Make Me Sin (10 page)

“Maybe.” Kat puts the phone back in her bag. Then she gives me a look that says
or maybe not
.

“It’s not like she’ll ever find out, anyway.” Grace toys nonchalantly with a lock of her hair. “Since she’s so full of guilt over her ‘unforgiveable’ name-mix-up episode with Eric that she’s going to beg him to take her back and forget all about the crazy-sexy secret Russian spy she’s dying to do the dirty deed with.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s not a secret Russian spy!”

She pounces. “Aha! So you don’t deny you’re dying to do the dirty deed with him?”

“You’re fixated on sex, you know that?”

“Why do you think I became a marriage therapist? Not only do I get to enjoy my own sex life, I get to hear all about everyone else’s!”

“Then why didn’t you just become a sex therapist?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Too tacky. Might as well own a massage parlor that gives happy endings.”

I blink. “That’s not a real thing, either, right? Happy endings at massage parlors are just urban legends.” I look at Kat. “Right?”

Kat and Grace look at each other, pick up their glasses, and clink them together in a toast.

“Oh, screw you guys,” I mutter.

Kat slurps the salt off the rim of her margarita glass. Casually, she says, “Well, if you do ever find out anything . . . strange . . . about A.J., my advice is to keep it to yourself. In my experience, it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Equally casually, Grace asks, “That sounds interesting, Katherine. Care to share more?”

Kat’s face grows serious. She sets down her drink. She meets my gaze. Suddenly, in place of my normally lighthearted friend, there’s a stranger looking back at me. A stranger who’s older, and wiser, and has endless dark shadows in her eyes.

“You know what I went through,” she says, her voice quiet. “And I learned that people keep secrets for all kinds of reasons. Sometimes they’re sad reasons. Sometimes they’re selfish reasons. And sometimes . . . they’re dangerous reasons. If—and I’m only saying
if
—A.J. has secrets, they belong to him. And they’re best left alone.”

Kat’s talking about Nico’s crazy brother, Michael, who’s in prison for trying to kill her, among other things, and Nico’s crazy sister, Avery, who overdosed due to the complete insanity of her life . . . not least of which was the incestuous affair she was carrying on with Michael since she was a kid. The whole thing was a complete mess. Kat came out the other side okay, but there’s the occasional moment, like this, when it seems like her world was knocked off-kilter, and she hasn’t quite found her way back to center yet.

In the silence that follows, I think of how A.J. never looks into a camera lens. How he sits alone in a dark corner of a gay bar on a Sunday night, when the rest of the world is at home with their families. How when he looks at me, all he sees are ghosts.

I heave a sigh, and fill another tortilla chip with salsa. Around my chewing, I say, “I think this might be a good time to tell you guys about what happened
last
night. Then tell me if you think I should let this particular sleeping dog lie, or pat it on the head and wake it up.”

F
our days later, at half past three on a sunny Friday afternoon, I stand outside my car at the end of a long dirt road in the Hollywood Hills, shading my eyes with my hand as I stare at a rusted chain-link fence bisecting the road.

It’s locked with a padlock. A sign warns, “Private Property. Intruders Will Be Shot.”

I’m very confused.

On Monday at Lula’s, I eventually admitted to the girls that I was having some pretty conflicted thoughts about A.J. After hearing the rest of the story about my night with him at the gay bar, Grace’s opinion was that it ultimately didn’t matter what secrets A.J. might be hiding, because I really only needed him for what was between his legs. (She’s sentimental that way.) She said go for it, have a crazy fling, learn a few new tricks in the sack, then go marry Eric or some other normal person, have my two point three babies, and live the life I was brought up to live.

That made me vaguely depressed.

Kat’s opinion was more ambivalent. She doesn’t want me to get hurt. She also knows you can never, ever judge a book by its cover, so even though A.J.’s particular cover is mad and bad, what’s on the inside might be anything but.

“First,” she cautioned, “you need to sort things out with Eric.”

I have repeatedly tried to do so, but he isn’t cooperating. I can’t get him to return my calls. When I mentioned that to Grace, she said, “So there you have it,” as if I were now free and clear to shop my vagina all over town.

I left Eric another apology message, asking him to call. I waited another full day to hear back. When the crickets got too loud, I decided I wasn’t going to wait any longer. Now here I stand, befuddled.

According to my GPS, this road is supposed to lead to the address Kat gave me where A.J. lives, but I can’t get around the darn locked gate. Which, by the looks of it, no one else has gotten around in a long time, either. Except . . .

Off to the left side of the road, where the dirt gives way to wild grasses and trees, there’s a man-height, oval break in the fence. It’s almost hidden behind a wall of shrubbery, but I see it, and go over for a look. The grass beneath it is flattened, and bald in some patches. There are slim tire tracks in the dust.

