Make Me Sin (7 page)

I
’m being carried up stairs. My head rests on a heated, solid surface. I feel safe, relaxed, and completely at ease.

I have no idea where I am.

I snuggle closer to the sweet-smelling warmth that surrounds me, and sigh in profound contentment. I could stay here in this gently rocking, protective cocoon forever. My fingers find strands of silk. I begin to twist the silk through my fingers, smiling at how lovely it feels on my skin. I bring the silk to my nose and inhale.

Cinnamon. Sugar. A hint of smoke and musk. I love that smell. I’d happily drown in it.

A jarring, metallic clang makes me jerk. I whimper. A voice mutters, “Goddamn useless security gate.”

More stairs. The sound of even breathing. The slow and steady thump of a heartbeat beneath my ear. The voice comes again, gentler this time. “Chloe. Wake up, Princess, I need the key.”

“Mmm.” I nuzzle my face into the warmth that is both unyielding and
sinfully soft, like velvet laid over granite. I tighten my arms around it, because somehow I can. Wherever this place is, it’s
heaven
.

I hear a low, strained groan, as if someone is in pain.

“Shhh.” I press my lips against the silken heat. I hear myself make a noise deep in my throat, like a purr. The groan comes again, more anguished.

“Chloe. For the love of God. Give me the key.”

Through my fog of contentment, I consider the word: key. I keep the key . . . “Spare,” I mumble. “Top o’ the frame.”

A moment’s pause, some rustling and gentle movement, then I hear a satisfied grunt. Now I’m somewhere darker than before, because the red light behind my lids has been extinguished.

Home. I’m home.
The thought floats to me on a leisurely breeze. I recognize the orange-blossom scent of the candle I forgot to blow out before I left for dinner, which is still burning on the coffee table in the living room. It gutters as I glide by noiselessly, effortlessly, on my way somewhere else . . .

I’m laid down on a soft, soft surface. My limbs are gently arranged. My shoes are removed. It’s not as warm as before, nor nearly as pleasant. I frown, trying to open my eyes, but my lids are like lead. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to regain the heat I’ve lost. A weight settles over me: a blanket. I burrow deep under
it, sighing in contentment once again.

Something downy touches my forehead, the barest whisper of pres
sure. Sparks sizzle in its wake. The voice from before speaks softly into
my ear. But now it speaks guttural, primitive words I can’t understand.

“Idi spat, laskovaya moya. Spat.”

“Don’t go,” I beg, fretting at the good-bye I sense in the gentle whisper. “Don’t go yet. Please.”

A moment of silence follows, then I hear an exhalation. “I won’t,” murmurs the voice in words I can grasp. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

I’m awash in relief. He’s here. He’s not going. I can sleep, safe and sound.

And so I do.

I
’m jolted awake by the sound of a garbage truck lumbering down the alley outside a nearby window. I bolt upright. My heart hammers. Confused, I look wildly around the dim room for a few moments before I realize I’m in my bed, at home.

I’m still fully dressed. My head pounds. My eyes are gritty. My mouth is a desert.

I pad to the bathroom, use the toilet, and pop two Advil with a gulp of water from the faucet. By chance, my gaze lands on the digital clock on the counter. I have a heart attack when I realize I was supposed to be at the downtown flower market three hours ago to pick up fresh flowers. It’s Monday, Fleuret’s busiest day of the week, when the majority of our corporate accounts have to be installed. Before lunch.

There are two dozen local business owners who are going to be furious with me today.

Not even bothering to brush my teeth, comb my hair, or otherwise make myself presentable, I run to the bedroom and shove my feet into a pair of sneakers, leaving the laces untied. I grab a jacket from the closet and drag it on while I dash to the living room, frantically searching for my handbag. It’s on the coffee table. I fly out the door, and sprint down the stairs, out the building, and across the sidewalk. I fall panting on my car.

It’s 5:50 a.m. In ten minutes, my shop staff will arrive, and there will be no fresh flowers for them to work with.

Desperate to find a solution, I begin a series of wild calculations. It will take me twenty minutes to get downtown, at least an hour or two to shop for the flowers—if I’m fast—another twenty to get back to Fleuret. Best-case scenario, I’m looking at an arrival time of approximately eight o’clock.

Right when the driver arrives to start loading the delivery van with all the arrangements that won’t have been made.

I pound on the steering wheel. It makes me feel a little better, but doesn’t help the situation. I dig my cell from my purse, hit Contacts, and select Trina’s name. I need to send her a text to let her know she needs to be ready to start putting out fires today.

But I’ve already sent Trina a text, this morning at one thirty. It’s there in black and white. I stare at the message, befuddled.

Can you do the market this morning? Feeling sick. So sorry. Will be in as soon as I can.

I have no recollection of sending it.

I sit in my car, staring at the text, until a tentative honk makes me look up. An older woman in a battered Volvo is motioning to me. She wants to know if I’m leaving. Even at this hour parking spots are at a premium.

I wave at her, start the car, and head to work.

When I arrive, I’m relieved to see Trina definitely got my text, because the shop is buzzing with activity.

“Morning, Carlos,” I say to the young Latino guy who processes the flowers. There’s a mess of leaves and stems around his feet from the stem chopper. He’s starting to sweep up.

He smiles, nodding. “Morning, Miss C.”

