Color Me Crazy (31 page)

He kissed her sensitive inner thighs, rubbing his lips, nose, and bristly stubble against her skin. He ran his tongue over her exposed cheeks, gave one a kiss and the other a bite.
He’d bitten her.
But before she could complain, he nibbled elsewhere. She inhaled sharply as his tongue began licking slowly, with definite intention.

She moaned—loudly—and the sound of her own voice startled her. “Julian, I’m afraid Donnie can hear us.”

He lifted his head, and she blushed at the sight of his lips glistening in the dim light. “He can’t hear me. I’m being as quiet as a church mouse. You’re being more…indigo, I’d say.”

He extended his tongue for another soft lick. Cleo’s voice betrayed her again, and she arched her back, opening her legs even wider.

“That’s a good girl.” He dipped his head and sucked gently on the sweet spot where all of her nerve endings currently hummed. His warm mouth covered her completely, performing a gentle, rhythmic sucking. She tried to be quiet, but another orgasm was building. She moved against him, holding her breath as he broke the suction to explore and tantalize with his tongue, alternating kisses with feathery licks. It was too good.

“Oh, God,” she gasped. “Julian, I’m going to—”

Donnie’s voice burst through the small speaker. “We’ve arrived at the hotel.”

Cleo snapped her legs shut as Julian reached next to her ear and depressed a button. “We’re going to be a few minutes. Just pull into a spot.”

“Let’s not be a few minutes,” Cleo said urgently. “Let’s go up to your room. He knows what we’re doing.”

Julian forced her knees back open. “He doesn’t know exactly what we’re doing. And who cares? You said I needed to eat more. That’s all I’m trying to do, love.”

He grinned like the devil and went right back to work. And Cleo forgot all about Donnie as she exploded in what Julian would probably call magenta.

It took Cleo a moment to settle back down to earth.

“You think you’ll be able to walk within the next few minutes?” Julian asked. He seemed obnoxiously impressed with himself.

Cleo regained some clarity. “Of course I can walk. You give yourself too much credit.” Her legs felt like spaghetti.

Everyone within sight would stare to see who got out of the stretch limousine. Cleo put her coat on because it was cold outside, but also because Julian had ripped all the buttons off her blouse. She smoothed down her skirt, brushed her hair with her fingers, and generally tried to make herself look presentable. Then she remembered a small detail.

She held out her hand. “Give me my panties.”

Julian shrugged just as the door opened. Donnie gazed in. “Can I help you out, Cleo?”

“Careful with the exit, love,” Julian said with a wink.

With one hand firmly holding down her skirt, Cleo accepted Donnie’s hand with the other and carefully slid out of the limo. Julian followed, reaching into his pocket for some cash. He pulled out a wad of bills and, unfortunately, Cleo’s purple panties. They fluttered toward the ground with Julian making awkward grabs, as if they weren’t drawing enough attention without a rock star in hot pursuit. He snatched them up just before they hit the ground.

“Good grief,” Cleo said, as Julian shoved them back into his pocket.

To his credit, Donnie maintained a pleasant poker face. “It was nice meeting you both. Cleo, I had fun with you tonight.”

Cleo was about to say she’d enjoyed his company as well, since they were being so civil while she stood there commando, but then, with his tip securely in hand, Donnie added, “But not as much fun as Julian.”

Chapter Sixteen

Julian startled awake in a combination of panic, pain, and colors. The sound of his own breathing was an explosion of red and black in his head, so he covered his ears. It didn’t help. He shut his eyes, and that didn’t help, either. The red and black merged with the murky brown sludge growing with every rustle of the sheets and thunderous beat of his heart.

This couldn’t be happening. Not now. He cracked open an eye to peek at the clock. It was four o’clock in the morning. Fuck.

Maybe it would subside. He counted to twenty and took a deep breath, scooting closer to Cleo and her magic citrus elixir. But he was too far gone. No trace of oranges or tangerines. Only one thing could help him now. Luckily, Cleo was a sound sleeper.

Bile rose in his throat, and every bone in his body hurt. Julian’s head pounded, his skin burned, and his teeth chattered. Silently, he slid out of the bed onto the floor, where he felt safer, and crawled to the bathroom. Nothing came up when he tried to vomit, and he ended up hanging over the toilet bowl, drooling in the dark.

