Color Me Crazy (7 page)

Addie paused at the big double doors nestled into the corner of the building. Shaded by the balcony, the entrance was cool and comfortable, and the sidewalk and steps were clean and freshly swept. A neon sign lit up the window: S
OUNDBOX
S
TUDIO
.

Addie bypassed the doorbell and opened the lid on a discreet keypad. She entered a code and turned the handle on the door. “After you,” she said, extending an arm.

The big door closed behind them, and the outside world disappeared. It was so quiet—like a museum or a library—that Cleo whispered. “Wow. Look at this place.”

The brick walls were adorned with autographed photos and posters of the bands who’d recorded here. Concert promotion posters, audition notices, and job opportunities covered the supportive columns in the center of the room.

Cleo and Sherry walked quietly around, taking in everything. A small anteroom sat off to the side, and Cleo poked her head in the door. A couple of ratty futons were pushed against the wall next to a small kitchenette.

“Is this my apartment?” she asked. The futons would have to go. She could probably squeeze her love seat in, but where the hell would she stick her bed?

“Goodness, no,” said Addie. “Your flat doesn’t have a kitchen.”

Cleo spun around. “I don’t have a kitchen? Are you kidding me?”

“Julian’s going to take care of that straight away. No worries. Anyway, that’s just a lounge for musicians. Sometimes they need a comfortable place to take a break, especially if they’re recording all night.”

“Oh. So where
is
my apartment?”

“It’s upstairs,” Addie answered.

Cleo automatically looked at the ceiling. Didn’t Julian live upstairs?

“You can peek in at the studio, if you want,” Addie said, flipping a light switch. A window to the right lit up, revealing a room filled with Persian rugs, plump cushions, and overstuffed chairs. Guitars and percussion-type instruments rested in stands or on tables, and some were mounted on the walls. In the back was another small window. It was dark—must be the actual recording room where the equipment was. A stinging dart of panic pierced Cleo’s armor of optimism. What was she doing here? Had she ever made a decision in her life when she wasn’t drunk?

Addie moved past the recording studio to the back of the room. “Let’s go upstairs.” She pushed a button on an intercom to the right of a narrow door.

Julian’s tinny voice came through the speaker. “It’s unlocked.”

Addie opened the door and led the way up narrow, steep stairs. Dim wall sconces did little to light the way, and Cleo grasped the wooden handrails. Julian stood at the top, appearing in silhouette with light pouring in from behind. His hair was a wild tangle of waves and a guitar hung on his back. A laser show would have been a nice touch.

He waved. “Howdy, girls,” he said, allowing the rock star facade to go up in an anticlimactic puff of smoke.

Thank goodness.

...

Julian beamed as Cleo soaked everything in. He couldn’t help it. Even though he did not want anyone living in it with him, he’d worked hard at fixing up the loft, and she seemed to appreciate it. The hardwood floors were polished to a gleam, and nothing was out of place. Tidy, just as he liked it.

A Steinway baby grand piano sat off to the left, its lid open and sheet music resting on the bench. The pages tugged at him. He’d been writing all morning—orange notes mostly—to distract himself from worrying about his newly acquired employee.
And roommate.

He suddenly remembered his hair. When he wrote music, he tousled it like a madman. He must look like he’d licked his finger and stuck it in an electrical socket. He ran his fingers through his hair while he led the women past the couch, which held three guitars: a red Fender Stratocaster, a white Gibson Les Paul, and a Martin acoustic. He had over a hundred guitars, but those three were his workhorses. “Watch out for cords,” he warned, kicking one out of the way. Amps were everywhere, and their relaxing buzz bathed the place in a golden hue.

Cleo’s eyebrows shot up, clearly appreciating the hammered tin tiles on the ceiling. “Original?” she asked.

People rarely noticed the ceiling, even though he had painstakingly cleaned and painted each tile. “Yes,” he said. “I have more in storage, because I tore out most of the third floor—only my bedroom is up there now. Don’t know what I’ll do with them but can’t bear to part with them just yet.”

Cleo put her finger on her chin, as if she were actually considering what to do with the tiles. “They’d make a great backsplash in a kitchen or bath.”

“That’s actually one of the projects I’m considering,” Julian said.

