Make Me Sin

29

I walk up three rotted wood steps, cross the porch that runs the length of the first floor, and try the knob on the front door. Just like I’ve seen happen in the movies, it breaks off in my hand. The door swings slowly open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the interior. I toss the knob and go inside, feeling like Nancy Drew.

If I hear a disembodied voice hiss, “Get ooouuuttt!” I am so out of here.

The room opens into a grand foyer flanked by twin staircases that sweep upward to a second level. There’s no furniture, or anything on the walls except faded floral wallpaper, dotted with slightly brighter squares where paintings once hung. An enormous crystal chandelier, dull with dust, dangles precariously from a frayed cord on the ceiling two stories above.

The soprano sings on.

I know more than I should about opera, as I grew up with a mother who believed children should be introduced to such things. Culture and whatnot. So I recognize this particular song. It’s “Il Dolce Suono,” or “The Sweet Sound,” from the opera Lucia di Lammermoor by Donizetti. It’s about a woman, Lucia, who’s in love with a man, Edgardo. But, for various reasons that only make sense in operas, she marries another man, Arturo. There’s lots of angst and threatening of duels, and Lucia finally goes crazy and stabs her new husband to death on their wedding night. Edgardo, desolate at the rejection by Lucia, then kills himself.

In short, it’s a tragedy about star-crossed lovers. It’s basically the Italian opera version of Romeo and Juliet.

Trying not to take it as a sign, I straighten my shoulders, reminding myself what I came here for. Which—allegedly—is to get a correct address for A.J.’s flower order.

Because I couldn’t have just asked Kat to pass along the message to Nico, right?

Following the music, I ascend the sweeping staircase. The second floor branches off in two main wings. I turn east. The song plays on. Now I hear another noise, a repetitive, low, thump, thump, thump. I have no idea what it could be, but it doesn’t stop.

Finally, at the end of the wing, I stop outside room number twenty-seven. The music comes from inside. A painted glass window set high in the wall coaxes in the afternoon light in brilliant beams of saffron, emerald, and gold, illuminating the threadbare carpet beneath my feet. Heart pounding, I knock on the door.

Nothing. No response. The music continues. The strange thudding continues at erratic intervals.

I look at the door handle. Do I dare?

I knock again, louder, longer, a little desperately. When it produces no result, I tentatively turn the handle, crack open the door, and peek inside.

The room is cavernous, with vaulted ceilings and dormer windows that showcase views to the surrounding hills. The only furniture is a mattress on the floor in a corner, a cracked leather sofa, and a dresser. Half-melted pillar candles are strewn in clusters around the floor, and also line the windowsills. One wall is covered, floor to ceiling, in bookshelves, which are packed tight with CDs. A boxer’s heavy punching bag dangles from a metal chain from the rafters.

Sweating, shirtless, and barefoot, A.J. dances around the bag, punishing it brutally with his bare fists.

I’m transfixed. I’m fused to the floor. I’m hot, and cold, and thrilled, and scared. I think he’s the most glorious and also the most frightening thing I’ve ever seen.

Kat was right about his tattoos. They are legion, covering the flesh of his arms, chest, abdomen, and back, in colorful, intricate designs. I see a dragon. I see a woman’s face. I see an angel, kneeling on the ground, his wings broken and black. I see crosses and skulls and roses and what looks to be lines from scripture, all of it rendered in vivid detail.

None of which compare to what lies beneath his skin.

His body is a masterwork of muscle. Thick, bulging ropes of hardened muscle flex with every movement. His shoulders, arms, and back are slick with a sheen of perspiration, which only serves to further highlight his incredible physique. His hair is tied back, but a few strands of dark gold have escaped and are plastered to his forehead and neck. He wears nothing but a pair of black nylon shorts and a look of intense concentration. He hits the bag over and over, grunting, fists flashing, dancing and turning, until finally he spots me standing agog in the doorway.

He jerks, and staggers back as if he’s been electrocuted. Chest heaving, eyes wide, he stares at me. His hands shake. His knuckles drip blood onto the floor.

“I . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

I don’t know if he’s heard me over the music. His expression is part shock, part confusion, and part pleasure, if I’m not mistaken.

It gives me a little courage. I walk a few steps further into the room. As soon as I do, all the emotion on his face is wiped away. It becomes a mask of stone.

“What are you doing here?”

I freeze. “I-I’m . . .”

He steps forward, still breathing heavily. His eyes flash fire. A vein throbs in his neck. “What the f**k are you doing here, Chloe?”

I swallow. Clearly this was a terrible idea. “Your order . . . the flowers . . .”

He strides over to the wall of CDs. There’s a stereo, slim and modern, hidden between two shelves. He pushes a button and the music stops. The sudden silence is jarring. Without looking at me, he says, “You should go.”

“No.”

He’s just as surprised by that as I am. He turns his head, looking at me from the corner of his eye. He waits, unmoving.