It’s a way in. A way in that someone on a two-wheeled vehicle is regularly using.

Oh, goodie. I found the entrance to the bat cave. I wonder if Bruce Wayne is at home.

I maneuver the car so it’s parked off the main part of the road, lock it, and continue on foot. It’s a pretty good incline, and soon I’m sweating. I don’t normally mind a good sweat—I love to run, and take regular hikes up Runyon Canyon—but I really don’t want to see A.J. when I’m looking like I just hopped off a treadmill.

After another ten minutes of walking, I realize I’ve left my phone, along with A.J.’s flower order form with the incorrect address, in the car.

I stop in the middle of the road, and look around. I see only gently
rolling hills covered in trees and low shrubs on either side of me. Where
perhaps, my mind inconveniently suggests, murderers and rapists are hiding. I chew my lip, undecided. Do I go back? Do I keep going?

Then a dog barks off in the distance, and I think I might be getting close after all.

I continue on. After another half mile or so, I crest the top of the low rise, and stop dead in my tracks.

“Oookay,” I say aloud, staring. “
That’s
not creepy.”

The road dead-ends in a broad, circular driveway perhaps three hundred yards ahead. In the center of the circle is a dry, cracked marble fountain choked with weeds. Beyond it is a sprawling, dilapidated, abandoned hotel. It looks right out of that horror movie where Jack Nicholson plays the writer who goes crazy and tries to murder his family.

Parked in front of the hotel, gleaming in the afternoon sun, is A.J.’s death mobile.

I stand gaping until the dog I heard earlier trots into sight around the rusted hulk of a dumpster on the side of the building. He’s a pale caramel color, thin and small. He has only three legs.

He spots me and freezes. His ears flatten. He seems to shrink closer to the ground.

“Hey, buddy. It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.” I kneel down,
holding out my hand.

He starts trembling. He skips backward a step. Poor thing, he’s ter
rified of me. Then, somewhere inside the hotel, music begins to play. The dog turns its head, perks its ears, and tears off in the direction it came, faster than you’d think a dog missing a leg would be able to.

I stand, listening for a moment, trying to identify the music. There’s a lone, piercing flute or clarinet, accompanied by a soprano, who is singing in . . . Italian, I decide.

Inside the abandoned hotel, with a three-legged dog as company, someone is blasting an Italian opera. This is getting weirder and weirder.

I move toward the massive double doors at the front of the building. It’s obvious this place was once beautiful. Now it’s a ruin. The tall beveled-glass windows are streaked with dirt. The carved lintel about the door is sagging and warped from both moisture and age. The roof was probably last repaired in 1930. Paint peels off the façade in long, curling flakes. But an echo of its majesty remains. Up close, it’s a little less creepy.

A little.

I walk up three rotted wood steps, cross the porch that runs the length of the first floor, and try the knob on the front door. Just like I’ve seen happen in the movies, it breaks off in my hand. The door swings slowly open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the interior. I toss the knob and go inside, feeling like Nancy Drew.

If I hear a disembodied voice hiss,
“Get ooouuuttt!”
I am so out of here.

The room opens into a grand foyer flanked by twin staircases that sweep upward to a second level. There’s no furniture, or anything on the walls except faded floral wallpaper, dotted with slightly brighter squares where paintings once hung. An enormous crystal chandelier, dull with dust, dangles precariously from a frayed cord on the ceiling two stories above.

The soprano sings on.

I know more than I should about opera, as I grew up with a mother who believed children should be introduced to such things. Culture and whatnot. So I recognize this particular song. It’s “Il Dolce Suono,” or “The Sweet Sound,” from the opera
Lucia di Lammermoor
by Donizetti. It’s about a woman, Lucia, who’s in love with a man, Edgardo. But, for various reasons that only make sense in operas, she marries another man, Arturo. There’s lots of angst and threatening of duels, and Lucia finally goes crazy and stabs her new husband to death on their wedding night. Edgardo, desolate at the rejection by Lucia, then kills himself.

In short, it’s a tragedy about star-crossed lovers. It’s basically the Italian opera version of Romeo and Juliet.

Trying not to take it as a sign, I straighten my shoulders, reminding myself what I came here for. Which—allegedly—is to get a correct address for A.J.’s flower order.

Because I couldn’t have just asked Kat to pass along the message to Nico, right?

Following the music, I ascend the sweeping staircase. The second floor branches off in two main wings. I turn east. The song plays on. Now I hear another noise, a repetitive, low,
thump
,
thump
,
thump
. I have no idea what it could be, but it doesn’t stop.

Finally, at the end of the wing, I stop outside room number twenty-seven. The music comes from inside. A painted glass window set high in the wall coaxes in the afternoon light in brilliant beams of saffron, emerald, and gold, illuminating the threadbare carpet beneath my feet. Heart pounding, I knock on the door.

