Make Me Sin (11 page)

As if he’s doing penance.

If A.J. has secrets, they belong to him. And they’re best left alone.
I wonder if Kat knows more than she’s telling.

A.J. breaks the tense silence by saying, forcefully and with surprising bitterness, “Just go. Call your boyfriend to come and get you, and go.”

“We broke up.”

He lifts his head. He turns toward me, intense and intimidating, eyes blazing. “Was it because of the other night, what I said to him on the phone?” His burning gaze rakes over me. He snaps, “What happened? Did he hurt you?”

Here we go again. “
No
, he didn’t hurt me.”

Clearly not believing me, A.J. prowls closer. His energy is dangerous, yet I know it’s not directed at me. His gaze darts all over my face, my body. He’s looking for any sign of injury. That alone gives me the courage to say what I say next.

“And it wasn’t because of the night you and I were together.”

He waits, watching me in molten silence. A muscle in his jaw flexes over and over.

I whisper, “It was because I called him by your name.”

My face burns. So does his. We stand there staring at each other wordlessly, until I hear a soft whine from behind me.

Trembling, the three-legged dog cowers in the corner of the hallway, his thin tail between his legs. He gazes up at me in terror. His big brown eyes, which take up half his face, dart to A.J. He lifts his snout and yips.

He wants to come in.

A.J. kneels and holds out his bloodied hands. The dog, keeping a wary eye on me, hops slowly forward into the room until he’s past me, then breaks into an awkward run. He leaps into A.J.’s arms. A.J. stands, cradling his frail body and stroking his ears, murmuring softly to him. The dog snuggles closer to A.J., licking A.J.’s chin, wagging his scrawny little tail.

And I melt into a puddle like a stick of butter left out in the sun.

“What’s his name?”

Still stroking the dog’s head, A.J. says, “Bella.”

So he’s really a she. “She’s yours?”

“As much as anything can be.”

I don’t know what to make of that. But the dog has softened something in A.J., and I want to keep him talking. I move a little closer, noting the tattoo on the left side of his neck. It’s two black crosses, with a third, larger, in between. “Was she a rescue?”

His jaw tightens. I think I’ve asked the wrong question. When he answers, I realize it’s not annoyance with me, it’s a bad memory that’s making him frown.

“I found her in the back parking lot of Flaming Saddles one night last year. Some drunk asshole ran her over, left her there to die. Took her to the emergency vet, but they couldn’t save her leg.”

So Flaming Saddles is his regular hangout. Obviously he hasn’t made any friends there, either.

A.J. murmurs tenderly to the dog, “Doesn’t seem to bother you too much, though, does it, baby?”

The dog wriggles in glee in A.J.’s arms, responding to his gentle coo with a frenzy of licks to his face, and I think I might faint from shock.

A.J. loves this dog.

A.J. loves something
.

So it’s possible. My heart, which clearly has no intelligence or sense of self-preservation whatsoever, trips all over itself in fluttering ecstasy.

“Can I . . . can I pet her?”

He glances at me. There’s an awful moment when I think he’s going to tell me to go jump off a bridge, but then he relents with a curt nod. Judging by the look on her face, Bella isn’t completely convinced I’m not going to murder her. But, with a reassuring word from A.J., she lets me approach.

I pet her between her ears. She’s smooth and soft, like velvet. She nuzzles her wet nose into my hand, sniffing me. When she wags her
tail, I know I’ve passed muster. “Good girl. You’re a sweetie, aren’t you?”

A.J.’s knuckles are swollen and split, clotted with blood. He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He’s too intent on watching my fingers stroke Bella’s head. Heat radiates from his body. Sweat runs in meandering rivulets down his chest. I’m possessed by the need to lick it off.

To distract myself from the vivid image of my tongue lapping at A.J.’s tattooed, sweaty skin, I casually say, “That’s quite the CD collection you’ve got.”

He doesn’t respond. In the awkward silence that follows my even more awkward attempt at conversation, I make a mental list of A.J.’s hobbies:
Boxing. Opera. Dog rescue. Drinking alone at gay bars. Making me uncomfortable.
Other than what I read on the internet—oh, and his fondness for hookers, of course—that’s really all I know about him. I wonder if maybe I open up and share something, he will, too. I take a deep breath.

“I like opera, too.”

