Make Me Sin (15 page)

Eerily reading my thoughts, he says, “Yes. Since that day.”

I’m at a loss for words. I’m thrilled, confused, turned on, worried, and a little weirded out. This is so far beyond my normal experience with men, I simply have no idea what’s the best course of action.

But my heart knows. Instinctively, my heart guesses what he needs from me. I understand why he came, and it’s not just because he needs to sleep.

He needs to escape. And the only way he can escape what gnaws at him is to surrender to it.

I take a deep breath, let it out. I don’t understand what drives him, what reasons he’s both so repelled by and attracted to me. Perhaps I never will. He doesn’t seem inclined to share.

What I do know is that I like having him here. I like his heat. I like his smell. I like the sound of his voice and the way he moves, the way he looks at me like he’s starving. I like the sheer size of him, cradling me in his strong arms so I feel completely safe and secure. I like his tattoos. I like his husky laugh. I like the way he looks at the world, in acceptance and forgiveness, without judgment or fear.

I like the way he protects and cares for Bella. The way he cares about a bunch of faceless animals he’ll never even meet, enough to change his eating habits for a lifetime.

He’s fascinating to me. He’s also a total enigma.

I ask, “Can I have one question?”

His arm tightens around my waist. Against my skin, his lips curve. He’s smiling.

“One.”

Chewing my lower lip, I think. There are too many to pick just one.
Why do I make you want to die? Who is the dead woman in Russia? Why do you never look into a camera lens? Are you going to keep stalking me? Is it you who’s leaving the origami birds? What’s up with the damn hoodies?

Instead I blurt, “Are you a spy?”

There’s a moment of silence, until he starts to laugh. The sound is something I’ll never get used to. I wish I could listen to it forever.

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

I smile into the dark. “Very funny. Answer the question.”

He shifts his weight, adjusting his arm so that his left hand lies flat against my belly. He pulls me closer to his body, sealing any gaps between us, until we’re fused from top to toe. His bare feet tangle with mine. He lowers his mouth to my neck, to the place where it meets my shoulder, opens his lips over my skin, and bites me, just hard enough to sting.

His voice husky with want, he says, “The answer is no. Now stop talking because it’s taking every ounce of strength I have not to tear off your panties and your stupid ZZ Top T-shirt and fuck you, Chloe Anne with an e, until we both come so hard we pass out.”

I bite back a moan. A shiver of desire runs through my body, followed by blossoming heat. My nipples are so hard they could cut glass.

Apparently my brain also decides it’s time for a nap, because I breathlessly ask, without a hint of hesitation or shyness, “You want to fuck me?”

His answer is a low, dangerous growl. His hand on my belly spreads wide. His fingers dig into my flesh.

I can’t help it; I arch against that hand.

His reaction is instantaneous. His entire body stiffens. His arm becomes an iron band around my waist. His right hand fists into my hair. He hisses, “More than I want my next breath. But I won’t. I never will, you understand?
Never.
”

That hurts so unexpectedly, I suck in a breath. I feel like I’ve just been punched in the stomach. “Why not, because I won’t charge you for it?”

My bitter dig only seems to make him sad. The tension drains from him. He releases his grip on my hair, and gently combs his fingers through it, fanning it over the pillow. “No, Princess,” he whispers. “Because I’m not that goddamn selfish.”

I lie there in silent misery for a few seconds, blinking back tears. I don’t know what he means, and I’m too mad to care. Right now, I just want him to leave so I can rub one out, cry into my pillow, and call it a night.

Behind me, there’s a deep sigh. His hand on my stomach slides over my waist, and he begins to caress my back. “It’s just over two hours before your alarm goes off. Get some sleep.”

I tuck my head into the space between the crook of his elbow and the pillow beneath. I’m hiding. “You know what time my alarm goes off?”

His hand doesn’t falter. He just rubs me, slowly, his strong fingers kneading the tense muscles of my neck and shoulders, his palm following the line of my back down to my waist, then up again. It’s a nonsexual touch, but I’m aroused by it. Even though I’m mad and exhausted, I’m still aroused.

He murmurs, “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, songbird. Just go to sleep.”

Songbird. I think of the origami birds, the beautiful, painstakingly crafted birds. In the dark, my heart sings.

“I have something to say. It’s not a question,” I hurry to add, as his hand freezes.

He waits, listening.

