Color Me Crazy (8 page)

“Julian!” She smacked the door with her open palm. “Help!”

No response. She grabbed her phone and called him.

“Whatzit?” he slurred.

“Somebody’s trying to get into my apartment—”

“Addie?” All traces of sleepiness disappeared. “I’ll be right there. Call nine-one-one!”

“No, it’s Cleo.” After a long, awkward pause, she added, “Compton.”

“Jesus. You scared the shit out of me,” he said.

“Someone’s banging on my door!”

“Listen, love, old buildings make a lot of strange noises. This one never shuts up. You’ll get used to it.”

“No, really—”

“It’s the wind. Have you looked outside? That tropical storm pushed its way through from the Gulf. We have some high winds, and your hollow metal door is popping in and out. I can hear it from here. It does that, okay? Now go to sleep. You’ve had a big day.”

There was no need to speak as if he were soothing a silly little girl. She looked out the window. Leaves from the pecan tree swirled about the parking lot, traffic lights swung back and forth, and the loose pane of glass vibrated beneath her fingers from the force of the wind.

He was right, and she sighed into the phone. “Sorry for waking you.”

“It’s okay. My bedroom is right over yours, and I heard the banging. I mistook it for something else, even though it was more forceful than I’d expect from your boyfriend. I guess he’s gone? Or is he cowering beneath the bed?”

He hung up before she could respond.

Settling back into her mattress, Cleo watched the shadows play across the wall and listened to the turmoil outside. A huge boom shook the room. She sat up and fumbled with the lamp on her nightstand. No electricity.

She had a storm phobia. When she was a child, Hurricane Gilbert hit the coast, spawning storms and tornados all across south Texas. One of those storms had forced the limb of a chinaberry tree through her bedroom window in the middle of the night. She hadn’t been physically injured, but it had left her traumatized. Everyone who knew her knew she didn’t suffer storms well.

Something smashed hard against the window, and the phone was to her ear before she knew what she was doing. She chewed her nails until she was treated to a very annoyed, “What?”

“The electricity is out. Did you know that?”

She swallowed during the pause.

“No. I was asleep. Thanks for informing me. I’m hanging up now.”

“Julian?”

Shit. He’d hung up.

Well, he was the landlord. He had to deal with this. She had no intention of going without electricity for the rest of the night. It didn’t matter that there was really nothing he could do about it. She called him back.

“Fuck,” was all he said.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s getting hot in here.”

“I’ll call God for you in the morning. I’d call him now, but it would be bloody inconsiderate of me since he’s probably trying to sleep.”

“I’m scared,” she whispered.

“What?”

“I’m scared of storms.”

A loud exhalation invaded her ear. “Are you kidding me?”

“I wish I was. This is embarrassing, believe me.”

“I’m not sure what you’d like me to do about it.”

“Would you consider sleeping on my couch?” It was more of a love seat. But the thought of him curled up on it made her feel safe.

“Why would I do that? I’ve got a nice, comfy bed. Be a big girl and go to sleep now, would you? Daddy will see you in the morning.”

He hung up. Cleo crawled out of bed and away from the window. Good grief, she was thirty years old. At what point, exactly, would she grow up? Normally, she could pull it together enough to avoid dissolving into a toddler-style fit, but this building was so old and…
shuddery
.

She sat on her love seat—no way was she crawling into bed in front of that window—and decided to ride out the storm like an adult.

Her phone rang.

“What?” she answered.

“If you’re truly frightened you can crawl in bed with me. We’ll add it to the nonexistent list of employee benefits.”

“I don’t think sharing a bed is a suitable solution, and you know it. I don’t see why you can’t just come down here. My couch is fine.”

“Are you seriously worried that I’m going to roll over and accidentally fuck you?”

She gasped. And yes, that was exactly what she was worried about.

“Forget it. And I couldn’t get up there even if I wanted to, seeing as how you’ve locked the door.” She followed it up with a silent
asshole
.

“Suit yourself. And, by the way, the door locks from your side.”

She hung up and settled in with new resolve, hugging a pillow to her chest. The door banged, the wind howled, the window rattled, and a flash of lightning illuminated the old pecan tree in the yard. A branch scraped loudly against the window, and she was back at Julian’s door.

