Color Me Crazy (36 page)

Cleo didn’t take a step toward his open arms, and he lowered them. “Has he come on yet?”

“Shh,” Marcus hissed. “Right now. It’s time, and you’re right. I want to watch.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose and scooted over, giddy as a schoolgirl, patting the cushion for Cleo to sit.

She sat and propped her feet up on the coffee table.

Ben sat next to her. “You up for this?”

She didn’t answer, just stared at the television, where Andy Harris smiled into the camera.

“Our next guest is in the midst of a huge musical comeback,” he said to an already cheering audience. “We knew him as the teenage bad boy of Slice, and more recently as the bad boy of Dead Ringer. But now he’s gone bad boy solo. Please give a warm welcome to Mr. Julian Lazros!”

The crowd cheered, and the studio band played a version of the old Slice song “Walk You Home.”

Julian hated that song.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” said Marcus, fanning himself as Julian walked out. “He’s so hot.”

Ben reached behind Cleo to thump Marcus on the back of his head.

Cleo’s heart pounded away. Julian was dressed in jeans, a vintage western suit jacket with rhinestones that she knew had once belonged to Glen Campbell, and black cowboy boots. He smiled shyly at the audience and shook hands with Andy. He ran a hand through his short waves—they’d grown back—and flashed a grin at the camera before taking his seat.

Cleo wanted to touch him. Her fingers tingled with the desire to comb through his hair. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she shake him after everything he’d put her through?

Andy delved into Julian’s comeback, mentioning his work with Dead Ringer and the
Just a Little Sting
single that had brought him into the spotlight. Julian acknowledged his contribution to the album, and the next topic was the tour and how he’d brought it to a grinding halt.

“You were drawing them in like crazy,” Andy said. “Then you, uh, had a little trouble?”

Andy made a ridiculous face, indicating he knew very well that Julian had more than a little trouble. Dean had done an interview with
Hot Gossip
, leaking the news of Julian’s heroin relapse to the world.

“You could say that,” Julian said, seemingly unaffected.

“Do you think the band will regroup?”

“I have no idea. I wish them the best of luck, though. They didn’t deserve what I put them through. I’m not good in a band—it’s well documented that I don’t play well with others.” The audience laughed at the understatement.

“Aren’t you in a band now?”

“Yeah, but it’s different. No manager, no major label. It’s just me and my friends making music together.”

“So, you’re in a garage band, is that what you’re saying?” Andy tapped his pencil on his useless, oversize desk.

Julian laughed. “Pretty much. We don’t tour. We’re not out to produce record after record. In fact, I don’t know that we’ll ever make another one. The other guitarist is Dave Gutierrez, also formerly of Dead Ringer.”

“Dave is a new father, right?”

“Yeah, he’s back in the green room with the baby right now, probably trying to breastfeed.”

“He’s one of those dads, huh? Does he wear the kid in a pouch and change its diapers?”

“Yeah, he does all that,” Julian said with a grin.

“You’ll never see me in that situation,” Andy said, sticking out his chest and pounding on it. “I’m a father like my father was a father. I yell at the kids, tell them they’ll never amount to anything, and hand them off to the nanny.”

Julian laughed.
Asshole.

“So, do you have any kids? I mean, that you know of?” Andy asked.

Julian shook his head. “Parenthood is not in my past, present, or future,” he stated. “I look at poor Dave covered in spit-up, and Joey Ramone is cute and chubby and all that, but really, I’d rather hand my balls over on a silver platter.”

“Nice,” Cleo said, just as the baby gave a rib-splitting kick. The poor thing probably heard it.

“He didn’t mean that,” Marcus said.

Her heart, currently scrunched up against her windpipe with the rest of her organs, deflated like a sad balloon. “I’m pretty sure he did,” she answered.

Meanwhile, Andy blabbed to the camera. “The new album is called
Lazros: Mayhem in Memoriam
,” he said. “And the single on it, ‘Playing Cleo,’ is topping the charts.”

“Seventy percent of the profits go to a charity dedicated to addiction outreach programs,” Julian stated. The audience applauded.

“It seems as if he’s gotten his life on track,” Ben said.

“Don’t you dare start.”

“I think it’s wrong not to tell him, that’s all.”

