Make Me Sin

by J. T. Geissinger

  “I promise you won’t lose me.”

  His smile is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. “No.”

  “A.J.—”

  “No,” he repeats, more firmly.

  Question-and-answer time is over. To underscore that, he withdraws from me, and finishes unpacking the bag of groceries. I watch him in miserable silence. The final thing he takes from the brown paper bag is a disposable cell phone. Without meeting my eyes, he hands it to me.

  “I brought your purse but left your cell phone at your apartment.” He adds, “This one can’t be tracked.”

  Eric. Here he comes again, intruding with his jealousy and all the awful memories he’s gifted me. “You think Eric might try to track me with my phone?”

  “I think he’s capable of anything, and I’m not taking chances, so you’re using a burner from now on.”

  “What, forever?”

  In his gaze is something dark and dangerous. “Until I know you’re safe.”

  I’m about to ask more questions, but am seized by the irresistible urge to sneeze. I do—violently—jerking with the unexpected force of it. Thankfully I had time to cover my mouth and nose, or A.J. might have gotten doused with snot. “Ugh. Sorry,” I say sheepishly.

  Then I sneeze again. And again.

  “Was it something I said?”

  A.J.’s being funny, but all at once a wave of heat flashes over me, and I break out in a cold sweat. “Whoa.”

  “What’s wrong?” Worried, A.J. steps closer.

  “I’m not feeling so good all of a sudden.” Warmth creeps up my neck, spreading over my face. My cheeks flush.

  With a hand under my elbow, he marches me over to the leather couch, and directs, “Sit.”

  Feeling strangely weak, I do.

  He goes into the bathroom and returns with a thermometer. “Open,” is his next command, which I follow, allowing him to insert the slender glass tube under my tongue. In thirty seconds he removes it, looks at it, and frowns.

  “Hundred and two.”

  Within minutes, my head is pounding. A.J. feeds me two aspirin. After an hour lying on the couch, sneezing, feverish, wracked with chills, I can no longer deny the obvious.

  I’ve come down with the flu.

  Is this the universe’s way of trying to tell me something?

  For five days, I’m completely out of it. I haven’t been this sick since I had strep throat when I was twelve and had to miss ten days of school. Other than calling my father and the girls daily to check in, I sleep most of the time, restlessly tossing, dreaming unsettling dreams of waking to find A.J. gone, or of Eric chasing me down a dark alley, his fingers grasping for my neck. When I’m not sleeping I’m groggy, my head pounds, my body is clammy and clumsy. The only time I get out of bed on my own is to shuffle to the bathroom like a zombie to use the toilet.

  What does A.J. do with himself while I’m so ill?

  The broody, moody, badass drummer turns into Florence Nightingale.

  He gently wipes my sweaty forehead with cold cloths. He buys me every available type of cold and flu medication. He frets over me, fluffing pillows and smoothing blankets and worrying about every sneeze and sniffle. When I’m too weak to sit up to feed myself, he props me against his chest and spoon-feeds me chicken soup or organic ice cream he bought from the health store.

  He even reads to me. There’s a moldering library on the first floor, and in it he finds a copy of The Princess Bride. He spends hours sitting next to me on the bed, reading out loud, doing all the different parts in different voices.

  I’ve never been this well looked after, not even by my mother when I was twelve. I feel cocooned. Though I’m terribly sick, I feel spoiled. Bella’s even learned to love snuggling with me, on the pillow by my head during the day, at our feet at night while A.J. and I sleep.

  And every morning when I awake, there’s a new origami bird on the pillow beside my head. Today, my sixth at A.J.’s place, it’s the most elaborate creation so far: a black-and-teal peacock, complete with a plume of real feathers for a tail.

  I pick it up and stare at it in total disbelief. It’s so perfect, so detailed, it looks manufactured by a machine.

  I hear A.J. moving around in the bathroom, and call out, “How did you learn origami?”

  He sticks his head out of the door. “Good morning! You’re up!”