I blow out my breath, hard, and bury my head deeper into the pillow. “I’m mad at you right now. And I’m so freaking confused my eyes are crossed.”

I feel his head move closer to mine. His forehead touches my shoulder. He whispers, “I know.”

“But . . .” My voice drops. “I’m glad you’re here.”

For this, I’m rewarded with my first-ever kiss from A.J. It’s feather soft and achingly sweet.

It’s on my shoulder.

Who are you?
I drift as his hand continues to caress my back. Its warmth and softness soothe all the ragged edges that he’s torn just by showing up, by being his incomprehensible self.

Unexpectedly, I fall asleep.

W
hen the alarm jolts me awake at four, the space beside me in bed is empty. On the pillow next to my head sits an origami bird, white with its head tucked under its wing.

A dove. Sleeping. It’s made of the same plain white paper I use in the printer on my desk.

I touch the sheets where A.J. had lain.

They’re still warm.

I
’m in a fog of sleep deprivation and hormonal overload all the next day at work. I can’t concentrate on anything. When the phone rings at three o’clock, I answer robotically, without my usual chipper, please-be-calling-to-spend-thousands voice.

“Good afternoon thank you for calling Fleuret this is Chloe speaking how may I help you.”

The snort on the other end of the line is all too familiar. “Well good afternoon to you, too, sweetheart! Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?”

My lips curve upward. If Grace only knew what had happened in my bed this morning, her head would explode.

“I slept blissfully, thank you very much.”

There’s a pause. “Why do you sound like you’re smiling when you say that?”

Damn, that girl is sharp
. I wipe the smile from my face and sit up straighter in the chair. “No reason. I’m not. Anyway, how are you? What’s up?”

There’s another pause. I worry she’s going to grill me, in which case I’m toast because Grace can sniff out a lie like a shark can sniff out a single drop of blood in ten thousand gallons of water. But she lets me off the hook.

“What’s up is the time. We’re waiting for you over here!”

Frowning, I look at the clock. “Here? Where?”

Grace groans. “You’re in so much trouble.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The first fitting is today, genius! You forgot!”

“Oh, crap.” She’s right; I did forget. At this very moment, I’m supposed to be at the Monique Lhuillier atelier in Beverly Hills, getting fitted for my outrageously expensive, incredibly gorgeous, floor-length, sage-green silk chiffon bridesmaid’s dress. “I’ll be there in twenty. Make sure there’s champagne ready.”

Grace chuckles. “You’re
so
going to tell me what’s up with you the
minute
you walk in the door. Did you by any chance see our friend the surly drummer slash Russian spy?”

I try to sound nonchalant. “You wish. I’ll see you soon.” I hang up before I can do any more damage.

When I arrive at the bridal salon, having left the shop in the capable hands of Trina and Renee, I’ve worked myself up into a bit of a lather about what, if anything, I’m going to tell Kat and Grace about A.J. It’s not that I want to keep anything from them, it’s just that what’s happening with A.J. feels so . . . delicate. Intimate. Strange. I don’t know how I’d describe it, or if I even could.

All I know is that I’m hoping with every fiber of my being that when I look out my window tonight, he’ll be there, waiting.

Or stalking. Whatever.

I haven’t the slightest clue what I’m going to do about Eric. I don’t even know if he’s
really going to call me, like he said he would. For now, I’ve decided to cross that bridge when I come to it. There are only so many fires you can try to put out at once.

And damn, am I on fire. I’m burning so hot, I’m surprised everyone can’t see the flames.

I’m a little breathless when I walk-run into the elegant, white-on-white salon.

Kat and Grace stand on a raised dais in front of a wall of mirrors. Kat’s all rocker-chick chic in skinny jeans, pointy-toe high heeled boots, and a leather jacket, her long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Looking like an Amazon warrior goddess gussied up for a ball, Grace is in the sage-green dress. It’s one shouldered, fitted and shirred through the bodice and waist, with a side slit that exposes her toned leg all the way to her hip. A seamstress kneels at her feet, pinning the hem. The blade-thin salesgirl who helped Kat find her wedding dress when we shopped here with her a few months ago is fluttering this way and that like an emaciated butterfly, pouring champagne into crystal flutes. Kenji, Bad Habit’s stylist and Kat’s third bridesmaid—er, brides
man
—is admiring himself in a full-length mirror near the dressing room.

