Make Me Sin (18 page)

A
.J. comes to me again the next night. And the next. And the next.

It’s always the same. I leave the door unlocked, and lie in bed with the lights off, waiting. He comes very late, usually around midnight. He enters without a word, takes off his shirt and shoes, crawls into bed beside me. We talk for a long time, nestled back to front, limbs entangled. Each night his questions are more serious, more intimate, increasingly more difficult to answer.

Of what in my life am I most proud?

Of what am I most ashamed?

What’s my most treasured memory?

For what am I most grateful?

If I only had twenty-four hours left to live, what would I do?

Sometimes I have to think long and hard before I answer. No one has ever asked me such things, and I’m not prone to introspection. But I never tell him anything but the entire, unvarnished truth. I don’t hide. I don’t lie. If I think an answer might not paint me in the best light, I tell him anyway. I want him to know me, warts and all.

I want him to see me, inside and out.

By the time he’s exhausted his questions, my body is so high from his proximity, so strung out with the need to feel his hands and mouth, I’m nearly squirming in his arms. He always knows when I can’t bear it a second longer. He laughs his husky laugh into my ear, then takes off all my clothes, and sates me.

There is no penetration. After the first night, he doesn’t let me use my mouth on him again. It’s like he got himself under control, decided on a format of Q&A followed by giving me a mind-blowing orgasm or three, and stuck to his plan.

Afterward, he sleeps like a coma patient, and I wake up alone.

It’s wreaking havoc with my emotions.

Not to mention my face.

“
Sweetheart, you look like shit. Are you coming down with something?”

Grace can always be counted on to pull no punches. We’re at Lula’s with Kat on a weekday night at eight o’clock, and I’m trying desperately not to fall asleep at the table and slump facedown into my steaming bowl of albondigas soup.

“Just tired,” I mumble. I pick up my margarita and yawn into it before taking a swallow.

“Work going rough this week?” Concerned, Kat watches me as she munches on a tortilla chip. The ginormous diamond ring on her left hand nearly blinds me as it catches the light.

“Mmm. Sort of.”

Both Kat and Grace narrow their eyes. Grace flatly says, “Chloe.”

As I’m the worst secret keeper in the world, they’ve already got my number. I sigh, rubbing a fist into my left eye. “I can’t talk about it. Not yet. I don’t want to jinx it.”

In slow motion, Kat lowers her half-eaten chip to the table. “Oh my God.”

Grace asks, “What?”

I already know what Kat’s going to say, but I’m too exhausted to get worked up about anything at this point. “She just figured out why I’m tired.”

Grace raises her brows, looking back and forth between us.

Kat says, “You’re sleeping with him.”

Grace whoops in glee, pounding the table with her fist. “Yes! Finally! Is this why you haven’t returned my calls for four days? You’ve been on a sex spree? Tell, tell, tell!”

Because the cat is clearly out of the bag, I don’t bother to deny it. But it does need a little correcting. “Technically, yes, I’m sleeping with him.
Sleeping
being the operative word. Well, at least he is.”

Grace eyes me. “That doesn’t sound good.”

I take a long pull of my drink, buying time. I look at my best friends, the two people who know me better than anyone else, who’ve spent countless hours in my company, with whom I’ve shared years of laughter and tears, been with during bitter breakups and many life milestones, and trust completely. In fact, I trust these women with my life.

And, if I’m guessing right, they don’t know me as well as A.J. does after four nights.

That idea is seriously screwing with my head.

“Here’s a little quiz for you, ladies: What would you guess, if asked, that I’m most proud of in my life?”

Kat blinks, frowning. “How does this relate to the topic at hand?”

“I have a point, trust me.”

Always up for a challenge, Grace jumps right in. “Your business.”

I shake my head. She immediately guesses again. “Your hair.”

“Be serious.”

“I am serious. Your hair is glorious. You could earn millions doing shampoo commercials. It’s the only thing I’m jealous of you about. Well, I’m also pretty green over that Patek Phillipe your father bought you for your twenty-first birthday. It might be even better than your hair.”

I sigh. “I knew I could count on you for some deep insights. Kat?”

Kat hesitates for a moment, sucking thoughtfully on the little red straw in her margarita. “Maybe your degree. I know how hard you worked to get it. I know how proud you were when you graduated. It was a huge accomplishment.”

Slowly, I shake my head. “No. What I’m most proud of is my relationship with you two nitwits. You’re both strong, intelligent, amazing women, who I admire tremendously, and you’re the best, most solid thing in my life. I’d rather not know my own parents than not know you.”

Stunned silence.

“Here’s another one: Of what am I most ashamed?”

Grace quickly recovers. “That’s easy. Cory McLean.”

Cory McLean, who I’d conveniently suppressed the memory of until this moment, was a boyfriend I had in my freshman year of college. There was a drunken incident involving the hood of a convertible Porsche, an awkward striptease, and a cell phone camera. My father had to threaten legal action to have the video taken down from the web. It wasn’t until my senior year guys stopped calling me “Coochie Carmichael.”

“No. The thing I’m most ashamed of is the time I saw Jeff Douglas from my high school’s football team kicking a homeless guy in the stomach behind the El Pollo Loco on Washington Boulevard, and I didn’t stop him. Or tell anyone about it. The poor man was just lying there on the ground, getting beaten, and I didn’t do anything. Because it was Jeff Douglas, Homecoming King, Jock of the Century, I just walked away. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

I look down at my soup. The tiny floating meatballs seem as appetizing as clods of dirt.

