Make Me Sin (12 page)

I stare openmouthed at the door. Seconds pass to a minute.

From behind the closed door, A.J. roars, “GO!”

I’m jolted into motion by the fury in his shout. I turn and flee, running at top speed. My footsteps pound down the empty corridor. My vision wavers from all the water pooling in my eyes. I take the staircase three stairs at a time, stumbling and cursing, hanging on to the gritty handrail and holding back sobs, until I burst through the front door. I stop to catch my breath on the porch, leaning over with my hands on my knees.

Music blasts at top volume from upstairs.

I lift my head, listening. It’s not opera this time, but a rock song. As soon as the bass joins in, I recognize it, and the knife twists a little deeper into my guts.

It’s Love and Rockets, my favorite band. The song?

“Haunted.”

The tears I’ve been holding back finally succeed in breaking out and spill down my cheeks. I straighten and run all the way back to my car.

I don’t look back once.

I
stand in front of the bathroom sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face is twisted in misery. My lip quivers. My eyes are red and wild.

The hand holding the blade to my throat shakes so hard I cut myself. A single drop of crimson wells from my skin, slides down five inches of sharpened steel, and drops off the end. It lands in the sink with a soft purple s
plash
.

I can do it. I need to do it. I need to do it
now
, while I still have any control left.

She’s been gone ten minutes, but her colors still blind me. Her colors are everywhere, saturating everything, the air itself. She shows up at my door like an apparition, like a demon, promising everything with those goddamn swimming-pool blue eyes, those beautiful, innocent eyes, and she makes me want to kill myself.

Worse, she makes me want to fall on my knees and beg for a forgiveness I know will never come, because it isn’t deserved.

Ready now, I inhale. I press the blade harder against the pulse in my throat. Just one flick of my wrist. A single, effortless slice—

Bella pads into the bathroom. She sits at my feet. She looks up at me, wags her tail, and whines.

She’s hungry.

Trembling, I slowly lower the blade from my skin. My laugh is shaky, and sounds just this side of insane.

I drop the bloodied blade into the sink, and go to make dinner for my dog.

There’s always tomorrow.

I
spend the weekend cleaning my apartment and licking my wounds.

The encounter with A.J. has left me so raw I don’t trust myself to talk to anyone. So I hide, ignoring phone calls, scrubbing the kitchen floor, reorganizing my closet, and dusting things that haven’t been dusted since I moved in. It’s therapeutic. By Sunday night I’ve regained some semblance of my former sense of balance. I sit down with a glass of chardonnay at the kitchen table to think.

I’ve had my fair share of boyfriends—not as many as Grace, lord knows, but I suspect that number is in the triple digits—and, prior to A.J., I thought I had men pretty much figured out. I thought most guys were basically just the bigger, louder, smellier version of girls. But this one has really thrown me for a loop. I just can’t get my head around his whole mess. I have so many unanswered questions about A.J., so many puzzle pieces that don’t fit, I’m at a loss as to how to proceed.

Two things: First, I’m not that girl who chases guys. Especially guys who have clearly said they’re not interested. Or, more gallantly, “you make me want to die.” I don’t think that could possibly be interpreted as anything remotely romantic. Although I’m sure there are girls out there who would take that statement as a challenge, I’m not one of them. I don’t want to be the nail in anyone’s coffin, thank you very much.

Second, I don’t think it’s fair or realistic to ask other people to change for you. If you want to change for them, knock yourself out. But if you’re thinking your relationship would be perfect if only he would do (or not do) this or that, you’re doomed to misery. Let him go, and find someone who fits you better. Nobody likes a nag.

Which leads me to the only logical conclusion.

A.J. is a no-go.

Forget the thermonuclear chemistry between us. Forget that he’s maybe the most soulful, beautiful, and—when he wants to be—sweet man I’ve ever met; he obviously comes with so much baggage, any relationship we could attempt would sink like a mafia rat thrown off the docks with his feet encased in cement.

Also, there’s the matter of the prostitutes.

I can just see it now. “Mom, Dad, I’d like to introduce you to my new boyfriend, A.J.! He’s super angry and unstable, is an expert at sending mixed messages, and just
loves
hookers! Don’t you, honey!”

I sigh, and drink my wine.