He reached up and removed the lid from the tank, careful to not wake Cleo. It sounded like a machine gun going off an inch from his face, and he almost dropped it. The plastic baggie he’d taped to the edge of the tank was still there. Relief poured through him, setting off a new wave of shivers. The anticipation was both euphoric and excruciating.

The trembling wouldn’t stop, and his fingers could barely hold on to the baggie. There was no way he could do what he needed without help, so he crawled back to the bed and clumsily patted down the nightstand for his phone. It hit the floor with a soft thud. Picking it up, he forced himself to stand. He needed to get to where Cleo wouldn’t hear him call Sheik.

Minutes later, there was a soft knock on the door. Julian opened it. Sheik’s hulking figure blocked out the light from the hallway.

“I told you, you stupid fuck.”

“Shut up, Sheik,” Julian whispered. “Just help me.”

“Where’s your woman?”

“Asleep in the other room. Stop shouting.”

“I’m barely whispering, you idiot.”

Maybe so, but it split Julian’s head in two. “Can we go to your room?”

Sheik sighed. “Put some damn pants on first.”

Luckily, his were within arm’s reach on the back of a chair. He managed to get them on by himself—no way he could ask Sheik for help—and they quietly headed for Sheik’s room. Once inside, Julian thrust the baggie into Sheik’s hands.

“What’s this?”

Julian didn’t answer. It was fucking obvious what it was: a tiny balloon of heroin, a syringe, and a spoon, which wasn’t a spoon at all, but the bottom of a soda can.

“Fuck. You’ve graduated to needles. You been doing this shit alone?”

Again, no sense in answering. He wished he was doing it alone
now
, but the synesthesia episode made it too hard. He could barely see. He couldn’t even grip the syringe…

“You’re lucky you’re not dead. What happened to the post-concert snort? That didn’t last long, did it? I told you, motherfucker. I told you this would happen.”

“Must be awesome being right all the time,” Julian mumbled. He could hear Sheik’s voice—like a fucking avalanche—but couldn’t see him because of the brown sludge. He could barely stand. But he’d take the shit Sheik was dishing if it meant he’d get some relief.

Sheik shoved Julian, and he fell onto the bed in a crash of sound and color. He rolled onto his side and listened. Episodes meant hypersensitive hearing: Sheik pouring water into the spoon, dropping in the tar, striking the lighter. In his mind, Julian watched the tar dissolve. Then he shivered in anticipation as the cotton went in, sensing when Sheik poked the needle into it and pulled out the plunger, filling the syringe with the poison. He heard Sheik’s deep, rattling breath—black and bubbly like liquid heroin—as he turned to Julian.

“Okay, Princess. Let’s get this over with.”

“No bump,” Julian whispered.

“Damn,” Sheik said. “Straight into the vein, huh? What am I gonna tie off with?”

Julian didn’t care. He lay with his eyes squeezed shut, wishing Sheik would hurry the fuck up.

Something went around his arm. It was tugged tight, and Julian squeezed to make a fist, to get the vein bulging. Sheik’s big hand grabbed his arm roughly, and Julian heard him gasp. “How the hell have I missed these tracks? How often are you hitting it, man?”

Morning, noon, and night, asshole. Just do it.

The needle went in.

“Just a little sting,” Julian said. His lame attempt at a joke.

Julian let himself into his room. He winced as the door squeaked, freezing and sucking in his breath. Was it possible Cleo didn’t know he’d left? He’d been gone for almost two hours.

On tiptoes, he crept into the bedroom. The light was beginning to pour through the crack in the curtains as he took off his pants and slipped silently between the sheets.

Cleo rolled into him immediately. “Did you go somewhere?” she mumbled. “I woke up and you were gone.”

Just went to shoot up. Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.

“I went to get a bottle of water out of the machine.”

“Oh.” She sighed. Relief washed over him like a cleansing blue waterfall. He had to make things right. Cleo should not be in bed with a junkie.

After he’d gotten his shit together—thanks to a little heroin—Sheik had pleaded with him to come clean to Cleo. “That woman’s no idiot,” he’d said. “Look at you, man. You think she’s not going to pick up on something?”

“She’ll pick up on something, but she won’t know what,” he’d replied. “I’ll tell her I’m worn-out, tired, maybe I’m getting sick. And I’m going to clean up when we get our four-week break. That’s my plan.”

“Nice to know you have a brilliant plan.”

“Listen, I wasn’t dope sick. I was fighting off a synesthesia episode, that’s all. I mean, I’ve been off dope for two days, and I haven’t gotten sick.”