“Nobody asked you. And we all just heard what he thinks about parenthood. He said it’s not in his
past, present, or future
. Now shut up so Marcus can hear.” Cleo wiped angrily at a tear as it slipped down her cheek.

“A lot of people say they don’t want kids before they actually have them,” Ben said. “You know that.”

No way. She couldn’t let a sliver of hope that Julian would ever want the baby feed some sort of fantasy that he’d also want
her
.

“A baby deserves a father,” Ben said, just under his breath. “You’ll never know what Julian wants if you don’t tell him.”

Cleo stared at the television.

“Before you play,” Andy said, striking a serious tone, “I’d like to give you an opportunity to confirm or dispel a rather persistent rumor.”

Julian stuffed his hand in his pocket, seeking his picks. He was nervous—and obviously didn’t know what Andy was going to ask. Cleo’s stomach, located just beneath her deflated heart, twisted into a knot. The baby had probably given it a spinning roundhouse kick. She crossed her arms and sank farther into the couch. Why should she care if Julian felt uncomfortable or made a fool out of himself?

“The rumor is—” Andy paused, intentionally building the suspense. “The rumor is that you have a very distinctive tattoo.”

Relief flooded Julian’s face as Andy continued. “It’s supposedly in a very delicate place.” He winced.

Julian gazed at the camera through his thick lashes. “I’ll confirm it.” The audience cheered and catcalled.

“Good grief,” Cleo said.

“It’s just a tribal band,” Julian continued, nonchalantly. He stood and reached for the button on his jeans. “Care to see?”

Andy waved his hands in front of Julian. “Keep your pants on, friend!”

The audience booed. When things finally settled down, Julian removed his jacket and pulled up his sleeve. “It’s like the one I’ve got on my arm, only a wee smaller.”

“Dude, that had to hurt.”

“I was illegally anesthetized at the time. Really, you don’t end up with ink on your dick unless you’re on drugs.” Julian looked into the camera. “Don’t do drugs, children, or you’ll end up discussing indelicate matters on late-night telly.”

“And with that public service announcement, we’ll go to a commercial,” Andy said. The audience cheered, and the studio band began to play.

What an embarrassing spectacle. “Yeah,” Cleo said to nobody in particular. “That’s my baby’s daddy up there talking about his penis tattoo on national television.”

“Oh, my,” Marcus finally said, looking at Cleo with wide owl eyes. “Have you seen it?”

Cleo patted her tummy. “Ya think?”

“That’s probably not an exclusive club,” Ben said. “You could Google it right now and see it for yourself. Although I’d rather you didn’t.”

Marcus feigned offense with a gaping mouth and a hand to his heart. Ben raised his eyebrow, in true Compton fashion, and nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “You want to put some water on to boil? Maybe make Cleo some tea?”

Marcus sniffed and left the room.

Cleo leaned her head on her brother’s shoulder. “I hate that he’s looking like a shallow idiot.”

“He can’t help it. It’s the way he’s made,” Ben said. “And I just can’t quit him.”

“I’m talking about Julian, you goof.”

“Oh. Well, he’s not looking so bad, Cleo. It’s to be expected on a show like that. He’s supposed to entertain people, and people find this shit entertaining. That was all scripted, you know. You’re sensitive because you love him.”

Her stomach dropped—to where she didn’t know, but it definitely dropped. “I do not love him. I had a crush on him the same stupid way I had a crush on Lou Michaels and a million other rock stars. It’s just that he’s an artistic genius, a virtuoso guitarist and violinist, and people are laughing at him.”

She could acknowledge his talent without
loving him
. And if tears welled up, it was strictly hormones. She’d cried over a tractor commercial earlier.

“Cleo, you have to tell him,” Ben said. “You know you do. It’s his baby.”

The baby drop-kicked her stomach back under her chin. Little traitor. She’d better not be choosing Team Julian along with everyone else.
Tell him, tell him, tell him.
Addie and Mitch harped on it constantly, as did her parents, and as of late, even Sherry had jumped on the bandwagon.

She’d seen Sheik last month. He’d needed to get some items she’d moved out of the studio. He’d gawked like an idiot when he saw her massive form, but he hadn’t asked any questions. Surely, he’d told Julian.

“Sheik knows,” she said quietly.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Well, what did he say?” Ben asked.

“Nothing.”