...

Julian felt his way down the hallway to the bathroom. He automatically flipped the light switch before realizing the futility of it. The toilet was a few steps away; he found it easily and lined himself up for a whiz.

The redhead was a hysterical moron. He was glad she hadn’t taken him up on the offer of his bed. The last thing he needed was to lie awake with her curvy body next to his all night.

He finished up and headed back to his bedroom. Lightning lit up the hallway like a nightclub dance floor, and the unmistakable form of a woman appeared out of nowhere. She began to scream. And because adrenaline was a strange chemical, he screamed, too.

“Jesus Christ, Big Red. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Julian?”

“Who else would I be? What are you doing up here?”

She stepped toward him with her arms outstretched like a zombie. Her fingertips met his bare chest, and she yanked them to her sides as if he were a sizzling-hot poker. “Can I take you up on your offer?” she asked.

The darkness prevented him from seeing her face, but the outline of her curls trembled. He fought a stupid urge to wrap his arms around her. “I thought you were afraid of accidental sex.”

“I’m more afraid of the storm.”

He wasn’t. With a sigh of resignation, he stepped around her. “C’mon.”

She stayed on his heels until they hit the doorway to his bedroom. She hesitated before following him to the bed, where she stood awkwardly at the side while he climbed in. He lay down, but she didn’t budge.

“You’re creeping me out,” he said, patting the pillow next to him. “I’ve seen this movie, and I don’t like how it ends.”

“Nice,” she said, finally getting in bed. “Bring up something like that right now.”

“I’m the one who should be scared,” he said. “Now lie down and shut up.”

She did. And with much fanfare and pillow fluffing.

Julian rolled over, facing away from her. The bed shook constantly as the silly woman jumped at every sound. Julian clung to the side. How long could the night possibly last? He breathed loud and regular in an effort to feign sleep, but she stirred fitfully and cleared her throat in obvious attempts at waking him.

“You know, this building is almost a hundred years old. It’s withstood a lot of weather,” he finally said.

“It’s probably all crumbly and barely holding itself together.” She flopped over on her side. “We shouldn’t even be on the top story like this. We’re going to get whisked away like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
.” He sensed those red eyebrows knitting together. “I wish you had just come downstairs and slept in my apartment like I asked you to.”

“Are you kidding? We’d be squished like cucumbers in a sandwich when the whole thing fell down.”

She made a snorting noise, and he tried to think of something to take her mind off the storm. He thought of one thing, but it was a horribly bad idea. “So,” he said. “Why’d you run off to New York?”

“Do you know Lou Michaels?”

“Lou Michaels?”

“Yeah. Of End Times.”

“He’s an iconic guitarist in one of the world’s most famous bands. I don’t exactly live under a rock, love.”

“Yeah, well, I kind of had this obsession with him. Actually, I kind of had this obsession with rock stars in general, but with him in particular.”

She really was a stalker. “Tell me he doesn’t have a restraining order against you.”

“Of course not. Although I admit it was a long infatuation. I fell for him when I was fifteen years old and he was on the cover of
Rock ’n’ Spin
. I was insanely crazy for him.”

“Wow.” Julian yawned. Her and about half the female population. “He owns
Rock ’n’ Spin
now, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Anyway, when we were seventeen, Sherry and I got all dressed up for an End Times concert. We pushed our way to the front of the stage, hoping to get noticed.”

“Like groupies?”

“Kind of,” she whispered, as if they weren’t alone in bed together during a typhoon and might be overheard.

He rolled over so he could hear better, seeing as how they were now whispering and things had become interesting. “Are you telling me that you and Sherry got dolled up like hookers to get the attention of Lou Michaels?”

“We weren’t dolled up like hookers, good grief. It was more of a punk slut look.”

A clap of thunder stifled his laugh. Thinking about Big Red in fishnets and heavy black eyeliner cracked him up, but it also had his dick standing at attention, and he really didn’t need that right now. “And?” he asked, because he couldn’t resist.

“I got noticed.”

“I bet you did,” he muttered.

“I was whisked backstage, where it was hectic and crowded, and I didn’t even realize Sherry wasn’t with me. Before I knew it, I was on a bus headed for the hotel.”

