Color Me Crazy by Carol Pavliska Page A

short-term gig. She was only sticking around until she could find a real job. Because this was not a real job. And Julian was not a real boy.
    Addie paused at the big double doors nestled into the corner of the building. Shaded by the balcony, the entrance was cool and comfortable, and the sidewalk and steps were clean and freshly swept. A neon sign lit up the window: S OUNDBOX S TUDIO .
    Addie bypassed the doorbell and opened the lid on a discreet keypad. She entered a code and turned the handle on the door. “After you,” she said, extending an arm.
    The big door closed behind them, and the outside world disappeared. It was so quiet—like a museum or a library—that Cleo whispered. “Wow. Look at this place.”
    The brick walls were adorned with autographed photos and posters of the bands who’d recorded here. Concert promotion posters, audition notices, and job opportunities covered the supportive columns in the center of the room.
    Cleo and Sherry walked quietly around, taking in everything. A small anteroom sat off to the side, and Cleo poked her head in the door. A couple of ratty futons were pushed against the wall next to a small kitchenette.
    “Is this my apartment?” she asked. The futons would have to go. She could probably squeeze her love seat in, but where the hell would she stick her bed?
    “Goodness, no,” said Addie. “Your flat doesn’t have a kitchen.”
    Cleo spun around. “I don’t have a kitchen? Are you kidding me?”
    “Julian’s going to take care of that straight away. No worries. Anyway, that’s just a lounge for musicians. Sometimes they need a comfortable place to take a break, especially if they’re recording all night.”
    “Oh. So where is my apartment?”
    “It’s upstairs,” Addie answered.
    Cleo automatically looked at the ceiling. Didn’t Julian live upstairs?
    “You can peek in at the studio, if you want,” Addie said, flipping a light switch. A window to the right lit up, revealing a room filled with Persian rugs, plump cushions, and overstuffed chairs. Guitars and percussion-type instruments rested in stands or on tables, and some were mounted on the walls. In the back was another small window. It was dark—must be the actual recording room where the equipment was. A stinging dart of panic pierced Cleo’s armor of optimism. What was she doing here? Had she ever made a decision in her life when she wasn’t drunk?
    Addie moved past the recording studio to the back of the room. “Let’s go upstairs.” She pushed a button on an intercom to the right of a narrow door.
    Julian’s tinny voice came through the speaker. “It’s unlocked.”
    Addie opened the door and led the way up narrow, steep stairs. Dim wall sconces did little to light the way, and Cleo grasped the wooden handrails. Julian stood at the top, appearing in silhouette with light pouring in from behind. His hair was a wild tangle of waves and a guitar hung on his back. A laser show would have been a nice touch.
    He waved. “Howdy, girls,” he said, allowing the rock star facade to go up in an anticlimactic puff of smoke.
    Thank goodness.
    ...
    Julian beamed as Cleo soaked everything in. He couldn’t help it. Even though he did not want anyone living in it with him, he’d worked hard at fixing up the loft, and she seemed to appreciate it. The hardwood floors were polished to a gleam, and nothing was out of place. Tidy, just as he liked it.
    A Steinway baby grand piano sat off to the left, its lid open and sheet music resting on the bench. The pages tugged at him. He’d been writing all morning—orange notes mostly—to distract himself from worrying about his newly acquired employee. And roommate.
    He suddenly remembered his hair. When he wrote music, he tousled it like a madman. He must look like he’d licked his finger and stuck it in an electrical socket. He ran his fingers through his hair while he led the women past the couch, which held three guitars: a red Fender Stratocaster, a white