“Oh, wow,” Sherry said. “Do you guys know what just happened?”

“No, what?”

“I got bored.”

Cleo laughed and elbowed Julian in the ribs. “Sherry was an art history major. Talk about boring.”

“Hey, there’s lots of sex in art,” Sherry said. “Right, Addie?”

Addie stood quietly by the window, gazing out. “Right,” she said, clearly distracted. That was the first word she’d said since coming up the stairs. Something was up.

“Ooh,” Cleo said, tilting her head back. “So much natural lighting through those windows.” Her deep red curls trailed down her back toward the swell of her ass, which was encased in a ridiculous patchwork skirt of crazy colors—like a jazz saxophone riff. A treasure of a Flogging Molly T-shirt topped off the ensemble. It was a shame she hadn’t taken proper care of it. The logo was cracked and peeling.

“I hate artificial lighting,” he said. It was a bit of an understatement. He could fucking
hear
artificial lighting.

Sherry had wandered over to the stairs, which were hidden in a polished oak cylinder jutting out of the brick-and-mortar wall. “What is this?”

“It’s an enclosed spiral staircase. Addie can tell you about it. She’s the one who found it while on holiday in Spain.”

It was one of Addie’s favorite stories—one of her greatest finds—and she never tired of telling how she’d rescued the staircase from destruction and the huge headache involved in getting it to the States. Julian waited for her to pick up the thread, but she remained silent, staring out the window. “Addie?”

She looked up at the sound of her name, but her eyes were glazed and distant.

“Julian says there’s a story with the staircase,” Sherry prodded.

“Huh? Oh, yes. It was in an old cathedral they were tearing down,” Addie said. Then she went back to staring out the window.

Okay, this thing with Addie was getting weird. He caught a furtive glance dart between Sherry and Cleo—apparently, they didn’t know what the fuck was going on, either.

“Moving on to the kitchen,” he said. “Your flat doesn’t have one yet, so make yourself at home in mine.” He tried to smile, but it severely pained him.

“And where is my flat?” Cleo asked, gazing around the loft.

Julian pointed to a door to the left of his refrigerator. “In there.” He swallowed. “And I’m warning you. It’s not very impressive.”

“Oh,” Cleo said weakly, “I don’t need much. As long as my folks aren’t in there, I’m good to go.”

“I doubt they’d fit,” he said. “Now, normally, you’d enter through your own door that comes off the parking lot. There’s a set of stairs that lead straight to your flat.”
In other words, don’t traipse through my place to get to yours.

He walked over and threw the door open with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

Cleo walked in first, followed by Sherry. They both stopped just inside the doorway. “Oh, Cleo,” Sherry said. “This totally sucks.”

Julian’s skin prickled over the insult. Cleo stood in the doorway, gawking at the single room with a tiny alcove off to the side. The walls were brick, covered over with cement and mortar that was peeling off in chunks. The wood floors needed refinishing. No kitchen, as he’d already pointed out. His face grew hot with embarrassment.

Cleo inhaled deeply and clapped her hands over her mouth. Her green eyes were huge with shock, the eyebrows arched to the point of ridiculousness. He swore her hair was blushing. At the first smart-assed remark, he’d bloody well remind her that beggars could not be choosers.

He braced for it, but she made no sound other than a tiny squeak. He doubted that happened often. “Listen,” he said. “If this doesn’t suit you, you can damn well—”

She broke out into a huge grin, and her face lit up like fireworks. Fizzy orange bubbles floated to the ceiling and popped. Julian’s nose tickled, as if he might sneeze, and his stomach fluttered a bit in a possible prelude to a laugh or, God forbid, a giggle. He hoped she’d speak before he did any one of those things or possibly all three.

“I love it.”

“You do?”

“What’s not to love? Just
look
at it.”

“I am looking at it,” Sherry said. “Are you joking?”

“It’s absolutely perfect.” Cleo sighed. “I mean, it’s small. Don’t get me wrong. But look at all the character.” She ran over to the window and peered at the fire escape. “I’ve been living in a sterile, white-walled box with the formaldehyde smell of a FEMA trailer. This is great.”

This wasn’t what Julian had expected at all. He pointed to a low archway that led to the alcove. “That’s where Addie slept when she stayed here before,” he said. “There’s a curtain rod up there. She hung some silky things from it and made a bedroom of sorts.”