“Go on,” he urged.

“I don’t know if you’ve ever been to one of those post-concert parties,” she said, “but believe me, it’s everything you’ve heard times ten. I was terrified.”

He knew exactly what went on at post-concert parties. “Did you meet Lou?”

“Lou never showed up. It was mostly the backup band and roadies.”

Bloody hell. The road crew and backup musicians were not the guys you wanted to party with. Overworked, underpaid, and unappreciated made for some truly bad behavior on the road. She was lucky if she escaped with her fishnets intact.

The idea of Cleo being mishandled by those rough, brawly guys was unsettling. “Then what happened?”

“A guy from the opening act took care of me.”

“Took care of you how?”

She giggled in the dark, and he loved the sight of it—orange sparklers on the Fourth of July. “By calling me a cab and waiting in the lobby with me. Do you remember that band Slice?”

His already tense stomach lurched as a tide of panic rolled through him. He forced his jaw to unclench in order to ask casually, “It was somebody from Slice?”

“The singer. What was his name?”

“Mitch Landrum,” he spat.

“Right. Mitch. He was there, and he saw right through me. I’m sure I was lit up like a bonfire. Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have a tendency to blush. Anyway, he protected me and made sure I got out of there safely. Such a nice guy. I wonder what he’s doing now.”

Julian put his fists up to his eyes. What were the fucking odds?

“Hey, have I bored you to sleep?”

“No, I’m awake.” Utterly, completely, and infuriatingly awake. And the redhead kept talking.

“I never quit carrying the torch for Lou, so when End Times came to town last year, I—”

“Donned fishnets again?”

“No! I went with our student editor to snag an interview. I was the faculty sponsor for the campus newspaper. Anyway, we were able to sit down with Lou. He and I hit it off, and a couple of months later, a job opened up at
Rock ’n’ Spin
. In the throes of a pre-midlife crisis, I left my teaching position in the naive hopes of fulfilling two teenage dreams.”

“Two? Besides Lou, who else were you hoping to fuck?”

A hand came out of nowhere and smacked him on top of his head. “My dream was to interview rock stars like a real writer. But I ended up being the world’s oldest and most overqualified coffee girl instead. That worked out about like you’d expect, and I returned home in humiliation. Now I’m in bed with my boss, so things aren’t really looking up.”

Her auburn curls fanned across the pillow. He’d love to run his fingers through them, but he turned over instead, reaching beneath his own pillow in the hopes of locating a guitar pick or two. He found one and began knuckle-rolling it through his fingers.

“Did you and Lou ever hook up?” he asked, lowering his voice to sound sincere and save her pride.

“That’s another story for another storm.”

Poor darling. Lou had probably passed her in the hall, bumped into her hand, and she hadn’t washed it since.

The skies opened up, and hail began pounding the roof, showering the room in a mesmerizing deluge of glowing blue streamers.

A warm behind scooted up next to his, and he rather liked the feel of it.

…

The next morning, Cleo woke with a start, as if she’d heard gunshots or a bloodcurdling scream, which of course, she hadn’t. She sat up in bed, lifting her hair out of her eyes. Where the holy hell was she?

An unfamiliar room, that’s where. In an unfamiliar bed. Lying next to a…guitar. She sighed and flopped back against the pillow. She was in Julian’s bed. Dang, but that hadn’t taken long. Sex or no sex, she’d already plowed through some boundaries.

Shit, what time was it? The sun was up, but not
too
up. It was maybe seven. Julian was probably in the bathroom or eating breakfast.

She rolled out of bed and crept out to the hall. The bathroom was empty, and after taking advantage of that, she headed for the stairs, combing her hair with her fingers and wiping the dried drool off her cheek.
That must have been pretty.
She tiptoed down and paused at the bottom to take a deep breath, then power walked into the room with her chin held high—looking as professional as one could in Hello Kitty pajama pants.

And it was all for nothing, because the kitchen was empty. So was the rest of the loft. She followed her nose to the coffee and found the mugs on her first try.
Bingo!
No tacky World’s Best Guitarist mugs, either. Julian had a full set of matching grown-up artisan stoneware.