  I can tell he’s happy to see me talking. I think the most I’ve said to him over the past six days has been a series of grunts in answer to his questions or commands. To be honest, it’s all a little blurry. I’m still weak, but at least my head is no longer pounding, and the chills are finally gone.

  “If you can call this up.”

  I touch my hair. It’s a nest of knots. A.J. has bathed me in the tub when I have the energy to sit up, but my hair has only been washed once, and it feels like dirty straw. I wonder if I have dreadlocks.

  He strolls out of the bathroom, looking ridiculously hot in his little black nylon boxing shorts and nothing else. I can’t resist ogling him as he moves toward me. I love looking at his tattoos when he moves; it’s almost as if they’re alive, dancing atop his muscles.

  I decide I’m going to ask him what every one means. If I’ve only got one day left, I’m going to grill him about everything since I’ve missed so many opportunities to talk to him.

  My heart sinks. I’ve only got one day of my week left. Or is today the last day? I’ve lost count.

  A.J. drops to his knees on the mattress beside me. I hold out the bird.

  “So? How did you learn to do this?”

  He sits back on his heels, a smile quirking his mouth. “You like it?”

  “Like it? No, I don’t like it. I love it. It’s amazing. Where did you get the tiny little feathers for the tail?”

  “A shop called Mother Plucker. They have every kind of feather you can buy. Kenji introduced me to it.”

  He runs a hand through his long hair. The move is so blatantly sexual it looks like something out of a porn movie. With his naked chest and biceps on display, his muscular thighs open, I’m having a little trouble concentrating on what he’s saying.

  Because I know he’s not wearing anything under those shorts.

  Apparently my libido has recovered much more quickly than the rest of me.

  “So was Kenji the one who taught you origami, too?” It seems entirely possible, though I’m probably just racially profiling because Kenji is Japanese.

  A.J. says quietly, “No. I learned it from a Japanese whore.”

  And suddenly I hate this peacock in my hand with a passion that borders on violence. I want to crush it. I want to tear it to pieces with my teeth.

  A.J. leans over and takes my chin in his hand. I wish I didn’t like it so much when he does this, because I’m seriously ticked off right now.

  “It wasn’t like that. She was a friend.”

  I don’t say anything. I just keep my gaze trained on the peacock. I imagine it’s smirking at me.

  “I was fifteen, angel. She was almost thirty years older than me. She was just a friend.”

  Scowling, aggravated, I look up at him. My mind is sharper than it’s been in nearly a week, and what he’s said makes absolutely no sense to me. “What’s a fifteen-year-old kid doing hanging out with a middle-aged Japanese whore?”

  The first thing out of his mouth is a hard “I was never a kid.” Then, as if regretting his tone he adds more gently, “And for a long time, whores were the only friends I had.”

  I’m astonished. What’s the correct reply to those two gems?

  He sighs, releases my chin, and runs his hand through his hair again. “Yeah. I know it sounds weird.”

  “No, not at all! That sounds totally reasonable, A.J.! Doesn’t every teenage boy surround himself with whores? I mean, I can’t imagine they make the best choices for the soccer or football teams because of the stilettos, but I’m sure they’re really great at wrestling!”

  Head cocked, he looks at me intently, u
ndisturbed by my sarcastic outburst. “Are you . . . jealous?”

  My face flushes. I look down at the bird in my hand. Maybe it’s because I don’t have the strength for evasion at the moment, but I tell him the truth. “All those girls or women you call friends probably know a lot more about you than I ever will. So yes, I’m jealous. I’m so jealous if you cut me open I’d bleed green.”

  There’s a moment of tense silence. A.J. finally breaks it by saying flatly, “Don’t be. Every single one of them is dead.”

  The bird falls from my hand.

  I think of the white roses he sent to the cemetery in Saint Petersburg. I think of the flower tattoo on his knuckle, the petals with the twelve initials of everyone he’s “lost.” I think about how he told my father he had a few tricks up his sleeve, and if Eric ever found out where I was and showed up here, he’d never be seen again. I think of how A.J. said he’d done terrible, unforgiveable things.

  I think of how I told him I didn’t care.

  I’m shaking. I feel like I might throw up. When I look at him, he’s watching me with narrowed eyes.

