Make Me Sin (8 page)

“All right. I’ll follow up on it, thanks.”

Exactly how I’m going to follow up on it is a mystery, because there’s this fun little device called a phone that’s missing in the equation. I have no way of contacting A.J.

Directly, anyway.

Deciding it’s too early to call Kat, I look up the address on Google Maps. The street and city names are a tangle of unpronounceable words. I type slowly, looking back and forth from the order to the screen, making sure I’m entering it right:
4, Prospekt Devyatogo Yanvarya / 66a, Prospekt Alexandrovskoy Fermy.

Google produces the result. I’m looking at a link for the Preobrazhenskoe Cemetery in Saint Petersburg, Russia.

My hands fall still on the keyboard. A little shiver runs down my spine.

You want to know what I see when I look at you? Ghosts.

I look at the name of the intended recipient. Aleksandra Zimnyokov. I murmur several variations of the last name, trying to get the pronunciation right, but give up quickly. Whoever this woman is, I’m sure she won’t appreciate me butchering her name.

I look back at the computer, thinking. Into the search box I type “A.J. Edwards Bad Habit.”

There are, no joke, nine hundred eighty-three thousand results. I click on the Wikipedia link near the top and start reading.

Alex James Edwards (born 9 July, 1987), known professionally as A.J. Edwards, is an American musician and singer-songwriter, best known as the drummer for the rock band Bad Habit.

He’s twenty-eight, three years older than I am. Funny, I thought he was older. Maybe that’s because he always seems like he’s got the weight of the world around his neck. I keep reading and learn he was born in Las Vegas, Nevada, to a pastor and his homemaker wife. Due
to their religious beliefs, he was homeschooled for his entire education.

I have a hard time imagining A.J., tatted, surly, antiestablishment A.J., as coming from such a square background. Although being homeschooled by
my
mother would certainly have made me jump off the deep end, so I shrug, reading on.

For one of the members of such a famous band, there’s surprisingly few personal details about him. He has no siblings. His parents died years back. Most of the information involves his musical career and the bands he played with before Bad Habit, which he joined five years ago.
The drummer Bad Habit had before A.J. had a severe cocaine addic
tion and died of a heart attack after a three-day drug binge.

“That’s awful,” I murmur.

There’s a considerable section on chromesthesia, the neurological anomaly he has.

I read aloud, “Chromesthesia or sound-to-color synesthesia is a type of synesthesia in which heard sounds automatically and involuntarily evoke an experience of color. As with other variations of synesthesia, individuals with sound-color synesthesia perceive the synesthetic experience spontaneously, without effort, and in a way that the individual learns to accept as normal. The exact mechanism by which synesthesia persists has yet to be identified. Given that synesthetes and non-synesthetes both match sounds to colors in a nonarbitrary way, and that the ingestion of hallucinogenic drugs can induce synesthesia in under an hour, some researchers claim it is reasonable to assume that synesthetic experience uses preexisting pathways that are present in the normal brain.”

I wonder if I can find hallucinogenic drugs so I can try to re-create what A.J. sees when he hears music. I bet Trina could find me some.

When I continue with the article, I note that in almost every accompanying picture of him, A.J. wears sunglasses, and something covering his head. Usually it’s a hoodie. Sometimes it’s a hat, pulled low over his forehead. Even in the rare picture that captures him without sunglasses, he nev
er looks directly into a camera. His face is always lowered, or hidden, or turned to the side. Even in promotional shots for the band—even on the pictures for the CDs and singles—he hovers in the background. Nico, Bad Habit’s extroverted lead singer, is always front and center, flanked by the other members
of the band, but A.J. is almost al
ways in the shadows.

Just looking at the photos for a few minutes, I can tell it’s deliberate.

I want to know why.

I tap my fingernails on the desk, calculating how long I have to wait before Kat’s up, and I can call and get her to ask Nico for A.J.’s home address.

W
hen I get home that night, there’s a team of men from the management company just leaving. The security gate at the front of the apartment building which has been broken since I moved in, is miraculously fixed.

On the narrow concrete steps in front of the gate sits Eric, staring dejectedly at the ground.

I tense.
Can I do this now? Do I need more time? What will I say?

But it’s too late. He’s seen me, standing motionless in the street beside my car, and stands. I have to go in. He waits for me with his hands shoved into his pockets, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

We haven’t talked since A.J. hung up on him last night. I’m full of anxiety about what might happen next.

When I’m within arms’ reach, he reaches out and wordlessly engulfs me in a hug. He buries his face in my neck, breathing me in. He’s shaking. His nose is cold against my throat. I wonder how long he’s been sitting here, waiting for me to show up.

“I’m sorry, babe. I was an idiot. I never should have said anything to your parents. The way I handled that . . . and then you wouldn’t answer my calls . . .” He pulls back, looking at me with worried eyes. “Are you all right?”

