Color Me Crazy (24 page)

Cleo grinned and raised her eyebrows. “You do?”

Dr. Hamilton smiled as if everything made perfect sense. “Miss Compton,” he said, “would you mind stepping out of the room?”

“You have a smell for me, Julian?” she said. “That’s so sweet! And it’s tangerines?” She clapped her hands. “I love it. Can you smell me all the time? Like, do you smell me right now?”

“Apparently,” Julian said, pointing at the tray. “Now, get out, Lava Locks.”

She kissed him on top of his head and walked out, showering him in tangerine droplets and looking extremely pleased with herself.

“You’ve never told her she’s a shield for you?” Dr. Hamilton asked.

“It isn’t like I spend every waking moment describing my oddities to her. And…” He paused, trying to figure out exactly what it was that made him uncomfortable sharing the effect Cleo had on him. “Well, I didn’t want her to think I was using her.”

“So, tell me,” Dr. Hamilton said. “Has she always shielded you?”

“No, of course not. Not when I first met her. But it was soon after that I first noticed it. It’s gotten stronger recently.”

Dr. Hamilton smiled. “That’s the way it works, Julian. The feelings come first, then the sensory representations of those feelings. Not the other way around. I’m assuming she has a color, too?”

“Also orange,” he answered. “I’m afraid I’m not so creative.”

“Well, none of this suggests an unimaginative subconscious,” Dr. Hamilton said. “And you’re not taking advantage of Miss Compton, if that is a concern. If your feelings for her stop, she’ll stop shielding you. It’s simple.”

That meant it was real. He was in love with Cleo.

“Let’s see if we can find the perfect citrus scent for you. We’ll think of it as Miss Compton in a bottle.” Dr. Hamilton smiled as he riffled through the bottles. “She certainly made this easier.”

Dr. Hamilton pulled the stopper out of a green bottle and passed it beneath Julian’s nose, causing him to grimace. “That’s not citrus.”

“You’re right. It’s sandalwood. Funny how you can smell it now that Ms. Compton is out of the room.” He fiddled with more bottles, grinning to himself. “You’re a perfect specimen of a love-struck synesthete,” he said. “I mean, no offense, Julian, but you’ve got it bad.”

...

Cleo sat at the metal patio table and clutched her sweater, wishing there’d been a spot in the sun. Julian stood in line nearby, waiting to buy her the gyro she’d finally settled on. She glanced around, enjoying the opportunity to people watch.

The Farmers Market at Fairfax was Los Angeles in all its glory. Hipsters, movers, and shakers milled about, sipping their green smoothies or lattes. Industry types sat beneath canopies, conspicuously holding court and conducting business. And they all did a double take when they saw Julian.

Ever since the Dead Ringer album, he’d been besieged by offers. Agents wanted to represent him, labels wanted to sign him, and bands wanted to play with him.
Just a Little Sting
had gone platinum, and the single by the same name was at the top of the charts. Dead Ringer was raking it in because of Julian. The latest release even featured a photo of him on the inside sleeve.

She couldn’t wait until things settled down. All she wanted was to retreat into their cozy studio where nobody wanted a piece of Julian.

“Here you go,” he said, setting a tray in front of her. “It’s lamb. Because grown-up animal meat isn’t quite sad enough.”

“That’s right. The younger they are, the better they taste.”

“Now you’re talking like a rock star,” he said.

She took a huge bite of her gyro and made all kinds of satisfying moans and groans. “This is good. You should try some.”

“No, thanks. It was recently a baby. And you look atrocious. Like a Viking. Care for a goblet of grog with that?” He sat and began poking at his food.

“I see there’s hummus among us for the people who think they’re better than everyone else.”

He didn’t respond to her jab. Instead, he picked up his pita, looked at it, and set it down again. His right hand went toward his pocket.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing’s wrong. Why?”

She laughed. “Something’s wrong, Guitar Boy. Spill it.”

“No, really. Nothing’s wrong. But I do have some exciting news.”

She put her gyro down. “Oh?”

“Remember Dave Gutierrez?”

“Of course. He’s the guitarist for Dead Ringer.”

“Right. Well, his girlfriend had their baby.”

“Good!” She remembered Marcie from the release party. She’d looked like she was about to pop. “A boy or girl?”