The phone rings; it’s my brother. This is one call I won’t avoid. Smiling, I pick up. “Hey, big brother, how are you?”

“Bug,” he says, his voice warm, “I’m glad I caught you. I’m great, back in the Big Apple where I belong. But the real question is: How are
you
? That little performance of yours the other night at the ’rents was straight out of an episode of
Downton Abbey
.”

I can tell he’s impressed. Jamie and I have always had a great relationship. He’s older than me by seven years, but it doesn’t feel like it. We’ve always been close, so I tell him the truth.

“I’m confused, a little depressed, and, according to Grace, in need of a good rogering.”

His response is dry. “Aren’t we all.”

“I’m being serious.”

“About which part? Because I might be able to help you out with the first two problems, but that last one is a little TMI, even for me.”

I puff out my lower lip and blow my hair off my forehead. “It’s just, you know. Men.”

His chuckle is knowing. “Men, plural? Or are we talking about one man in particular? Because I can see how that might be a problem, considering the size of those shoes.”

I glide right past the subject that he’s obsessed with, and move on. “How’d you know I wasn’t talking about Eric?”

There’s a short silence. “Because I’ve seen you with Eric. And you’ve never looked at Eric the way you looked at that scruffy blond sex god who walked into your store.”

I’m that obvious. Wonderful. I rest my forehead on my hand.

“Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone else can tell. Except for maybe the man himself. Honestly, bug, it was a little weird standing there while the two of you eye-fucked each other over the counter.”

Embarrassed, I bristle. “We were arguing, not eye-fucking!”

He snorts. “Don’t get testy, sis, I’m just calling it like I see it. And what I saw was two people trying to pretend they dislike each other enormously when what they really want is to get into each other’s pants.”

I deflate just as quickly as I snapped. “Anyway, it’s not going to happen. There’s only so many soul-killing statements a girl can take before she gets the hint.”

“Soul killing? That’s a little dramatic. Did he call you a princess again? Maybe something worse, a duchess, perhaps?”

“Are you ready for this?” I pause for dramatic effect. “He said, and I quote, ‘Being near you makes me want to die.
’
” I slap the table for added emphasis and sit back in my chair.

Jamie sounds disturbed. “I have to admit, that’s a little different than calling you Princess. Was he laughing when he said it?”

My voice grows quiet. “Actually, he looked like he was about to cry.”

“So what did you say?”

In order to give it the proper perspective, I rewind and tell him
the story, beginning from when I bumped into A.J. at Flaming Saddles last Sunday night, and ending with Friday, when I pulled the genius move of showing up unannounced at his haunted hideout. When I’m
finished, Jamie is silent for so long I have to ask if he’s still there.

“What you’re describing is a man in a great deal of pain. You realize that, right, Chloe?”

He’s dead serious. He even sounds worried, like he’s warning me.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because when it’s in pain, an animal hides. And, if cornered and feeling threatened, it lashes out. Your friend is doing both.”

My lungs constrict, making it harder to breathe. “I know.”

“So here’s my piece of big-brotherly advice. Do with it what you will.”

I listen hard, my heart beating a little faster.

“Wait.”

I frown at the phone. “What do you mean, wait? He’s not going to change—”

“Not for him to change.”

“What then?”

“For him to decide what he wants more: his pain, or you.”

I drink my wine, swiping angrily at the moisture in the corner of my eye.

“And in the meantime, live your life. I’m not saying sit by the phone and pine away. I’m just saying that it might take him a minute or two to come around. You can’t push it. But the way you two looked at each other . . . I don’t think you should throw the idea out the window just yet. So just wait. Leave him alone. Let’s see what he does if he doesn’t feel cornered.”

Because this little pep talk is giving me too much hope, I blurt, “He’s into prostitutes. Like,
really
into them. They’re all he dates.”

Jamie calmly asks, “Male or female?”

“Female! Geez!”

“I’m just trying to get my facts straight, don’t get all excited.”

“Excuse me, but why don’t you seem more disturbed?
He pays for sex
.”

“Because no man in the history of the world has ever done that.”

Exasperated, I say, “Jamie, come on!”

“Would it shock you to know I’ve done the same?”

My brows shoot so far up my forehead they almost fly off. “Yes, as a matter of fact it would. When? More importantly,
why
?”