I nod.

Softer, he asks, “Are
we
all right?”

The tension ebbs from my shoulders. It isn’t going to be World War III. I sigh, nodding again. “I meant what I said at dinner, though. We have some things we need to talk about.”

“Of course, of course.” He’s relieved, too, reassuring me, squeezing my arms. I can tell that no matter what I say, he’ll agree. He doesn’t want to lose me.

What I’m not so sure of is whether or not I want to lose him.

Into the lockbox on the gate I punch the security code I’ve never used. It’s the same number as my apartment, and therefore easy to recall. The gate swings open. We trudge upstairs. We’re silent the whole way.

Once inside, I head straight to the fridge. There’s no beer left, which I know Eric prefers to drink, but we’ll need something to lubricate this jagged encounter, so I open a bottle of cabernet. I pour a glass for each of us. We sit on opposite sides of the coffee table in the living room, silent and tense, looking at everything but each other.

I wonder if this is what it feels like to be married.

Eric clears his throat. “I want to say something.” He sets his wineglass on the coffee table, rests his elbows on his knees, and steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “I don’t know who that guy was that you were with at the bar last night, but you said he was a friend.”

Our eyes meet. He’s waiting for confirmation, or a confession. I nod, meaning yes, he’s only a friend. Eric inhales a deep breath, lets it out sharply. He’s relieved.

“Okay. I believe you. So I won’t bring it up again. You’ve never given me a reason not to trust you. I know I have a tendency to be suspicious, which probably comes from my line of work. I’m not using that as an excuse, it’s just the reality. But I know you don’t deserve that.” He pauses. “I also won’t ask how, or when, you finally got home. I didn’t come here and wait for you last night, because I thought . . . it seemed like you didn’t want to see me. You said you wanted space. I was trying to respect that. And I can’t blame you for needing it, after how inconsiderate I was at dinner.”

His voice drops. He looks at the floor. “That thing about getting married . . . it just came out. I didn’t mean to be patronizing, or make it seem like your father’s permission mattered more than your feelings about it. Honestly, I was just amazed that someone like him would think a cop is good enough for you. I just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.”

My throat constricts. His confession is so unexpected, I don’t know what to do. If the shoe were on the other foot, and some mystery girl pulled the phone away from Eric at a bar and threatened me after he and I had a fight and he walked out on me, I
know
I wouldn’t be giving him this mea culpa right now.

Overwhelmed, I swallow some wine.

Eric slowly raises his head. Our eyes lock. I remember the first time I saw him, he had so much swagger, such adorable, cocksure charm, I was smitten on sight. He’s a clean-cut, all-American quarterback type with a vulnerable side that’s completely disarming, with a cleft chin a girl could get lost in.

Now there’s no swagger. There are no cocksure smiles. There’s just a man whose feelings for me are so big they’re taking up most of the space in the room.

“I know I’m not good enough for you.” His voice cracks. “But I love you. And I’d do anything to make you happy.”

I cover my mouth with my hand. My eyes fill with tears. Though we’ve been dating for six months, Eric has never said he loves me before now.

I whisper his name. It’s like fitting a key into a lock; it releases all the emotion he’s been holding back.

He leaps over the coffee table and onto me, knocking the wineglass out of my hand as he crushes me against his body, sending us crashing down to the couch. I’ve never been kissed so desperately, or needed so desperately to be kissed. Every doubt and worry fly away, and I let myself be swept along in a tsunami of emotion. I feel more passionate, more elated, more
hungry
, than ever before.

In between ravenous kisses, he tears off his shirt, then mine. My shoes come off next, my socks, my pants, my underwear; I’m naked. He rips open the button fly of his jeans. He falls on top of me, kissing my breasts, positioning himself between my thighs. Incoherent words of adoration fall from his lips. I groan, arching into him, wanting wanting
wanting
, and he bites down just hard enough on my nipple that I cry out in pleasure and pain.

He freezes.

I’m reeling, not sure why he’s stopped. “What?” I pant, blinking. “Eric, what’s wrong?”

He withdraws from me as if I’m a giant pile of turds that he’s just had the misfortune to fall face-first into. His expression is horror stricken.

It’s also enraged.

He hisses,
“What did you call me?”

It’s my turn to freeze. I try to think, but my mind is blank. “I . . . nothing?”

He looks as if he might be sick. “You called me, ‘A.J.’ You called me another man’s name!”

Ice water is instantly injected into my veins. I stare at him, all the cells in my body crystallizing into snowflakes. It can’t be. I didn’t say anything, I only made a small sound—

Eric leaps from the couch, snarling. I sit up and cover my breasts with my hands.

“Eric, I-I don’t know what to say . . . I don’t think I
did
say anything—”

He whirls around and shouts, “Oh, believe me, you did! Is that who you were with last night? A.J.? From the fucking band?”