“A boy. So listen—”

“What’s his name?”

“What?”

“The baby. What did they name him?”

Julian furrowed his brow. “Um, his name is Joey. Joey Ramone Gutierrez, if you can believe it.”

“You’re kidding. Joey Ramone? That’s hilarious. If we ever have kids, don’t you even think about a little Johnny Rotten—”

She slapped her hand over her mouth. Why didn’t she just set his hair on fire and direct him to the nearest exit?

“Anyway,” he continued, ignoring her momentary lapse in sanity. “Dave doesn’t want to tour. The North American leg starts in January, and he’s refusing to go. Or I should say, Marcie won’t let him go. There’s no way Dave would back out on his own, Joey Ramone or no Joey Ramone.”

“I don’t know, Julian. Babies do strange things to people.” She dipped her gyro in yogurt, wondering what any of this had to do with them.

“Not that strange. Are you kidding me?”

“Well, it isn’t as if he were going to miss the first months of his child’s life so he could go to war. We’re talking a stupid tour.”

A glass of water was halfway to Julian’s mouth when he froze. “A stupid tour? You have no idea what you’re talking about.” He put his glass back on the table without taking a sip, then added, “And a baby wouldn’t hold me back. Not that I ever intend to have children.”

“Smooth.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Let’s change the subject. I don’t care if Dave goes on tour or not.” She pushed her plate of food away. Why was this conversation irritating her so?

“Actually, you might care a little. The concert promoter said the only way Dave would be relieved of his contract is if I agreed to take his place, at least for the first part of the tour.”

“I bet Dave was thrilled,” she said with sarcasm. Dave was already delusional about Julian wanting his job.

“Actually, he begged me to do it, and I said yes.”

“What? You said yes?” She waited for him to say he was joking, but he looked totally serious.

“Well, what do you think? It’s exciting, right? I mean, this is a huge tour. Dead Ringer is on top right now.” He stuffed half a pita in his mouth like a little kid. “All I did was write a song and play on their record for one track, and now I’m a part of one of the world’s hottest bands.”

Both cheeks were bulging, and Cleo could hardly understand him. Mindlessly, she reached over and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He swallowed. “I mean, I know it’s temporary, but professionally speaking, this couldn’t have happened at a better time. My career is going to take off.”

“I thought your career was with Soundbox, Julian. What’s going to happen to the studio?”

“You can take care of it,” he said dismissively. “I’m just wasting away there, really.”

Cleo stood, feeling light-headed. “I need to find the restroom. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She wormed her way through the crowds to find the ladies’ room, where she splashed water on her face and tried not to cry. How could he do this? The last time he’d been in a band he’d damn near died from it. Was he insane?

She patted her face with a rough paper towel and looked in the mirror. What on earth had Dead Ringer offered him? What could he find enticing enough to make him leave the studio? And her?

She tossed the paper towel in the trash. This wasn’t going to happen. Not if she could help it. Storming out the door, she headed back to their table with a single thought in her head:
me or the band, buddy
.

She stopped short on her way back to the table. A small group had gathered around Julian. Someone had figured out who he was, and even here, where people were used to seeing celebrities, he drew attention. He signed autographs, posed for a picture with a middle-aged woman, and chatted easily. He looked relaxed. And happy.

It was as if the world had somehow begun spinning in the opposite direction, and she was the only one who’d noticed. Was it possible that this was what he wanted? The crowd grew around their table. Julian was one of the most talented guitarists of all time. Had he been wasting away at Soundbox, waiting for something like Dr. Hamilton’s biofeedback program to make stardom possible again?

Suddenly, the idea of presenting him with an ultimatum seemed selfish. And risky. She plastered a fake smile on her face. If this was what Julian wanted, she’d just have to fake enthusiasm and support. And hope for the best.

Chapter Thirteen

The big buses sat in the middle of the parking lot, serving as bustling, wheeled hubs of activity. People ran around loading up equipment, instruments, and luggage while others seemed to simply run around. Cleo, for her part, tried to stay out of everybody’s way.

Her stomach was in its usual turmoil. The flight to Los Angeles, the origination point of the Just a Little Sting tour, had been miserable—way too early after a sleepless night. And if Julian’s tossing and turning were indications, he hadn’t slept, either.

