Make Me Sin

The last time I saw Chloe Carmichael, she threw a glass of champagne in my face and called me an asshole. I deserved it, of course. I am an asshole. To her more than anyone else. Seventeen days later and here I am, standing outside the trendy flower shop she owns in West Hollywood—the sign above the green awning reads, “Fleuret, a bespoke floral boutique,” whatever the f**k that means—and I wonder what name I’ll make her call me today. I wonder if it will gut me as much as it did last time. “A.J.! Are you comin’ in or are you just gonna stand there with your d**k in your hand?” Standing under the elegant green awning at Fleuret’s glass entrance door, Nico looks impatiently back at me, where I’m lingering at the curb. Barney, Nico’s driver/bodyguard, has just dropped us off, and his fiancée, Kat, has already gone inside to talk wedding flowers with her girlfriend. Why the f**k I’m here is anyone’s guess. Oh, yeah. I’m the best man. Two words that no one, ever, in any other situation, would use to describe me. I take a final drag on my smoke and flick the butt into the street, which makes a MILF in a passing BMW shout at me from her open window. I flip her the bird and slowly make my way across the sidewalk, toward the entrance to my own personal hell. I’m starting to sweat. “If I had my d**k in my hand, Nico, traffic would be stopped in both directions so everyone could witness the miracle of my enormous junk.” Nico doesn’t even bat an eye. “If your junk is even half as big as your ego, brother, that is a miracle. Now get your surly ass inside this shop. And remember what we talked about.” Right. I’d gotten “the talk” several times already. Pearls of wisdom along the lines of “You don’t have to like Chloe, you just have to get along for the sake of the wedding.” Horseshit. I don’t “get along” with anyone I don’t want to get along with. Other people’s opinions of me count for nothing on A.J. Edwards’s Give-a-s**t scale. Which Nico, having known me for years now, knows perfectly well. Another gem: “It really upsets Kat when you’re mean to Chloe.” Translation: “My woman has my balls in a death grip, she’s giving me mountains of lip over how you treat her friend, and I’ve lost all control over this situation. Please help a brother out.” Tough s**t, Nico. You’re the one with his stones in a jar in his girlfriend’s freezer, not me. But the best piece of advice I’d gotten from Nico so far about the Chloe Carmichael situation? The timeless “If you can’t say anything nice about her, don’t say anything at all.” If I took that advice, I’d be mute for the rest of my life. Because I can’t say anything nice about her. I can’t say anything nice to her. I can barely even look the woman in the eye. When I do, it gets hard to breathe. It gets hot, even if it’s freezing cold out. And suddenly, I feel like I’m ten years old again, on the last good day of my life, unwrapping the last Christmas present I’d ever get from my mother before she’s dead from the final bang of heroin that killed her, and I’m left alone in a ghetto brothel in southeast Saint Petersburg with nothing but a new toy drum and the clothes on my back. Hope. f**k you, hope. And f**k you, too, happiness. You’re both two-faced, lying bitches. I stride past Nico, push open the door to Hades disguised as a flower shop, and go inside. Sorry, Chloe, but I’m about to ruin your day again. It’s the only way I can be near you without wanting to make something bleed. I see him through the windows of my shop, and anxiety pretzels my stomach. Ambling toward the front door, A.J. Edwards, drummer for the infamous rock band Bad Habit, is all careless swagger and cocksure smirks, yet he somehow manages to radiate a dangerous intensity, as if he’s about to burst inside, brandish an assault rifle, and rob the place. I wouldn’t put it past him. When I grit my teeth and look down at the design portfolios spread over the table between us, my best friend, Kat, glances over her shoulder and sighs. When she turns back, her green eyes are sympathetic. She knows how much I’ve been dreading this. “Just ignore him, Lo.” “Ignore him?” I mutter, brows raised. “The fire-breathing dragon who looks at me like he wants to rip off my head? Will do. No biggie. Isn’t everyone used to having random rock stars hating their guts for no apparent reason?” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “C’mon, he doesn’t hate you. You’re way too sweet for anyone to hate.” “Bet you ten bucks he proves you wrong before we’re done here today.” “It’ll be fine, you’ll see.” What I see is that Kat is living in a fantasy land where A.J. Edwards is a gentleman, and not Lord Voldemort disguised as an enormous, tattooed musician. When I say enormous, it’s not an exaggeration. He’s built like a mountain. A mountain I’d very much like to rig with dynamite and blow a hole clean through.