Color Me Crazy by Carol Pavliska Page B

Gibson Les Paul, and a Martin acoustic. He had over a hundred guitars, but those three were his workhorses. “Watch out for cords,” he warned, kicking one out of the way. Amps were everywhere, and their relaxing buzz bathed the place in a golden hue.
    Cleo’s eyebrows shot up, clearly appreciating the hammered tin tiles on the ceiling. “Original?” she asked.
    People rarely noticed the ceiling, even though he had painstakingly cleaned and painted each tile. “Yes,” he said. “I have more in storage, because I tore out most of the third floor—only my bedroom is up there now. Don’t know what I’ll do with them but can’t bear to part with them just yet.”
    Cleo put her finger on her chin, as if she were actually considering what to do with the tiles. “They’d make a great backsplash in a kitchen or bath.”
    “That’s actually one of the projects I’m considering,” Julian said.
    “Oh, wow,” Sherry said. “Do you guys know what just happened?”
    “No, what?”
    “I got bored.”
    Cleo laughed and elbowed Julian in the ribs. “Sherry was an art history major. Talk about boring.”
    “Hey, there’s lots of sex in art,” Sherry said. “Right, Addie?”
    Addie stood quietly by the window, gazing out. “Right,” she said, clearly distracted. That was the first word she’d said since coming up the stairs. Something was up.
    “Ooh,” Cleo said, tilting her head back. “So much natural lighting through those windows.” Her deep red curls trailed down her back toward the swell of her ass, which was encased in a ridiculous patchwork skirt of crazy colors—like a jazz saxophone riff. A treasure of a Flogging Molly T-shirt topped off the ensemble. It was a shame she hadn’t taken proper care of it. The logo was cracked and peeling.
    “I hate artificial lighting,” he said. It was a bit of an understatement. He could fucking hear artificial lighting.
    Sherry had wandered over to the stairs, which were hidden in a polished oak cylinder jutting out of the brick-and-mortar wall. “What is this?”
    “It’s an enclosed spiral staircase. Addie can tell you about it. She’s the one who found it while on holiday in Spain.”
    It was one of Addie’s favorite stories—one of her greatest finds—and she never tired of telling how she’d rescued the staircase from destruction and the huge headache involved in getting it to the States. Julian waited for her to pick up the thread, but she remained silent, staring out the window. “Addie?”
    She looked up at the sound of her name, but her eyes were glazed and distant.
    “Julian says there’s a story with the staircase,” Sherry prodded.
    “Huh? Oh, yes. It was in an old cathedral they were tearing down,” Addie said. Then she went back to staring out the window.
    Okay, this thing with Addie was getting weird. He caught a furtive glance dart between Sherry and Cleo—apparently, they didn’t know what the fuck was going on, either.
    “Moving on to the kitchen,” he said. “Your flat doesn’t have one yet, so make yourself at home in mine.” He tried to smile, but it severely pained him.
    “And where is my flat?” Cleo asked, gazing around the loft.
    Julian pointed to a door to the left of his refrigerator. “In there.” He swallowed. “And I’m warning you. It’s not very impressive.”
    “Oh,” Cleo said weakly, “I don’t need much. As long as my folks aren’t in there, I’m good to go.”
    “I doubt they’d fit,” he said. “Now, normally, you’d enter through your own door that comes off the parking lot. There’s a set of stairs that lead straight to your flat.” In other words, don’t traipse through my place to get to yours.
    He walked over and threw the door open with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
    Cleo walked in first, followed by Sherry. They both stopped just inside the doorway. “Oh, Cleo,” Sherry said. “This totally sucks.”
    Julian’s skin prickled over the insult. Cleo stood in the doorway, gawking at