“Did you tell him it was Julian’s?”

“I didn’t tell him anything. We both acted like I wasn’t as big as a house. But I wouldn’t have to tell him. Who else’s would it be?”

“You need to tell Julian yourself. You’re leaving way too much to chance.”

She couldn’t bear it if Julian rejected her and the baby
to her face
. Why couldn’t anybody understand that? “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. He is not good daddy material in any way, shape, or form, and I’m not introducing him as a character into this fun little family film. So zip it.”

They sat in uncomfortable silence, watching car commercials and listening to Marcus putter about in the kitchen.

“Would you paint my toenails? I can’t reach them.”

“Marcus will do it. I’m not that kind of gay.”

“What did I miss?” Marcus asked, hustling back into the room with a plate of cookies and a cup of tea.

“Nothing,” she said. “Look, he’s back.”

Julian was on guitar with the Big Talk Show Band. They played a crappy tune, but he sounded great. When the band finished the song, Julian headed to center stage, where Dave stood with his guitar. Cleo didn’t recognize the drummer or bassist—they certainly weren’t Dean or Gus.

Andy met Julian at the mic and held up the new album. “‘Playing Cleo’?” he asked.

The crowd went nuts as Julian nodded.

“So, is there a Cleo?” Andy asked.

Julian slipped his Les Paul over his shoulder. “There certainly is,” he said. Then he turned and looked directly into the camera, blew a kiss, and silently mouthed, “I love you.”

Marcus gasped. “That was for you!”

How could that possibly be true? Her pulse pounded in her head. If she could reach him, she’d slap him. Then she’d kiss him. God, she hated him.

“Why don’t you call him?” Ben asked. “You know, feel him out.”

“No.” Cleo stood up. Her heart beat in an erratic rhythm of uncertainty, and the baby gave her a kick to the kidneys. “I need to get over him, not drag myself back into his ridiculous dramas.”

Ben stood, too. “So you want a clean break? Is that what you’re saying? Never look back sort of thing?”

Finally. Jesus, had she gotten through to someone? “Yes, I need a clean break. No more Julian Wheaton. Or Lazros, or whatever the hell his name is. I do not want to see or hear or smell any semblance of him in my midst ever again.
Comprende?
” Even as she said it, she couldn’t comprehend
ever again
.

“Which is why you’re trying to buy his building and live in it? Sis, you’re saying one thing and doing another. If you wait until it’s too late, well, then it’s too late.”

“Actually,
I’m
going to buy the building,” Marcus chimed in.

That was technically true. Cleo didn’t want her name to appear on any of the paperwork, so Marcus would buy it, and she’d buy it from Marcus. And she’d reopen Soundbox if she could.

“That loft is no place to raise a baby,” Marcus said. “
This
is a place to raise a baby. We have a nice house, a huge backyard, and good schools.”

They’d moved on to favorite topic number two: Cleo’s Big Residential Mistake. She breathed a sigh of relief.

…

Julian sunned himself in the garden of what had somehow become the band’s L.A. house. He’d just finished his biofeedback session, and the small and stinky Joey Ramone Gutierrez squirmed in his lap. Dave practiced some guitar riffs on an acoustic while Marcie made dinner, so that left Julian playing nanny.

“This kid has shit in his nappy, and I’m not going to do anything about it,” he yelled for the second time.

“I’ll get it,” Dave said. “In just a minute…”

“You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes,” Marcie said from the patio, where she reigned over the grill. “Put down your guitar and change Joey Ramone’s diaper.”

Dave sighed and set the guitar in the grass, then reached for the little shit factory, who let out a scarlet wail before cramming his fist in his mouth. “Go with Daddy,” Julian said. “You stink.”

Dave and Marcie talked often of moving out, but Julian wasn’t in any hurry for them to leave. All of Dave’s money was tied up in legal battles with concert promoters and record labels, and it was a ridiculously big house, so why not share? He’d bought the place four months ago, and he still felt like a guest. But the loft had had a few offers. It would sell soon, so he’d better get used to it.

He picked up Dave’s guitar and began strumming. Before he knew it, “Playing Cleo” floated out like orange feathers in the breeze.

Annoying.

He stopped, took a deep breath, and began playing something else. When it, too, turned into “Playing Cleo,” he set the guitar down in defeat.