“I left them in the closet,” Addie shouted from the other room.

Cleo ran to the closet and pulled out bolts of sheer purple organza. “Perfect,” she said.

Julian turned the knob on a small door in the corner. “This is the water closet.”

Cleo squealed as if she were on a silly game show. “I have a water closet!”

“You do know what that is, don’t you?” he asked. The toilet was pushed right up next to the sink. A miniscule shower commandeered the corner, and you could only get to it by sucking in your gut and slipping past the sink.

“It’s hilarious,” Cleo said. She turned to face him, grinning. “I can brush my teeth, shower, and pee all at the same time.”

“Thanks for the mental image,” Sherry said.

Julian laughed in spite of himself.

A couple of hours later, they were finished bringing Cleo’s things in. She would have to put some of it in storage, but she didn’t seem to mind. She bounced around, opening boxes and rattling on about what to put where.

“I mean, why do I need more than two towels, anyway, right?” she asked nobody in particular. “How many can I use at one time? And I have a washer and dryer now, so no need to go to the Laundromat.”

That sounded a bit too cozy. “Actually,
I
have a washer and dryer,” he said. “You don’t even have a kitchen.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll need more than two towels, then.”

The idea of Cleo hoarding dirty towels in black trash bags to be hauled down the stairs made his blood run cold. “Just kidding,” he said. “Of course you can use my washer and dryer.”

First the kitchen, now the washer and dryer. What was next?

...

Cleo lay in her bed, which fit perfectly in the cozy alcove. Her muscles ached from carrying boxes and furniture upstairs, and she was exhausted. But sleep wouldn’t come, even though she’d counted hammered tin ceiling tiles. There were seventy-two.

Tomorrow was Monday, and Julian hadn’t said anything about what time to report to work. She doubted he’d rise at the crack of dawn and head to the studio. But should she? And what would she do when she got there?

Josh had come by earlier, taken a look around, and suggested she move in with him. What nerve. As if she’d move in with someone she’d only had a few dates with.
Better to move in with someone you just met in a club while drunk.

A toilet flushed upstairs, and the ceiling creaked above her head as Julian walked across the floor to his bed, which was apparently right smack above her own. It squeaked as he climbed in. Holy cow, they might as well have bunk beds. Was the ceiling made out of rice paper?

She rolled over, aware of every sound she made. Hopefully, she wouldn’t break out into hog-like snoring the moment she fell asleep. Had Julian heard everything Josh said earlier? Because he hadn’t been charitable.

As she pondered what she had come to think of as the Josh Situation, a soulful electric wail floated down. Every exhausted muscle in her body responded by becoming blissfully heavy and melting into the mattress. Whatever Julian was playing, it was better than a massage. Her eyelids fluttered and then shut. Soon she struggled to finish a thought.
He’s not a real boy, he’s not a real boy…

Something startled her awake. The air felt thick and heavy, overly warm. Maybe she’d just gotten hot and stuffy. The small window unit probably wasn’t powerful enough to reach the alcove.

She jumped at a loud
bang!
Someone pounded on the door at the bottom of the stairs that led to the parking lot. Had Josh come back? She tossed the covers off and padded across the room to peer down the stairs at the metal door. “Who is it?” she shouted. No answer. She went down the first two steps, then froze when the person banged again.

“Who is it?” she yelled a little louder.

Silence. She reached up and yanked the string that turned on a single lightbulb. It swung back and forth, lighting up the narrow passage with undulating shadows in true slasher film style.

She tiptoed down, and just as she reached the bottom step, whoever it was hit the door again.
Hard.
It shook from the force, and Cleo hightailed it back up the stairs, squealing the whole way. As she reached the top, a terrible thought occurred to her. What if she hadn’t remembered to lock the door when she’d walked Josh out? She sure as heck wasn’t going back down to check. Instead, she ran across the room to the door that led to Julian’s loft.

She didn’t bother knocking—just turned the knob and…it was locked. He had locked his door! Did he think she would sneak in there and steal something? Momentarily distracted by his gall, she almost forgot she was about to be killed and dismembered. Then the ax murderer banged on her door again.