He’s wearing the same gown Grace is.

“Hi! Sorry I’m late!”

Everyone turns to look at me. Kat smiles. Grace narrows her eyes. Kenji puts his hand on his hip, looks me up and down, and whistles. “Well, helllooo, white chocolate! Who’s been nibblin’ on your little ol’ Wonder Bread crusts?”

“I would answer that, but I don’t even know what language you’re speaking.” I toss my handbag onto a white leather chair. The salesgirl scowls at me. I want to tell her to eat a hamburger. Then I remember that’s exactly what A.J.
did
say to her when we were here last, and a flush creeps up my neck at the thought of him.

“Allow me to translate,” says Grace, eyeing me with one elegant brow arched. “What Kenji said was, ‘Hello, normally uptight white girl who suddenly has a mad, hip-shakin’ strut, you look like you’ve recently gobbled down a giant cock sandwich, and we’d all like to know whose it was.
’
”

I stare at Grace. “Honestly, dude. Sometimes I wonder about you.”

She smiles serenely. “Don’t change the subject.”

“Leave her alone, Grace.” Kat winks at me. “And go get your dress on, Lo, we have to be out of here by four. They have another group coming in.”

I’m so relieved I want to sigh out loud, but I pretend nonchalance instead. “Just point me in the right direction.”

The salesgirl ushers me into the dressing room and helps me into the gown. When I turn and look at myself in the mirror, I’m pleasantly surprised. The color and style are very flattering on me.

“You won’t need any adjustment to the length,” the salesgirl purrs, fussing over me. She’s pleased by my height. She’s also obviously pleased by the fit around my waist and chest, because she says, “It’s not often we have girls who can fit into the sample sizes. Usually if they’re as tall and slender as you are, they have those hideous bolt-ons to go with.”

Grimacing, she spreads her hands in front of her chest like she’s
holding a pair of watermelons. This is one area where the salesgirl and
I agree. I think fake boobs are false advertising. Or maybe I’m just jeal
ous. Unless you’re a runway model, B-cups aren’t exactly all the rage.

They did come in handy for volleyball, though. I played on a team all through high school and college, and never once did I have a nip slip.

“Let’s go show your girlfriends, dear.”

The salesgirl—whose nametag reads “AINE,” a word I have no idea how to pronounce, so I don’t even try—leads me into the main dressing area by the wrist. She announces, “Here we are!” and golf claps like I’ve just won Best in Show.

I curtsy, because it seems like the thing to do.

Kat squeals in delight. “Oh my God, it’s perfect! You look fucking
amazin
g
!”

Grace, sounding impressed and also a little disgruntled, says, “If anyone has the genes to wear couture, it’s definitely you, sweetheart.”

Kenji says, “Bitch.”

Kat sends Kenji a sour look. “Oh, stop, Gookemon. Don’t be a hater.”

“
You
stop, Rucky Charms! How am I supposed to be my fabulous self with all
this
—” he waves to Grace and me—“going on? I can’t be outdone! I’m a stylist! I have to look the best of the three! If I can pull it off, I’m going to look better than
you
, too!”

Kat deadpans, “You’ll never look better than me. I’m magicrry derricious.”

Kenji replies, “Whatever you say, Bruce McLee.”

I turn to the salesgirl, who is watching this little exchange in total confusion. “It’s their BFF thing. Don’t worry about it.”

She tries on a tentative smile, and flits away to refill Grace’s champagne glass.

Kat’s half Irish, half Japanese, and Kenji is half Japanese, half Thai.
They’re always lovingly calling each other random ethnic slurs, trying to one-up each other with originality.

Kenji struts to the middle of the room. The dress drags behind him like the train of a wedding gown. At four foot nine, he’s going to need a lot of help from the seamstress if he’s really going to wear that thing, as he’s repeatedly insisted he will. Even his signature zebra-print platform boots aren’t much help.

He announces, “In light of current events, Kenji must reevaluate his wardrobe selection.” He lifts the dress over his head, and flings it dramatically to the floor.

Aside from the platform boots, he’s wearing nothing but a pair of Spider-Man briefs. His body is nut brown, slender as a young boy’s, and entirely hairless. I wonder if he shaves it, like he does his head.

Hands on hips, he executes a perfect catwalk turn, then sashays off to the dressing room, where he slams the door.

