Color Me Crazy (23 page)

“She didn’t want Julian to find out.”

“We didn’t know about Julian, either! Addie keeps her secrets under wraps.”

“Well, this one is out of the bag,” said Cleo. “Which is excellent for us. I mean, Mitch Landrum!” Just saying his name made Cleo want to break out the eyeliner and fishnets.

“Cleo, you’re sleeping with Julian Lazros—and I wasn’t a bit surprised when you told me, by the way—so stop being impressed by other women’s rock stars.”

A mimosa appeared. Cleo took a sip and sighed in delight.

“Are we still waiting on someone?” the waitress asked.

“Yes, but we can go ahead and order for her. She always gets the same thing,” Sherry said.

Cleo always ordered the same thing, too. Two huge buttermilk biscuits split down the center, slathered in sausage gravy, with a side of grits drenched in butter. Her mouth watered just thinking about it.

“Julian Wheaton,” Cleo said, after the waitress had scurried off.

“What?”

“I’m not sleeping with Julian Lazros. I’m sleeping with Julian Wheaton.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. And it’s not just sex. I’m in—”

“Once a groupie, always a groupie, right?”

Cleo gasped even though she didn’t exactly hate the label, misguided as it was. “Julian isn’t just another guy I have a crush on. And I am not a groupie!”

“You’re kind of a mediocre groupie. Anyway—not surprised by you, but Addie? Prim and proper, my arse! No way is she having regular old missionary-style sex with Mitch Landrum. He was one of the
baddest
boys of rock and roll.” She jumped out of her seat. “Oh, there she is!”

Cleo set aside her irritation with Sherry and watched Addie zigzag through the tables, dodging waitresses and scattering pigeons.

Sherry pulled out a chair and waved down a waitress. “Another mimosa!” Then she turned to Addie, who had just sat down. “Start talking.”

“Wait a minute,” Cleo said. She raised an eyebrow and held up her napkin.

“Oh, right.” Sherry picked up her napkin, and Addie, having a few First Sunday Brunch Days under her belt, did likewise.

They recited together, “A lady always places her napkin in her lap.”

Daintily, they unfolded their napkins and laid them across their laps.

“Okay,” Sherry said. “I read a groupie autobiography that had an entire chapter devoted to Mitch. I hear he’s…ahem…a big boy who’s into toys and likes three-ways.”

Addie made what Sherry referred to as big eyes and blushed furiously.

“Gosh, Sherry. Give her time to catch her breath before you start talking about dildos.”

Addie’s eyes became even bigger.

“She’s been keeping a secret,” Sherry said. “Time to fess up.”

Addie straightened the knife next to her plate. “Er, well, I’ve never had a three-way, and the only toys I’ve seen in his house are all over the floor and belong to his children.”

Cleo and Sherry smiled at the obvious omission, which increased Addie’s blush a full shade.

“That’s all true,” said a low, rumbling voice. “You ladies have room for a fella at this table?”

Cleo looked up to see the startling blue eyes of Mitch Landrum looking back. Her mouth was fully engaged in the fly-catching position, but she couldn’t will it shut.

As usual, Sherry recovered first. “Of course we have room,” she said.

Mitch’s famous blond mane had been cut and styled. No eyeliner. No visible piercings. No
fuck the world
face. Just brilliant blue eyes, chiseled jaw, dirty-blond hair, and a cheerful, relaxed expression. Leather pants and chains were replaced by jeans, a black T-shirt, and a brown corduroy jacket. Cleo managed to close her mouth.

“Mitch, this is Sherry and Cleo.”

“Nice to meet you both.” He smiled, and Cleo swore she heard honest-to-god church bells ring in the distance. Was there even a church nearby? Or had the gates of heaven just opened up? While she and Sherry watched, Mitch kissed Addie and then sat back and cooked her with a gaze so hot it gave the Texas sun some sizzling competition. “You look sexy.”

Addie, wearing linen slacks and a silk blouse buttoned up to her chin, covered a grin with her hand. There was a distinct possibility she would spontaneously combust if the attention weren’t directed elsewhere. “So how did the two of you meet?” Cleo asked.

Mitch and Addie gave each other the universal raised eyebrow of
do you want to tell it, or should I?
Mitch nodded at Addie. “An art show in Fort Worth,” she said. “My tapestries were up for silent auction. I was busy trying to blend into them when I saw a man wandering around with a glass of champagne filled to the brim and an overburdened plate of tapas.”