He grunts. “I would’ve pegged you more for a Britney Spears fan.”

“Pop and Top 40 aren’t really my favorite music genres. Mostly I listen to eighties rock.”

His brows rise. Slowly blinking, he slides me a look. I think if I had lashes that long and thick I’d spend all day staring at myself in the mirror, practicing batting them to disarm unsuspecting strangers. Now I’m even more flustered. I start to babble.

“The seventies were good, too. I mean, you have to love the classics: AC/DC, Queen, Zeppelin, Aerosmith, the Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath—”

“
You
like Black Sabbath?”

I forget my intimidation and discomfort for a moment, and just answer like I would if I were speaking to anyone else. “Dude, they’re only the best metal band of all time!”

He considers me in silence for what feels like four thousand years. My face grows redder and redder. So much for forgetting the discomfort.

I finish with a lame “But eighties rock is really my thing. Love and Rockets, you know them? That’s my favorite band.”

Bella smiles up at us, tongue lolling in delight. She has decided she likes this new game where she gets petted by both her master and the incredibly stupid, crimson-faced girl.

A.J., releasing me from the prison of his stare, looks down at Bella. He rubs her belly thoughtfully. After a moment, he says, “It’s the quality of the voices.”

I wait, then mutter a hesitant “Um . . .”

“In opera. The voices are exquisite. In rock, pop, rap, R&B, pretty much every other genre of music, the quality of the singer’s voice isn’t as important as his sound. Which is to say his vocal style, not the purity or range of his voice. That can be dressed up in a million ways, especially today with all the auto-tune bullshit. But when an opera singer opens her mouth, you’re listening to an artist who’s honed her natural talent for hours a day, every day, for years. Like Inva Mula singing ‘Il Dolce Suono.’ She’s a lyric soprano. Her voice is laser pure, laser focused. And the
colors
. . .”

He closes his eyes.

I watch him in open fascination, because I can. I’m intoxicated by the way he looks right now, relishing the memory of the color of a woman’s voice. I find it impossibly, almost painfully, beautiful.

“Can you describe it to me?”

He inhales. His exhale is slow, deep, relaxed. Without opening his eyes, he says, “Only in comparison. A bass voice is like . . . a stormy midnight sky. Sapphire blue and deep purple, rich and opaque. Baritones are slightly lighter, still night, but a clear night, shimmering with stars. Tenors are the like hours just before dawn, when it’s not daytime yet, but it’s no longer full night. There are bolder blues, cobalt, emeralds, even hits of lavender at the higher ranges.

“Then there’s the lowest female voice, the contralto. That’s dawn. Orange, fuchsia, and red. Glimmering. The next higher range is alto, then mezzo-soprano, both lighter, more vibrant, sparkling pinks and aquamarines, a clear midmorning, headed toward high noon.”

He pauses. I’m completely enthralled. He inhales again, and his voice lowers an octave.

“Finally there’s the soprano. For me a lyric soprano voice is the brightest, most brilliant of all sounds. It’s like . . . looking up at a midday sun, squinting, your eyes watering because it’s so searingly bright. It’s gold and yellow and crystalline white, glinting and weightless. It’s like standing on a mountaintop on a perfect winter’s day, feeling snowfall on your upturned face. It’s like being showered in diamonds.”

I’m so moved by his words, I forget to stop staring when he opens his eyes and looks at me. His amber eyes are the softest I’ve ever seen them. My heart squeezes inside my chest.

He says quietly, “There’s one voice even more beautiful than the lyric soprano’s, though.”

I can hardly find the words, but somehow, beyond the sudden sense that the world has stopped turning, I do. “Which is?”

His gaze drops to my mouth. A ghost of a smile lifts his lips. “The coloratura. It’s a very rare, agile soprano.”

I’m breathless. I’m weightless. I feel my pulse in every vein in my body. “What’s it like?”

He lifts his eyes to mine, and gazes at me for a long, excruciating moment. “I don’t think I can describe it in color. It’s bigger than that. Deeper. It’s more like . . .”

For a moment, he struggles for words. He turns to look out the windows, lost in thought.