“Sweetheart,” says Grace, moved. “You never told us about that.”

I look at her, then Kat. “I haven’t thought about it in years. That’s the way I’ve always lived my life: one thing after the next, set goals, achieve them, move on, don’t think about anything sad or unpleasant. Shrug it off. Live in the here and now. But for the past four nights, A.J. has asked me questions I’ve never even asked myself, and I feel like . . . I’m getting to know myself better. Because of him.”

Kat sits back in her chair, staring at me with understanding dawning over her face. Grace takes one look at her expression and her head snaps around like that girl from
The
Exorcist
just before she spews green puke all over the room.

She gasps. “No. Abso-lutely-fucking-
no
!”

Kat nods. “Yep.”

Grace covers her mouth with her hands. Her gray eyes look ready to pop from her head. From beneath her palms comes a muffled, horrified “You have feelings for him.”

I can’t deny it, so I take another swig of my drink.

“Jesus H. Christ on a crutch!” Grace shouts, jerking upright in her chair. The mother with her three young kids in the opposite booth shoots us a death glare, which everyone at our table ignores. “Chloe, for God’s sake, I said have a fling, not fall in love! A.J. Edwards is NOT the guy you fall in love with! What the hell are you
thinking
?”

I look at her. My gaze is steady, as is my voice when I answer. “I’m thinking I underestimated him, and so has everyone else. I’m thinking he’s pretty damn incredible. I’m thinking of putting my heart in his hands, and giving him a lot of rope to run with it, even though it scares me to death, because I’m thinking he’ll be worth it. What I’m
not
thinking about is what’s going to happen next.” My voice drops. “Because what I’ve gotten from him the last few nights is enough to last me for the next fifty years.”

Grace’s mouth hangs open in horror like the guy in that Edvard Munch painting.

Kat knocks back the rest of her drink. “What about Eric?”

“I care about Eric. But I never felt this way when I was with him. I’ve realized he’s not the one.”

Grace says, “Please don’t tell me you think A.J. is the one.”

I seriously consider that before I answer. “I don’t know yet what A.J. is. What I do know is that when I’m with him, I feel understood. And safe. And that’s enough.”

Kat says, “Last week you said he’d told you he’d never sleep with you. What changed?”

I stir my soup, take a bite. It’s salty and delicious, and makes me think of A.J.’s taste. My lips turn up. “I told you, we’re not having sex. Well, at least he’s not. I’m having the most incredible orgasms of my life. He’s doing a lot of sleeping. So basically, we’re both getting exactly what we need.”

Grace groans.

“Well, that’s one mystery solved anyway.”

Kat’s sigh sounds resigned to the whole affair. I knew I could count on her. “What do you mean?”

“Nico said A.J.’s been acting strange lately.”

I pause with another spoonful of soup halfway to my mouth. “Strange?”

She pins me with a look. “Yeah. Happy.”

My heart swells. It gets a little harder to breathe.

“Not only that, he stopped smoking. Just quit cold turkey one day weeks ago. After that, he started writing all these songs, which according to Nico, are incredible. And . . .” She pauses, gazing at me meaningfully. “His hoochie mamas haven’t been seen hanging around. In months.”

I whisper, “Months?”

She shakes her head. “Apparently not since the day we came into your shop to talk about the wedding flowers.”

“The day he left with the dishy brunette from the candle aisle, as I recall you saying,” Grace points out.

“Which he made sure you saw, didn’t he Lo? Almost as if he was making a point.”

I think about Kat’s question. In retrospect, it does seem possible. “So what do you think it all means?” My heart is in my throat as I wait for her to answer.

“I think,” she says softly, “that you’re not the only one in over your head.”

Grace waves the waiter over. When he arrives, she rests a hand on his arm and looks at him in desperation. “Vodka. Straight. Make it a double. Get it here in less than two minutes and I’ll tip you twenty bucks.”

He sprints away, on the job. While she waits for his return, Grace props her elbows on the table and drops her head to her hands, moaning.

Inside my handbag, my cell phone rings. It’s an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“You ran out on me the other day. And you’re not answering my calls. We need to talk.”

It’s Eric. He sounds tense and unhappy. I close my eyes, already feeling defeated. I’m not looking forward to the conversation we need to have. “Yes, we do.”

“I’m off in an hour. I’ll come to your place.”

He hangs up before I can say no, or suggest somewhere else. Feeling panicked, I look at the clock on my phone. Eight thirty. If Eric gets to my place by ten, I’ll still have a few hours before A.J. shows up.

Unless he decides to come earlier.

Or Eric won’t leave.

Kat asks, “Who was that?”

I slip the phone back in my purse. “Eric. He wants to talk. He’s coming over to my apartment in an hour.”

“Tonight? You’re exhausted!”

“He didn’t give me a chance to say no.”

“Have you talked to him since the fitting?”

I shake my head.

“Well, I don’t think you should be talking to him at your place, alone. Nico said he got a really weird vibe from Eric the other day when they talked outside before you left.”

Remembering the look in Eric’s eyes, how angry he was, a chill runs down my spine. “What kind of weird vibe?”

“Like a stabby vibe. Like he was ready to kill someone.”

Into her hands, Grace mutters, “I told you.”

I wave it off. “He’s just upset. I’d feel the same way if the situation were reversed. We went from being happy one day to me calling him the wrong name and broken up the next without ever really talking about what happened.”