Page 33 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
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 dangle
s 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 fuck 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.
I moisten my lips. “I came because of the flower order you placed. The address is wrong. I tried to reach your manager but he wouldn’t call me back, so I asked Kat to get your address from Nico so I could . . . because you don’t have a phone.”
He stares at me.
Blood suffuses my cheeks. “I-I’m sorry to interrupt you like this. Had I known . . . I thought . . . I don’t know what I thought.” I glance nervously around the room. “But I wanted to make sure the flowers were delivered—”
“The address is correct.” His words are low and clipped. He still hasn’t turned toward me. He’s visible mainly in profile. I wonder if that’s deliberate, if he doesn’t want me to get a closer look at what’s on his chest and back.
“No, it can’t be. It’s a cemetery.”
He nods, once.
A shiver runs through me. Something cold unfurls in my stomach. “Oh. Well . . . they’ll still need a plot number, to put it on the right gravestone.”
He turns his head away. His hands curl to fists. “The cemetery management knows which gravestone. They’ll know it’s from me. I’ve been sending the same thing every year since . . . forever. Just send it. And leave.”