Kat yells after him, “You left an eyelash out here, Chinker Bell!”

She’s right. One of his big fake eyelashes is stuck to the neckline of the dress. Kat, Grace, and I look at each other, and laugh.

The salesgirl is in the corner, chugging champagne.

“You girls sound like you’re havin’ fun. We interruptin’?”

The amused voice comes from the doorway. We turn to find Nico leaning against a mirrored armoire near the entry, arms crossed over his chest, grinning.

“Baby!” Kat leaps from the dais and flies into his open arms. I should have known he’d be here; he can’t let her out of his sight for more than thirty minutes at a time.

Then I freeze.
We. He said “we.”

My heart turns somersaults. I slowly turn to look into the main room of the salon behind them, and my mouth goes dry.

Unmoving beside a display of white wedding gowns in the other room, A.J. stands watching me. He’s in a battered leather bomber jacket instead of a hoodie, and no sunglasses cover his eyes. His hair is loose around his shoulders, a golden lion’s mane, and he’s freshly shaven. He looks rested.

His eyes are the color of warmed whiskey. His stare is fierce.

He’s so beautiful, I can’t look away.

Silently, he lifts his hand and makes a “turn” motion with one finger. So I lift the delicate material slightly away from my legs, rise onto my toes and pirouette, a ballerina en pointe, an ice skater in a spin. I feel weightless. I feel breathless. The dress whispers around my bare legs, billowing, airy. When I come to a stop, my hair cascades over my right shoulder, the dress sighs and falls still.

And everyone is staring at me.

“Very pretty,” says Grace. “And will you be playing the jazz flute for the talent portion of the pageant, Miss California?”

I flush and look away.

Then A.J.’s in the room, standing next to Kat and Nico. “Sorry for barging in like this. You know how twitchy my boy here gets if he’s away from his woman too long.” Smiling, he claps his hand on Nico’s shoulder.

I wonder who this cheerful stranger could possibly be.

Flustered, I hurry across the room, take a glass of champagne from AINE, and pretend to examine the dress in the mirror. My face is the color of a beet. Grace steps down from the dais, stops beside me and murmurs, “Not the jazz flute then. The skin flute, perhaps?”

I don’t respond. I can’t; I’m too busy being mortified. Or hornified, not that that’s even a word. But dear lord, what’s happening to my body? I feel like I might spontaneously combust, like all the drummers in the movie
Spinal Tap.

Grace can tell. She kisses me on the cheek. “I love you so much right now it hurts.”

“You’ll be hurting a lot more when I kill you,” I hiss under my breath. “Behave!”

She beams at me, pretending to get misty eyed. “My little girl is finally growing up.”

I growl, “You’re an evil, twisted harpy!”

“And you give the best compliments. Now stop pretending your panties aren’t melting, and go over and talk to him. I promise I’ll be quiet.”

“Not quiet,” I warn.
“Mute.”

She makes a zipper motion across her mouth, then floats away into the dressing room. I hear her call out to Kenji, “I have an idea for you, sweetheart. Let’s abandon the dress altogether and start with something fresh. I’m thinking peacock feathers.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Kenji answers, “Oooooooo.”

I chance a look in the mirror in A.J.’s general direction. He’s looking at me. His gaze hungrily roves up and down my body. He’s undressing me with his eyes.

You want to fuck me?

More than I want my next breath. But I won’t. I never will, you understand? Never.

Kat says, “This is a nice surprise, A.J. How are you?”

He nods, a hint of a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. “Good.”

He’s still staring at me.

Nico says, “We finished up the session earlier than scheduled, so we thought we’d stop by and see how it was goin’.”

“It’s going great! I mean, Kenji isn’t happy, but we’ll figure something out. How did the session go?”

“Actually . . .” Nico slides A.J. a look. “My man here came up with a pretty fuckin’ ambitious new track. Very ‘Stairway to Heaven’–esque. Not sure if my pipes can handle all the upper extensions, but it’s a hell of a song.”

“Yeah? What’s it called A.J.?”

“Shipwrecked Soul.”

His voice is quiet when he speaks, quiet yet intense, and his eyes are intense, too.

My throat constricts. I’ll never understand him, or this thing between us. It’s obvious he wants me, just as obvious that he doesn’t
want
to want me. His ambivalence is a big, fat slap in the face, and suddenly
I
feel shipwrecked.