“It’s like a feeling. Like that feeling you get when you’ve been away from home for far too long, and you’re tired and hungry, and just fucking
spent
, and your car is low on gas and it’s getting dark, and you’re sick of cheap hotels and cheap diners and every song on the radio and every thought in your head, and all you want to do is crawl into your own bed and fall into a dead sleep . . . and then you turn the last corner, and there it is. Home. All your troubles melt away with one big sigh, and you hit the gas hard, because you just can’t stay away one second longer.”

He turns his head, and looks so deeply into my eyes I feel naked.

“It’s like coming home to your own brightly lit house after wandering alone for years in the unwelcome dark.”

Again, he’s moved me almost to tears. I’ve never heard a man speak so eloquently, with so much emotion, such raw honesty. It’s like he’s just let me glimpse at his soul.

I wonder if he can hear my heart beating. I wonder what he would do if I took his face in my hands and kissed him, just went ahead and did it because I know he never will.

I whisper, “A.J.”

Emotion wells in his eyes. His brows furrow. He swallows, hard.

Sensing the sudden shift in mood, Bella lets out a soft, worried bark. Just as quickly as it happened, our peaceful little interlude evaporates with an almost audible
poof
.

A.J. withdraws. He sets the dog gently down on the mattress, where she curls into a little ball by his pillow and promptly falls asleep. There’s a white T-shirt near the pillow, which A.J. snatches up and yanks over his head, pulling it down to cover his abdomen.

Coldly, he says, “It’s time for you to leave.”

“A.J.—”

“Leave!” he booms, whirling around to glare at me. “How many times do I have to ask you?”

I leap backward with a cry. He advances, forcing me to retreat. I stumble over my feet in my haste, and nearly lose my balance. Gasping, I fling my arms wide, but, once again, A.J. is there to steady me before I fall.

He grips me by my upper arms, staring down at me, his face red. He backs me against the wall next to the door. He demands harshly, “Why did you really come? What is it you really want, Chloe? You looking for a cheap thrill, something you can brag about to your girlfriends? Oh, wait, that’s right—you only fuck if it’s in the context of
‘love.’
Is that what you came looking for, Princess?” he sneers. “Love? Well you’re looking in the
wrong fucking place.
”

Only a few days ago, this crass, angry speech would have made me livid. But now it’s too late; I’ve peeked behind the golden curtain. I know the kind of man that’s lurking inside, how sad he is behind his mask. How layered and complex behind the façade of swaggering, skirt-chasing sneers.

How lonely.

Looking into his eyes, I say softly, “You don’t fool me.”

His entire body stiffens. His lips part. Into his eyes comes a look of pure torture. He whispers a halting, “W-what?”

“I see you, A.J. I
see
you. All the way past your big scary exterior. You don’t have to let me in; I can’t make you, and it’s obvious you don’t want to. But
I
want you to.” My voice breaks. “Think about that while you’re up here all alone with your tragic Italian operas and your only friend, Bella.”

I yank my arms from his grip and turn to leave. In one swift move, he slams the door shut, blocking my way, and pushes me back against it.

He stares at my face, my mouth, my eyes, my hair. He breathes raggedly, his gaze devouring. He trembles with the effort to hold himself back. It’s so clear; what he wants is to crush his mouth against mine, just as badly as I want it.

He fights. He fights himself so hard, it makes my heart bleed.

In a flash of comprehension, I understand. All his strange behavior, all his anger, all the flip-flopping of emotions he seems to go through whenever I’m near.

I reach up and touch his face. “I hurt you, somehow, don’t I? Being near me hurts you.”

His lashes flutter. In a low, choked voice that sounds like it rises from the deepest pit of hell, A.J. answers, “Being near you makes me want to die.”

Pain pierces my heart. Tears well in my eyes. No one has ever said anything even remotely like that to me before, and it hurts so much I’m breathless. I’m being hollowed out by knives.

“Why?”

He laughs. Somehow it’s even worse than what he’s just told me. The sound is vicious, heartless, totally without mercy. “Because you have a smile like a sunrise and eyes that could end all wars, and you have no idea, you have no fucking
clue
, that when you look at me, you’re looking at a dead man.”

His face twists with misery. His eyes are wet. When he speaks, his voice cracks. “But mostly because you give me hope. You fucking
haunt
me with hope. And I can’t forgive you for that. Now get the hell out and don’t ever come back!”

He shoves me through the door, out into the hallway. He slams the door in my face. He turns the deadbolt with a decisive, dismissive
clack
.