The going-away dinner she’d thrown for him had ended horribly, with his and Addie’s bickering exploding into a full-blown sibling spat. Addie hadn’t accepted Julian’s tour plans well. Actually, that was an understatement. She’d been beside herself when he’d broken the news. And Mitch had stupidly tossed in his two cents, sending Julian into an impressive, profanity-laden tirade. Mitch had gotten the last word in, though, and what he’d said left Cleo with a gigantic, smoldering lump of foreboding right in her midsection.
I think going on tour with this particular band at this particular time is a bad idea for you, Julian. And I think you’re gonna regret it.

Julian looked up from where he stood with the road crew, waved, and headed her way. He continuously jaunted to her side to touch base with a kiss or hug before heading back into the fray. This time, he stayed to nuzzle his nose into her hair.

“Tangerines?” she asked. She wanted to keep him with her for a while.

He grinned. “Yes. What do I smell like?”

That caught her off guard. She wasn’t sure how to answer. “I don’t have a good way of describing it. I like it, though.” She gave him her best hubba-hubba eyes.

“But what is it?” he asked. “I mean, you smell me, then what? What do you see?”

“Nothing. It’s just a smell, and I only experience it with my nose. Although”—she leaned in and inhaled his unmistakable, delicious scent—“it is often accompanied by warm, tingly sensations in my nether regions.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Your nether regions? You’re quite wanton,” he said, before getting right back to the point. “But when you’re with me it’s just blank? Like, there’s no thing or color or anything to go along with me?”

She laughed at the unbelievable way he couldn’t fathom there was no
thing
to go along with him. No colors, numbers, scents, or shapes. “No, you goof. It’s just you.”

“I must be boring.”

“Oh, you’re anything but,” she replied, pulling him close for a steamy kiss.

“Sweetheart,” he said, after breaking the kiss. “Why are you so worried?”

So it showed.
Because you’re leaving me, because you won’t tell me you love me, because you’ll face temptations I’m not sure you’ll resist.
“Just going to miss you,” she finally said. “Why couldn’t you be a plumber or an accountant?”

“I can’t see you with a plumber or an accountant.”

She frowned. “Are you serious? As long as it was you I wouldn’t—”

“Hey, dude,” Cory interrupted, coming from behind and slapping Julian on the back. “How’s it going, man?”

Cory’s eyes were bloodshot, and his hair was genuinely messy instead of the arranged, coiffed messy he usually wore.

“You look awful,” she said.

“Ouch! You kill me, gorgeous.”

“She lacks social skills,” Julian said. “But you do look like shit. My guess is you haven’t been to bed yet?”

“We’ve got nothing to do but sleep today, right?”

“Speaking of sleep, I haven’t claimed a bunk yet. I’m going to go do that,” Julian said. “Keep your nasty hands off my woman.” Without another word, he took off across the parking lot, leaving her alone with Cory.

“Okay,” she said under her breath. “I’ll stay here then.”

“Don’t worry, Cleo,” Cory said. “He’s not marching off to the firing squad. Just the bus.”

He put his thumb right over the bridge of her nose, between her eyes, and tried to rub the scowl away.

“I know,” she said, swatting his hand. “But I also know what happens on buses.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about with Julian. Everyone knows he’s completely whipped, poor bastard.” Cory laughed but then stopped and looked her right in the eye. “He’s no Lou Michaels, Cleo.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Everybody knows about that. But Lou’s a dick. If I had someone like you, well…I wouldn’t fuck it up.” He brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes.

“Anyway,” he continued, “Julian isn’t stupid. He’s surly as hell and full of himself with that guitar, but he’s a good guy. And believe it or not, I’m a decent judge of character.”

Although she had no reason to believe anything Cory said, much less trust his judgment, the tension she carried in her neck and shoulders eased. It was an immeasurable amount of relief.

“And speaking of character,” Cory said, glancing over Cleo’s shoulder with a frown, “here comes trouble. I’m out of here.” Following a quick peck on the cheek, he sprinted off.

“You must be Cleo,” said a young, bubbly voice.

Two women came toward her. The pretty blond one held out her hand.
Perky.
As a rule, Cleo despised perky, but she did her best to smile. The blonde smiled back, revealing perfectly straight and capped teeth that were too white for their own good.