“I didn’t spill a single crumb,” Mitch said, taking a sip of coffee.

“Oh, do you like art?” Sherry asked.

“About as much as the next guy,” Mitch said with a shrug. “Anyway, my band was playing a little hole-in-the-wall across the street, and I had some time to kill before the gig started. Figured I’d look around a little.”

“And load up on free food,” Addie said dryly.

“Which Addie ripped from my hands and dumped in the trash,” Mitch said, with an easy grin. “God, she was so pissed and hot as hell. I knew then she must be the artist, so I bought a big swirly thing—”

“The Oceanscape piece,” Addie said.

Mitch tapped his head and winked. “I’m a smart man. Arrangements had to be made for the pickup. And it was an excellent pickup, if I do say so myself.”

Addie swatted him on the shoulder. “Stop it, Mitch.”

Cleo couldn’t help falling into old habits. “So, you’re in a band?”

He grinned. “We’re just a bunch of old guys playing pool halls and barbecue joints. We sure have a good enough time, though.”

“They’re the Roustabouts, and they’re wonderful,” Addie said. “You should hear them.”

“We’d love to!” Cleo said. “Maybe Julian could join in.”

Mitch did a spit take with his coffee, dribbling some on his T-shirt. “I just got the man to where he could stand to be in the same room with me. A pool hall stage might be a bit too small.”

“All things in time,” Addie said. “And you’ll both get to hear the Roustabouts play at our wedding. It’s not until next summer. Julian will come around. A lot can happen between now and then.”

Chapter Twelve

The Los Angeles office of Dr. Frederick Hamilton was small and stuffy. Julian had already endured a long morning with his head hooked up to electrodes, and he was anxious for the psychologist to come in and tell him what it all meant.

Cleo put her head on his shoulder and yawned. Such a simple act, and yet the familiarity of it gave him a lump in his throat and increased his resolve to make the biofeedback work.

“I’m hungry,” she said, and her stomach growled to back up the claim.

“We’ll hit the Farmers Market on Fairfax for lunch. Can you wait?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really.”

Sitting in doctors’ offices frustrated him. He’d done plenty of it throughout his life, and it hadn’t ever resulted in anything positive. But this time might be different. For one thing, there was more at stake.

He thought about the appointment scheduled with Dead Ringer’s label, Utopia Records, later in the day, doing his best to snuff out the sense of unease. Signing the contract was a good decision. It had to be. But he wouldn’t be able to fulfill his end of the deal if he couldn’t get a handle on his synesthesia.

Yesterday, he’d watched Cleo interview Andy Snipes, Vaughn Gilbert, and Bruce Taylor, also known as Jump Six. Ever since the Sylvie Sandstone article, she’d been interviewing bands left and right. She was good at it, but part of her shtick was shameless flirting. It relaxed and distracted the guys so they’d answer extremely personal questions. Julian understood, but in light of Lou’s comments at the release party—
You’d better have some tricks up your sleeve if you want to keep her
—it bothered the hell out of him. These guys were young, talented, and on their way up. He was thirty-three, quite possibly clinically insane, and a fucking has-been session musician.
Believe me
, Cleo had said at the release party,
you’re not in their league
.

The Utopia offer couldn’t have come at a better time.

The door behind them opened, and Dr. Hamilton loped in, wearing his expression of perpetual surprise—magnified eyes behind thick frames and raised eyebrows.
Ah…saved by the dork.

Julian had been twelve years old the first time he’d met Dr. Hamilton. He’d come to Los Angeles from London for a concerto competition and, much to his mother’s dismay, had ended up in a psych ward. Dr. Hamilton had been the doctor on call. He was the first person to say Julian was anything other than crazy, so Julian had a soft spot for him. Over the years, he’d let Hamilton try various things on him, but so far, none had ever helped.

Pushing his glasses up on his nose, Dr. Hamilton sat at his desk and got right to the point. “Julian, the test results are very favorable. As I told you last month when we ran the preliminaries, you are an excellent candidate for biofeedback therapy. The trials we did this morning helped us personalize the program for you, and it should be ready”—he stopped to look at his watch—“by about two o’clock.”

Good. Plenty of time to get over to Utopia.

“If it works, how will things change for him?” Cleo asked.