There’s a shrug in his voice. “Because I was horny, and lonely, and I could.”

I decide not to ask for details. “I’m sorry, I just don’t get it. The whole thing seems so seedy and pathetic to me.”

“Well, you’re not a man.”

I groan. “That’s such a sexist statement.”

“When did you become so judgmental, anyway?”

“Hello, it’s illegal? And dangerous? And totally gross?”

“How would you know it’s gross? Maybe it’s the hottest sex you’ll ever have, but you’re so busy looking down your nose at it, you’ll never know.”

My eyes bug out. “You’re advocating your little sister hire a gigolo to get some firsthand experience in the area, is that it?”

He goes all practical on me. “Well, if you do, I know this guy in LA—”

“Please stop talking now.”

“Look, I admit it’s . . . not mainstream.”

Suddenly, I’m angry. “No, Jamie, that’s not it at all. This has nothing to do with me being narrow-minded or judgmental.
It’s wrong
. I’m sorry if it makes me sound like a church lady, but screwing someone for money is wrong.”

“Why aren’t you mad at the prostitutes, then? They’re the ones taking his money. If there were no prostitutes, men couldn’t visit them.”

I almost curse at him. “You’re
such
a lawyer.”

He shoots right back, “And you’re too quick to point fingers. Nothing in this world is black or white.
Nothing
. I don’t know much about this A.J. of yours, but if he
only
can be with a woman who he pays, there’s something to that. And besides, if that’s really the case, this entire conversation is moot.” He adds, “Unless you’re willing to send him an invoice, that is.”

I mutter, “I’m sure they get paid up front. You don’t want that much money in receivables.”

“Really?” He sounds interested. “How much are we talkin’? Two, three grand?”

“Try five.”

He whistles. “
Damn
. And I thought Dad charged a lot per hour. He’d freak out if he knew a hooker had thirty-five hundred bucks on his going hourly rate.”

It’s my turn to be shocked. “Dad charges his clients fifteen hundred dollars per hour?”

Jamie laughs. “Only for old clients. For new ones he charges twenty-five hundred.”

Holy guacamole. I honestly had no idea. “That doesn’t even seem like it should be legal!”

His voice turns wry. “You weren’t complaining when it was paying to put you through USC. Or padding your trust fund. Or financing that graduation trip you took to Paris with all your girlfriends—”

“Point made. No need to rub it in.”

“All right. I know I’m being a little hard on you, but I just want you to keep an open mind. At the very least . . . try to have compassion. You never know what it’s like to be someone else until you’ve lived what he’s lived.”

“Walk a mile in his shoes, that whole bit?”

“Exactly. And don’t sound so snarky, it’s true.”

Annoyed with Jamie, with the conversation, with life in general, I stand and go to the living room window. Outside it’s growing dark. Cars flash by with their headlights on, in traffic even at this hour, on the weekend. The streetlights are winking on.

“When will you be in LA again?”

“I don’t know. I’m giving Mom and Dad a little room to breathe after your dramatic announcement at dinner. I think they might finally be realizing their son is never going to marry Bunny Anderson’s very homely, very rich daughter.”

“Are you angry with me for that?”

“Never. I’ve never hidden who or what I am, they’ve just chosen not to see me. But you always have, and you’ve always accepted me just as I am. I love you for that, bug.”

I’m touched. We don’t often say these things to each other. Stiff upper lip and all that. “I love you, too, Jamie.”

“Gotta go. Call me if you need any more man advice.”

I say wryly, “Or if I need the number of that gigolo.”

His laugh is loud. “Right. And bug?”

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause. “It doesn’t always have to look good on paper.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs. “Only that you can’t find love on a checklist of must-haves. You know: A good education; A stable, upwardly progressive career; A nice car; Good hair. It’s never that easy. Sometimes what looks like perfection is nothing more than a chocolate-dipped turd. And sometimes what you find in the gutter covered in mud that
looks
like a turd is really a diamond. A big old, chunky diamond that some other fool threw out because she couldn’t see that all it needed was a little TLC to make it shine.”

With a soft click, the line goes dead.

I lower the phone to my side. My breath catches; across the street, under the glow of a streetlamp, a man stands staring up at my window.

As he turns and walks away with a lowered head, he tightens the drawstring on his hoodie.