed the stool next to Sheik.

“Well?” Sheik barked.

“Well, what?”

“From the racket I heard last night, you two are back together. You gonna cancel that offer on the L.A. house and stick around here like a man?”

“That will be up to Cleo. But that’s what I’m hoping.”

He was invincible. Fucking great. There was absolutely nothing standing between him and the rest of his glorious life.

He looked toward the stairs and ran a hand over his head to straighten his hair, only to discover he still had none. He wished he’d at least brushed his teeth. Sheik splashed some dubious black goo into a mug and slid it over to him.

A phone rang, and Julian jerked, spilling coffee onto the bar. He was wound a little tightly.

“This must be the redhead’s,” Sheik said, picking up the phone at his elbow. “She’s got a text,” he said, squinting, “from some guy named Marcus.”

A flash of alarm went off in Julian’s head, a literal red alert. “A guy named Marcus?” He yanked the phone out of Sheik’s hand.
Don’t look at it. It’s just a text. It’s just a text from a guy named Marcus.

He looked at it.

D
ARLING, GLAD YOU STAYED IN
S
AN
A
NTONIO AND DIDN’T TRY TO DRIVE HOME IN THE STORM.
I
HAVE A BIG SURPRISE WAITING FOR YOU.
A
ND
I
DO MEAN
BIG
.

Followed by two obnoxious hearts and a cartoon dog holding a bouquet of roses.

What the fuck?
Julian slammed the phone down.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Sheik asked.

God, he’d been so stupid. So fucking stupid thinking everything could work out. Things didn’t go that way for him. He ran a hand over his head, wishing he had hair to grab. How could she do this to him? How could she tell him she loved him—wait—she’d said she
had
loved him. And she’d said she
wanted
him. Not the same thing. And she was on birth control because she had a motherfucking boyfriend named Marcus.

The red began to deepen…
Don’t let it turn brown, don’t let it turn brown…
He covered his eyes with his fists and gulped deep breaths.

“Oh, shit,” Sheik said. “Where’s your little happy vial?”

He felt Sheik digging around in his pocket. Then the scent of tangerines floated under his nose. The colors dispersed, and his head cleared. He still loved Cleo, loved her with all his heart, or the vial wouldn’t work that way. But she didn’t love him. She’d moved on.
It’s better that she has. You’re a freak, and you’re no good for anybody.
“Let’s go. I need out of here.”

“Wait a minute. Aren’t you even going to tell Cleo good-bye?”

“No.” He grabbed his keys off the counter. “She’s got a boyfriend, Sheik.”

With Sheik barreling after him, Julian ran for the door.

Chapter Nineteen

Cleo’s throat felt like sandpaper. She looked in the cup on her nightstand—empty. She sighed in disgust and rolled her eight-months-pregnant self out of bed to get some water. She’d retired early, hoping to be unconscious when
The Big Talk Show with Andy Harris
came on. Julian was scheduled to be a guest. Instead, she’d woken up in time for it to start.

Ben and Marcus wouldn’t resist tuning in, even though they’d promised not to. But Cleo was not going to watch. She’d go down to the kitchen, and if the television happened to be on, after murdering Ben and Marcus, she might glance in its general direction.

She hadn’t seen Julian since the night after Addie’s wedding a whopping four months ago.
Wham bam.
What had she expected? He was a rock star who’d found a girl in his bed. So he’d done what rock stars did in that situation. He’d fucked her. Oh, he’d been all
wah, wah, I want you to love me
. But in the morning? He’d fled the scene.

She was glad she hadn’t blabbed about the baby. She’d almost done it. What had she thought? That he’d fall to his knees, cry tears of joy, and profess a fetish for pregnant women?

Maybe she’d write an unauthorized biography about him like she was doing about Lou. She gulped her water and slammed the glass down on the counter. Okay, so she’d never do that. He was the sperm donor for her child.

She glanced at the living room, where, sure enough, the television was on. She waddled toward the sound of canned laughter, ready to rip the two tittering Benedict Arnolds apart. They jumped when she entered the room.

“What are you doing?” she asked icily.

“It was his idea,” her brother said, pointing at Marcus, whose glasses and bald head reflected the glow of the television.

“Throw me under the bus, why don’t you? You wanted to watch, too.”

Ben ignored Marcus and held his arms open to Cleo. He was tall, dark, and handsome. With the exception of the green eyes, he didn’t resemble her in the slightest. “Don’t be mad,” he said.