“Until now,” Sheik had said. He’d leaned in closer to Julian, looking him square in the eyes. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re on dope now. Julian, you were strung out, and you know it. Fucking idiot, that’s what you are.”

Julian hadn’t said a word in his own defense. He’d just stared at an imaginary spot on the wall. Sheik was right. Julian remembered his chattering teeth, the nausea, the aches that started in his bones and worked their way outward through his skin. Dope sick.

“I saw that your biofeedback game came in. Stop kidding yourself about cleaning up. You’ve made your choice, and that pretty redhead ain’t it.”

It had felt like a sucker punch in the gut. But only for a moment. Heroin protected him from feeling too deeply about…well, anything.

“Listen,” Sheik had said. “What are you dragging her into? There’s nothing but heartache ahead for that woman.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sheik. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, unfortunately, I do. By the time I cleaned up, my woman was long gone. Some nice, respectable asshole was playing daddy to my kids. Still is. And they’re better off for it, too. Because all junkies care about is themselves. And you know what, motherfucker? I’m always just a step away from it. And here I am with a junkie for a best friend.”

Julian had caught the embarrassed expression on Sheik’s face over the profession of friendship. Trying to hide his own embarrassment, he’d quickly muttered, “Stop calling me a junkie.”

“You know, you’re just another shitty rock star. You don’t know what love is unless you’re looking in the mirror.”

“You think I love what I see in the mirror? I hate myself. Cleo would lose it if she knew what was going on with me. You have no idea. But I’m not going to keep this up. I can—”

“What?” Sheik interjected. “You can quit anytime you want? Is that what you’re about to say?”

“I can. I can’t wait to get off this junk. As soon as we hit the four-week break, I’ll have time to kick it.”

Even as he’d said it he’d felt panicked. The thought of getting sober gave him the chills. He was hooked again. “Cleo won’t ever have to know about any of it. And it wasn’t like I did this on purpose. If you’d done a better job of controlling those freaks, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Sheik pulled back the curtain at the window. Julian shielded his eyes as a ray of light made its way to where he sat on the bed. He wondered if it would turn him to ash.

“Well, my man,” Sheik finally said. “There’s one thing I learned a long time ago in a little place called rehab, on my fourth and hopefully final stint, and that is you can’t blame anyone else for the shit you get yourself into. This is yours. Own it.”

Those words rang in Julian’s ears as he stroked Cleo’s hair. Sheik was right. Still, it was hard to feel like shit about it at the moment. Fuck, he was on heroin, and he felt great.

It wouldn’t be for long, though. The highs were getting shorter by the hit. But he found it hard to care. Heroin wrapped him in a warm, soothing blanket. From beneath the comfort of it, he could watch everything, but it didn’t affect him. Even when a dart of panic happened to find a weak spot in the opiate armor, he just examined it quizzically.
Look
, he’d think.
I’m freaking out.
Then he would just…stop.

Cleo stirred and touched his cheek. How was he going to manage the next few days? He’d need another fix in a few hours, or he’d be sick as shit. Just thinking about the next hit thrilled him. A day and a half. That’s all he had to get through before she’d be on a plane back to San Antonio.
Was he really counting down the days until she left?

Her fingers brushed the stubble on his chin. He hadn’t shaved in days. Thank God she liked him scruffy. She moved in closer and began kissing his neck. He was overcome by love and…performance anxiety. Heroin wasn’t one of those drugs that made people want to fuck like rabbits. And he was still high.

He trailed his hand gently down her back. She sighed and nuzzled in closer, running her wet tongue up to his ear. He squeezed a firm ass cheek, and she put her leg up over his hip, giving him full access. “Hmm, been thinking about me, have you, love?”

His own reaction was quick and anything but wimpy. He’d be spared the embarrassment of an addict’s limp dick after all.

In an instant, Cleo was on top of him. Well, he was up for it. With a laugh, he whipped off her T-shirt and filled each hand with a soft breast. She moaned and leaned in, allowing him to pull a nipple into his mouth.

A pleasant popping sound set off lemon drops in his head as he let go. Then he moved to the other breast while Cleo sighed in peach-colored waves. Her skin was warm in his mouth and sweet as honey. He got lost in it for a while, in the suckling and licking and kissing, until Cleo gently pulled his head away. How long had he been doing that? Time was a slippery thing when you were on heroin.