Nothing. No response. The music continues. The strange thudding continues at erratic intervals.

I look at the door handle. Do I dare?

I knock again, louder, longer, a little desperately. When it produces no result, I tentatively turn the handle, crack open the door, and peek inside.

The room is cavernous, with vaulted ceilings and dormer windows that showcase views to the surrounding hills. The only furniture is a mattress on the floor in a corner, a cracked leather sofa, and a dresser. Half-melted pillar candles are strewn in clusters around the floor, and also line the windowsills. One wall is covered, floor to ceiling, in bookshelves, which are packed tight with CDs. A boxer’s heavy punching bag dangles from a metal chain from the rafters.

Sweating, shirtless, and barefoot, A.J. dances around the bag, punishing it brutally with his bare fists.

I’m transfixed. I’m fused to the floor. I’m hot, and cold, and thrilled, and scared. I think he’s the most glorious and also the most
frightening thing I’ve ever seen.

Kat was right about his tattoos. They are legion, covering the flesh
of his arms, chest, abdomen, and back, in colorful, intricate designs. I see
a dragon. I see a woman’s face. I see an angel, kneeling on the ground, his wings broken and black. I see crosses and skulls and roses and what looks to be lines from scripture, all of it rendered in vivid detail.

None of which compare to what lies
beneath
his skin.

His body is a masterwork of muscle. Thick, bulging ropes of hardened muscle flex with every movement. His shoulders, arms, and back are slick with a sheen of perspiration, which only serves to further highlight his incredible physique. His hair is tied back, but a few strands of dark gold have escaped and are plastered to his forehead and neck. He wears nothing but a pair of black nylon shorts and a look of intense concentration. He hits the bag over and over, grunting, fists flashing, dancing and turning, until finally he spots me standing agog in the doorway.

He jerks, and staggers back as if he’s been electrocuted. Chest heaving, eyes wide, he stares at me. His hands shake. His knuckles drip blood onto the floor.

“I . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

I don’t know if he’s heard me over the music. His expression is part shock, part confusion, and part pleasure, if I’m not mistaken.

It gives me a little courage. I walk a few steps further into the room. As soon as I do, all the emotion on his face is wiped away. It becomes a mask of stone.

“What are you doing here?”

I freeze. “I-I’m . . .”

He steps forward, still breathing heavily. His eyes flash fire. A vein throbs in his neck. “What the fuck are you doing here, Chloe?”

I swallow. Clearly this was a terrible idea. “Your order . . . the flowers . . .”

He strides over to the wall of CDs. There’s a stereo, slim and modern, hidden between two shelves. He pushes a button and the music stops. The sudden silence is jarring. Without looking at me, he says, “You should go.”

“No.”

He’s just as surprised by that as I am. He turns his head, looking at me from the corner of his eye. He waits, unmoving.

I moisten my lips. “I came because of the flower order you placed. The address is wrong. I tried to reach your manager but he wouldn’t call me back, so I asked Kat to get your address from Nico so I could . . . because you don’t have a phone.”

He stares at me.

Blood suffuses my cheeks. “I-I’m sorry to interrupt you like this. Had I known . . . I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought.” I glance nervously around the room. “But I wanted to make sure the flowers were delivered—”

“The address is correct.” His words are low and clipped. He still hasn’t turned toward me. He’s visible mainly in profile. I wonder if that’s deliberate, if he doesn’t want me to get a closer look at what’s on his chest and back.

“No, it can’t be. It’s a cemetery.”

He nods, once.

A shiver runs through me. Something cold unfurls in my stomach. “Oh. Well . . . they’ll still need a plot number, to put it on the right gravestone.”

He turns his head away. His hands curl to fists. “The cemetery management knows which gravestone. They’ll know it’s from me. I’ve been sending the same thing every year since . . . forever. Just send it. And leave.”

I hear anguish in the husky timbre of his voice. Anguish, and a loneliness so vast and deep it makes my heart ache. Whoever this dead Aleksandra is, she clearly meant a lot to him.

I say his name. He leans his arms against the bookcase, closes his eyes, and hangs his head. He whispers, “You shouldn’t be here.”

I fight the violent urge to go to him, put my arms around him, and murmur words of comfort in his ear. I’m almost moved to tears by this spartan room, by the way he lives here, in a crumbling old ruin high in the hills, alone. Kat told me he’s lived here as long as Nico has known him. He goes to a pay phone at a liquor store off Sunset Boulevard once a day to check in with the band’s manager, who receives all his mail and phone messages. Anyone who needs to contact A.J. knows to go through the manager, and anyone who doesn’t know him would have one hell of a hard time finding him, if they ever could.

It’s as if he’s exiled himself from the world. As if he’s removed himself from the human race, from any chance of a random encounter.