Make Me Sin

by J. T. Geissinger

  “Easy, Princess.” He chuckles. “We don’t want you to fall and bang up that pretty face.”

  I stare up at him. Though his face is shadowed beneath the hood of the sweatshirt, I can tell he’s wishing he could take that back. I’m not going to let him.

  “You think I’m pretty?”

  His lips thin. He looks away, motioning for the waiter to bring the check. He mutters, “Never said I didn’t.”

  “Oh, right.” Tipsy, I laugh. “You only said you hated me. And that I was stuck-up. And frigid. By the way, I’d like to take this opportunity to correct you about something: I would know a dick if it hit me in the face. I can’t claim to ever have had that experience, but I can say with all confidence that if a dick suddenly flew out of nowhere and whacked me across the nose, I would absolutely know it was a dick.” I hiccup. “One thousand percent sure. The hairy balls alone would be a dead giveaway.”

  Apparently deciding not to wait for the check, A.J. reaches into his pocket, produces his wallet, and throws a wad of cash on the table, all without releasing my arm. I’m impressed. I remind myself he must have perfected the art of handling women in various stages of inebriation. Picturing a chorus line of half-drunk prostitutes kicking their legs in the air as A.J. rushes to keep them all from falling, I giggle.

  “How much did you have to drink before you got here?”

  His voice is stern. He gazes down at me as if he’s very disappointed in my behavior. I sheepishly admit I had two or three glasses of red wine with dinner.

  “So. Two or three glasses of wine, two glasses of champagne, and two glasses of whiskey. You’ve had at least six, possibly seven drinks in the past few hours. Four of them in the last thirty minutes. Two of those double whiskeys. That about right?”

  I close one eye because the room has, just slightly, begun to spin. “I have many talents, Mr. Edwards, but I’m not all that great with math.” Another hiccup. “I’ll have to take your word on this one.”

  “Let’s go, Princess.” Without waiting for a reply, A.J. half drags, half carries me to the door.

  “Where are we going?” I cry, alarmed. I’m even more alarmed by what he says next.

  “Home. You need to go to bed.”

  A.J.’s car is nothing like what I expected. Because it’s not a car. It’s a motorcycle. He informs me he doesn’t own a car.

  Item number four thousand seven hundred eighty-two on the list of things normal people own that A.J. Edwards doesn’t.

  “I can’t ride on that!” I stare at the ginormous black Harley parked in the back lot. It glitters with chrome and menace. Under the flickering fluorescent lamplight of the parking lot, it seems to leer at me.

  One saving grace, at least: it’s stopped raining.

  “Of course you can.” A.J. opens one of the leather side bags strapped to the back of the bike, produces a helmet that looks as if half of it is missing, and hands it to me. “Put this on.”

  He mounts the bike and starts it with a brisk kick of his leg. It roars to life, exhaling fumes. I cough and fan a hand back and forth in front of my face. “I’ll die on that thing!” I shout over the racket. “Forget it! I’ll call a cab!”

  He shoves the hoodie off his head, pulls his hair out of the elastic that’s been holding it in the messy man bun at the nape of his neck, and straps on a helmet, all while gazing calmly at me. “Chloe, get your ass on the back of my bike.”

  The way my body responds to this command is ridiculous. Hormones I never knew I had start screaming gleefully through my veins, tossing confetti and blowing party horns. I bite my lip, hard, and stare at him.

  This is dangerous territory. A.J. is dangerous territory. I should know better. I have common sense. I have a boyfriend. I have a deeply ingrained sense of loyalty to said boyfriend, even if we are in a fight.

  A.J. has a deeply ingrained fondness for ladies of the evening.

  He says my name again, softer this time. His eyes caress mine. Under their warm golden glow, I melt. “Fine. But if you kill me on this thing, it’s up to you to explain to my parents what happened. Good luck with that. My father will most likely disembowel you.”

  “She’s not a thing.” Defending the honor of his motorbike, A.J. ignores the threat to his bodily unity. Perhaps he isn’t as fond of his bowels as most people are.

  With zero elegance, I clamber onto the back of the motorcycle, clutching his shoulders for balance. They feel like boulders beneath my hands.

  “She’s a custom V-Rod with a titanium chassis and a top speed of two hundred and fifty miles per hour.”

  It seems the alcohol has engaged my selective hearing because I glide right over that last piece of data as if it had never been spoken. No wonder they say ignorance is bliss. “How is a motorcycle a she?” I demand. “Wouldn’t they all be hes, if they’re supposed to be so macho and dangerous?”

  “Helmet.”

  I don my helmet, fumbling with the chin strap. When I’m finished and he appears satisfied with my efforts, A.J. asks, “You ever watch Jacques Cousteau?”

  Hello, left field, I see the fly ball approaching. “That might be the strangest segue I’ve ever heard.”

  “Answer the question.”

  I do this thing that’s part belly-deep burp, part hiccup. I’m convinced it’s the single most unattractive noise to ever exit my body. Horrified, I clap my hands over my mouth. A.J. looks amused. It’s a relief, but it shouldn’t be, considering I don’t care about his opinion. I recover my composure quickly, and answer. “Yes. My mother loved him. She used to watch reruns of his show all the time when I was growing up.”

  He nods. “Mine, too.”

  Whoa. He has a mother. The thought has never occurred to me. My fuzzy brain launches into a stumbling frenzy of related questions about siblings, family life, his youth and hobbies and education, until it exhausts itself and falls flat on its face, and I just stare at him, waiting. The process takes all of five seconds.

  “There’s this thing that Jacques Cousteau used to say that always stuck with me. Put your arms around me.”

  “Jacques Cousteau used to say ‘put your arms around me’?”

  “No, Chloe. Put your arms around me. You have to hold on for the ride.” He waits for me to follow this simple direction.

  “Oh! Gotcha.” With gargantuan effort, I marshal every ounce of faux disinterest at my disposal, and slide my arms around his shoulders. My hands don’t touch on the other side. He’s bigger than my arm span.

  This leaves me in an awkward predicament. I can lower my arms to his waist, which will allow me to grasp my hands together, but I run the risk of an embarrassing encounter with his crotch. Especially if, as he has said, and his shoe size and stature surely indicate, it’s huge.

  He senses my hesitation. “What’s wrong?”

  My voice comes out tiny. “I don’t think I’m doing it right.”

  He takes my hands, and gently lowers them to his abdomen, locking my fingers together over a hard expanse of muscle that definitely isn’t his crotch. “Better?”

  I sigh in relief. “Best.”

  He revs the throttle. The bike rattles and hums beneath us, itching to leap into motion.

  I prompt, “So—Jacques Cousteau?”

  “Right. He used to say that the most beautiful creatures are always the most dangerous.”

  I recognize this saying. It’s one of Mr. Cousteau’s most famous. “No, what he actually said was, ‘Zee most beeyooteefool creetoors are also zee most dangeroos.’”

  Hearing my terrible French accent, A.J. laughs, a second miracle for the night. Loving the sound of it, I grin.

  “That he did, Chloe, that he did. So I figured, following his logic, every dangerous creature therefore has to be female, because females are the only creatures who are really beautiful. Compared to them, us guys are just a bunch of slobbering idiots.”

  He looks at me over his shoulder. His smile is devastating. My heart skips a beat, then stalls out altogether.
/>   Holy mother of all craps.

  At the exact moment we pull out of the lot and zoom off into the night, I realize just how much trouble I’m in, and that, in more ways than one, it’s too late to jump off this ride.

  Because, reckless fool that I’ve become, I want too badly to see where it’s going.

  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 pressure. 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 i
t 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 spanking!”