  “What’s going on in your head right now, Chloe?”

  What’s going on is chaos. The bells of intuition clang loud and insistent against the lazy, comforting reluctance of denial, and all I hear is ringing and buzzing, a relentless, rising noise, like a swarm of angry bees.

  I swallow. My mouth is as dry as bone. “You’re not from Las Vegas, are you.”

  It’s not a question. He holds my gaze for what feels like forever. I’m not sure he’ll answer, but then, slowly, he shakes his head.

  Starting at my spine and working its way outward, coldness runs through my body. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. “And your parents, the homemaker and the pastor? Were they a lie, too?”

  I expect a denial or silence, but he answers immediately. “No.” Then he closes his eyes. “And yes, sort of. They weren’t my birth parents, but they raised me, gave me a new name, a new life. They adopted me.” He opens his eyes. In them I see nothing but darkness.

  “When you were a baby?”

  Once again, he answers without hesitation. “When I came to this country when I was sixteen.”

  The noise in my head grows louder. The stitches in my cheek throb. I want to scratch at them. I want to rip them out. “From where?”

  He’s still as stone. He whispers, “You already know.”

  He’s right; I do. Maybe I’ve known it all along. “Russia.”

  When he nods, relief overwhelms me. At last. I close my eyes. The terrible noise subsides, until there’s only silence, clear and cold. “And your birth mother’s name is Aleksandra Zimnyokov.”

  When I look at him again, A.J.’s face is a study in misery. His eyes glitter with tears. “She died when I was ten.” His voice cracks. “She was a prostitute.”

  Oh God. Everything I’ve been missing begins to knit together with a swift, effortless clarity, like fingers interlocking. All the questions I have, all the mysteries about the man kneeling in front of me, hover around us, whispering, weighting the air.

  With surprising strength in my voice I demand, “Tell me your real name.”

  A.J.’s face crumples. It’s like watching a building burn to the ground.

  “Alexei. My name is Alexei Janic Zimnyokov.” A sob breaks from his chest. “I haven’t said that out loud in twelve years.”

  My heart is going to burst. I can feel it, expanding inside my chest, stretching so wide it will explode and kill me.

  Then he shoots to his feet and bolts from the room.

  I follow him. Slowly, because I’m still weak, I make my way from room number twenty-seven down the long corridor, Bella trotting by my side. I take the stairs to the main floor. A.J. is nowhere to be seen.

  At my feet, Bella huffs. I look down at her, and she’s staring in the direction of the corridor that leads to the rear of the hotel. “Show me, Bella. Where’s Daddy?”

  She yips and trots away. I follow behind, my heart pounding, my knees like Jell-O.

  The light is murky today; there’s a storm coming soon. In A.J.’s room I saw the sky through the windows, slate gray, threatening rain, and downstairs there’s little illumination as I walk barefoot through the silent halls. When Bella reaches the door that leads to the pool patio, she looks back at me, waiting. We go outside.

  I see him right away, standing at the edge of the empty pool. He’s motionless, looking down at the piles of dead leaves. Even from where I’m standing I can see how his hands shake. The clouds overhead cast everything in a shadowed half light, so though it’s morning, it seems like we’re headed toward night. When A.J. raises his head and looks at me, the first of the rain begins to fall.

  His face is already wet.

  The pull between us is so strong, I feel as if an invisible hand has reached into my chest and grabbed my heart. I don’t even try to resist it. My feet move before I can stop them, and then I’m running.

  When I’m a few feet away, he opens his arms. I slam into his chest at full speed, but it doesn’t knock him off-balance. He wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my neck.

  “You’re still here.”

  His voice is hoarse. The fist around my heart tightens. “I still have one more day.”

  We’re getting wet. The drizzle is turning into a downpour, which we both ignore. Under the patio awning, Bella barks, wanting us to come in.

  “You don’t hate me for lying?” he whispers, trembling.

  And my heart, dear God my poor battered heart, just cracks wide open. I start to cry. “No, I don’t hate you, A.J. I love you! I love you no matter who you are! I can’t not love you, no matter what name you call yourself or what you’ve done! I don’t care about any of that!”