Oh God. Of course he knows who A.J. is.
My mouth hangs open, but no sound comes out.

He stands over me, livid with rage and betrayal, his face red, veins popping out in his neck. “Tell me the fucking truth, Chloe!”

And I can’t lie. I want to. With every fiber of my being, I want to lie. But I don’t.

White and shaking, I whisper, “Yes.”

With a guttural groan, he turns away. He snatches his shirt from the floor and yanks it over his head. On his way to the door, he grabs a vase from the niche in the hallway and hurls it across the room. It hits the opposite wall and shatters with a sound like a bomb.

He yanks open the door, then slams it behind him so hard the entire building shakes.

I sit naked on my living room sofa, tears sliding silently down my cheeks, watching the shards of a million tiny glass fragments twinkle like diamonds on the floor.

W
hen the phone rings a few hours later, I’m still naked in the living room. I’ve taken the time to wrap myself in a blanket and lock the front door, but I went right back to the sofa where I’ve been lying since Eric left, crucifying myself.

I pick up the handset from the table next to the sofa. “Hello.”

“Why do you sound like your cat just died?”

It’s Grace. “You know I don’t own a cat.”

“True. Give me a mulligan. Why do you sound like you’ve just returned from a funeral?”

“I’m a whore.”

There’s a pause. Finally, she says, “Really? What nasty deed did you do? And how much did you get paid for it? I want all the details, I’m thinking of writing a book.”

“I didn’t get paid anything.”

Grace scoffs, “Then you’re not a whore.”

“Fine, I’m a slut.”

She says warmly, “It’s one of the things I most love about you, sweetheart.”

Staring at the shadows crawling across the ceiling from passing headlights, I heave an epic sigh.

“All right, out with it. What’s wrong?”

With Grace, it’s best you get right to the point. As a therapist, she’s always got one eye on the clock while you’re telling your sad story. Also, she was involved in a car accident when she was in high school that killed her parents and left her with no memory of her life before the crash. Other, weaker-willed people might have coped by turning to drugs or freaking out, but Grace decided to handle it by living every moment as if it were her last. For her, there is no past or future, only the present. She has zero tolerance for anything that wastes time. So I launch right in.

“Eric and I were fooling around and I called him another guy’s name.”

Raucous laughter. I should have known she’d find that amusing. When the snorts and guffaws have finally died down, she says, “And I take it Mr. Law and Order took exception to your little faux pas?”

“It’s more than a little faux pas, Grace! It’s practically adultery!”

“It’s not adultery if you’re not married, Chloe.”

I glare at the ceiling. She should
not
be excusing me with semantics right now. “Fine. It’s practically cheating, then.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says breezily. “Every woman thinks of someone other than her partner from time to time when she’s having sex. It’s completely normal. Your only mistake was opening your mouth.”

“Yes, well now my foot is permanently inserted in that mouth. Eric stormed out of here like he was headed toward a murder spree.”

Grace mutters, “Or to put a choke hold on some innocent person of color.”

“Grace!”

“I’m sorry sweetie, but he’s a white Republican police officer, who grew up in Alabama and still sees his fraternity brothers from college twice a year for hunting trips in the bayou. You
know
there’s a pointy white hood somewhere in a locked trunk in his garage.”

“I’m hanging up on you now.”

“Okay, I give! He’s a lovely person who rescues cats stuck in trees and helps old ladies cross the street when he’s not too busy teaching the disadvantaged youth of the inner city how to read. Satisfied?”

“Sometimes I think you’re a bigger snob than my mother, Grace.”

“Thank you!”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

She snorts. “That’s what you think.”

I grit my teeth. “If you were really my best friend, you’d be giving me a lecture on how rude and unforgiveable it is to call the man who cares so much for me another man’s name while he’s getting down to business.”

“Wait—
getting
down to business? You mean he wasn’t even inside you yet?”

“You know, the things you find important are really baffling to me. That’s not the point!”

“Was his dick, or was his dick
not
, inside you at the time of the incident in question?”

I don’t dignify that with an answer. She knows it already anyway.

“Well there you go!” she crows.

“There I go
wha
t
?”

She exhales in exasperation. “You weren’t even having sex, Chloe! It doesn’t count!”

“Really? Try telling that to my boyfriend, who broke my favorite vase on his way out the door to go burn down A.J.’s house.”

There’s a long, cavernous silence. Then Grace tentatively asks, “You’re telling me that you called Eric . . . A.J.?”

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

“The same A.J. that you absolutely detest?”

I close my eyes. This is so embarrassing. “The very same.”

“The same A.J. that you wasted a perfectly good glass of champagne on when you threw it in his face, not two weeks ago, after calling him a certain smelly body part?”