Dr. Hamilton looked at Cleo as if he’d just noticed she was in the room. “He’ll still see and experience his environment as he does now, which is important to him. But the biofeedback program, if done regularly, will train his mind to sort and process stimuli with less conscious effort. He’ll have fewer episodes.”

“In other words, Big Red, you’ll be able to take me out in public.”

“I can take you out in public just fine now,” Cleo said.

“I hope it works. I believe it will,” Dr. Hamilton said.

“We’ve got time for some lunch,” Julian said, standing. “We’ll see you back here at two o’ clock then?”

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Hamilton said. “But before you go, let’s do a scent test with some of the essential oils. It shouldn’t take long.”

Julian sat back down. He’d been told he was unusually receptive to aromatherapy. Hamilton said the right scent could act like smelling salts for him; one pass under the nose when he felt a spell coming on could ward off disaster, or at least postpone it until he got himself somewhere he could fall apart safely.

The psychologist set a tray of small bottles in front of them. Julian faked a yawn, trying to appear casual because he was embarrassed by how excited he was. Cleo had no such concerns, and she squeezed his hand tightly. It was no big deal, just a squeeze, but it rocked through him like an earthquake. He immediately got a hard-on, as if a certain part of his psyche responded to sentimentality by saying,
What? When did we get so sappy? Go fuck this girl!

Dr. Hamilton unstopped the first bottle. “Okay,” he said. “Put on the earphones.”

Julian let go of Cleo’s hand and positioned the headset over his ears.

“Ready?” Dr. Hamilton asked.

Julian nodded, and his ears were immediately accosted by a barrage of beeps, bleeps, and tones.

“Don’t try to control anything,” Dr. Hamilton said. “I know it’s hard, but you have to let it go until you’re almost buzzing.” This was one of the reasons Julian knew he was in the proper hands. Hamilton understood the buzzing.

He did as he was told, and in seconds his vision filled with sparks, streaks, and blotches. He unclenched his jaw, loosened his grip on the armrests of the chair, and let the colors take over. He didn’t try to separate them, and they bled together, turning into a wall of brown sludge, and the familiar panic started setting in. The sickening sense of dread came next. God, he hated this. He crammed his right hand into the pocket of his jeans, seeking out his picks, just as the buzz began from somewhere deep inside him.

“Inhale,” Dr. Hamilton said crisply.

Julian inhaled through his nose.
Tangerines.
What a fucking relief. All the colors immediately separated and went back where they belonged.

“Did that work?” Dr. Hamilton asked, sounding surprised.

“Yeah, it did,” Julian said, happily. He started to take off the earphones, officially putting an end to the freak show.

“Let’s try it with a few more. It’s unusual to hit it with the first one.”

Disappointed, Julian prepared to do it again. He hated getting so close to the edge. He exhaled fully, relaxed his mind, and allowed it to all start over. Just as he began to anxiously fiddle with the picks, he was told to inhale.
Tangerines.
The colors separated.

“Did that one work, too?” Dr. Hamilton asked, sounding incredulous.

“Sure did,” Julian said.

“Usually, there’s just one signature scent, and it often isn’t even on this tray. I was prepared to go through all five trays to find one that had a small effect, then we’d use that as a starting place to perfect a scent that could lead to separation or even dispersion.”

“The colors dispersed,” Julian said. “It knocked it out. Can we go to lunch now?” He began to remove the headphones.

“Wait a minute,” Dr. Hamilton said. “Leave those on. Let’s try this with the rest of the bottles.”

Julian sighed anxiously. The procedure was repeated with the remaining ten bottles, and like the first two, they all worked. “I don’t understand it,” Dr. Hamilton said.

“Maybe you should try mixing it up some,” Julian said. “Those bottles all smell like tangerines.”

Dr. Hamilton furrowed his brow. Then he lifted the tray, looking at the labels on the bottles. “Actually,” he said. “Only one of these is labeled citrus. The rest are completely different scents.” He popped the cap off a bottle and sniffed. “Eucalyptus,” he said. He took a whiff of another. “Cinnamon.” He put them up to Cleo’s nose, and she concurred.

“Ridiculous,” Julian said. “I know oranges when I smell them.”

“And when is it, exactly, that you smell them?”

Julian felt himself blushing. “Um…well,” he said. “I tend to associate the scent of tangerines or oranges with Cleo here.”