Farther inside the shop, hidden from the main sales floor behind a wall, are the long stainless steel design tables, where Trina and Renee, my junior designer, are standing chatting while they arrange. White plastic buckets of flowers surround them. Trina’s working on an extravagant, modern piece for a Beverly Hills plastic surgeon’s office—I can tell whose arrangement it is because they spend the most, and it’s composed almost entirely of cut phalaenopsis orchids, one of the most expensive flowers available. Renee’s dropping trios of white roses wrapped with wire into little blue bud vases for the desks of the attorneys at a law firm.

I’m impressed; they obviously started early. “You guys are awesome!”

Trina says, “You’re here! I thought you were sick! How’re you feeling?”

“I’m okay. Better now. Thanks for handling the market, Trin, you saved my behind.”

She waves off my thanks. “No worries. When I got your text, I texted Renee to see if she could come in a little earlier since we’d be down a man. I’m happy you’re here, though. Mrs. Goldman left a message that she’s having a lunch at Spago and she needs flowers for it.”

“Another lunch at Spago? Doesn’t the woman eat anywhere else? Or cook?”

“Apparently not. Fifteen guests today. She needs it delivered by eleven.”

“Of course she does.” I drop my purse on the desk, make myself a coffee, and get to work.

Two hours later, Jeff, our driver, arrives, and starts loading up. I can finally take a break.

I’ve been distracted all morning. On the back burner of my mind simmers everything that happened yesterday. My parents, Eric, A.J.

Especially A.J.

I remember leaving the bar with him and getting on his death mobile. I remember parts of the ride home. There’s also a hazy, patchy memory of being carried, though it has the quality of a dream, so I’m not sure if it’s real or not. That’s about it.

I distinctly do
not
remember giving him my home address.

I check my phone. There are six missed phone calls, all of them from Eric. He hasn’t left any voicemail messages. I get a sick feeling in my stomach when I realize I’m going to have to tell him that I left a bar with a guy he’s never met. Who then drove me home on his motorcycle.

Who then may or may not have tucked me into bed.

Idi spat, laskovaya moya.

Ghostly and indistinct, the strange words appear in my mind like a warm breath blown on a cold pane of glass. I don’t know what they mean, but I do know that the tone they were spoken in was anything but angry.

The tone was tender. Almost . . . loving.

I’m tempted to think my mind is playing tricks on me. But there’s something . . . I don’t know. There’s something that tells me it wasn’t a drunk dream. Something tells me I really heard those words, in those sweet tones.

I’m staring off into the distance, lost in thought, when Trina comes up behind me and nearly scares me out of my skin.

“I forgot to tell you—jeez, jump a little, why don’t you?”

“Sorry.” I put a hand over my thundering heart. “I was just spacing out. You surprised me.”

She peers at me. “You okay today? You’ve been spacey all morning.”

I clear my throat. “Just . . . yeah. Still not feeling a hundred percent. I’ve got that . . . er, flu that’s going around.”

The wine flu, Kat calls it.

“What’s up?”

She holds out an order form. “That order Big Daddy sent—”

“Oh no, not you, too,” I interrupt, grimacing.

She grins. Behind her trendy glasses, her big brown eyes sparkle. “Yeah. I heard your brother call him that and thought it was totally apropos. That dude is just a big ol’ huggy bear of a man. Grrrr!” She makes a growly bear noise and sticks her butt out like she’s awaiting a slap on it. “Hey Big Daddy Bear, Little Baby Bear has been baaaaad! She needs a
spankin
g
!”

“Please never do that again, or I’ll demote you to bucket scrubber.”

Straightening, Trina laughs. “Don’t worry, it’s not me he wants to spank anyway.” She gives me her signature
you know what I’m saying, girlfriend
face, which is a bizarre combination of pursed lips, wiggling eyebrows, head nodding, and hair tossing that always manages to make her appear as if a blood vessel in her brain has just burst.

I’m too busy rewinding what she’s said to fully appreciate it. “What? Who?
Me
?
”

Rolling her eyes, Trina sighs. “Did you, or did you not, attend elementary school?”

I did in fact attend elementary school. It was a private school that my parents paid thirty thousand dollars a year in tuition for, so I could finger-paint and bang on drums and “learn music, theater, dramatic play, athletics, and environmental awareness, all of which stimulate the senses and support different ways of learning.”

Trina went to public school in Venice, where she was in a girl gang.

I simply answer, “Yes.”

“Okay. So you remember that little asshole kid who would pick on you, and pull your ponytail in class, and try to trip you when you were walking past him at recess?”

I frown. “How did you know about Mikey Dolan?”

“Because every girl has a Mikey Dolan, dummy!”

I stare at Trina. “Did you smoke a bowl before you came to work? Because you’re sounding a little stoney.”

“Ugh. Never mind.” She holds out the order form. “What I needed to tell you was that order from Big—excuse me,” she amends when she sees the warning look on my face. “That order from
Mr. Edwards
is a no go.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?”

She shrugs. “The address is wrong, or incomplete. They sent an email from the wire service to let us know. So they need a correct address, or a telephone number, so they can call the recipient. They’re going to hold it until we get back to them.”

I take the order from her hand and review it. It’s for one hundred long stem white roses, which we charge seven hundred dollars for. He’s not kidding around.

“There’s no message for the enclosure card.”

“He didn’t want one.”

Trina and I share a look. The only time men don’t want to include a message with a bouquet of flowers they’re sending is if the woman they’re sending them to is married to someone else, or if he’s a stalker.