  My words make him groan. He takes my face in his hands. He kisses me deeply, passionately, his heart thumping hard against my chest. Rain catches in my lashes and slides down my cheeks, mingling with my tears.

  He lifts me into his arms. I rest my face against his neck and close my eyes, shivering, my arms wrapped around his strong shoulders. He walks us out of the rain, into the hotel, and up the stairs. My heart beats like a hummingbird’s the entire time. I can’t stop shaking, or catch my breath.

  He kicks open the door to his room. He strides over to the mattress, kneels on it, and lies down with me in his arms. He kisses me again, desperately, his body wet and hard against mine. When I respond with equal desperation, he rips off my wet T-shirt, sweats, and panties, throwing it all aside so he can stare down at my naked body.

  His gaze is adoring. He kneels between my legs, running his hands down my thighs, over my hips and belly, and up across my breasts, slowly, as if he’s memorizing every inch of my flesh. Everywhere he touches I arch into his hands, feeling like I’m ablaze.

  “So beautiful,” he murmurs, caressing my breasts. “You’re so goddamn beautiful, angel.”

  I hold out my arms. He lowers himself atop me. I love his weight, the feel of his wet chest against mine, the smell of his skin, his hair. I want to drown in him.

  His cock is hard against my thigh. The thin nylon shorts are no match for it; he might as well be naked.

  When he kisses me, I rock my pelvis against his. He moans into my mouth. I slide my hands down his back and under the elastic of the shorts and grab his ass, sinking my nails into his skin. He hisses and draws back, looking like he’s in pain, but I know it’s not from my fingernails.

  It’s because he’s still holding back.

  I stare into his eyes. “I know you said you’d never fuck me. But you never said you wouldn’t make love to me.”

  His cock twitches against my leg. Agonized, fighting himself, he stares down at my face.

  Remembering what he told me before, that the reason he’d never sleep with me was because then I’d belong to him forever, I whisper, “I’m already yours, A.J. It’s too late. All of me already belongs to you.”

  I see the exact moment it happens, the
instant he decides. He teeters for one final breath, then, with a flutter of his lashes and a soft exhalation, he gives in.

  He digs his fingers deep into my hair, fits his mouth against mine, and kisses me like I’ve never been kissed in my entire life. He puts his all into it, his body and his heart and even his soul, so that I feel like we’re not even two people anymore; we’re fused. It’s incredible.

  It’s a claim.

  By the end of the kiss I’m writhing against him, delirious with want. I jerk the thin nylon shorts down his hips, tearing at the fabric. He lifts his hips, allowing his cock to spring free between us, then lowers himself again so it’s pressed, hot and throbbing, against my core.

  He reaches his hand between our bodies and takes his erection in his fist. He slides the tip of his cock back and forth over my entrance, watching my face, listening to my whimpers and low moans. He whispers, “You on the pill, baby?”

  I shake my head.

  Without a word, he shifts his weight, reaches over to the side of the mattress and retrieves a little foil packet from beneath. He tears it open with his teeth, ripping the gold lettering “Magnum XL” in two. I watch in breathless anticipation as he quickly rolls the condom down the length of his stiff cock, then positions it again between my thighs.

  When he eases it inside me, I gasp at the feeling of fullness. He’s big, but I’m so wet and ready he doesn’t have to go as slow as he’s going.

  A low rumble of thunder rattles the windows. Rain drums hard against the roof.

  “More,” I plead, rocking my hips, trying to get him deeper, but he’s in control. He won’t let me set the pace. He kisses me, then lowers his head and sucks my nipple into his mouth, hard, using his teeth. I arch, crying out in both pleasure and pain. Instantly he gentles, lapping my nipple with his tongue, suckling lightly, moving to the other nipple to lavish it with the same attention.

  I squirm beneath him. It will only be seconds before I start to beg incoherently. He’s still got only the tip inside me, and I need every beautiful inch of it. Now.

  “Chloe. Keep still.” His voice is firm, just this side of hard.