Page 35 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
A.J. loves something.
So it’s possible. My heart, which clearly has no intelligence or sense of self-preservation whatsoever, trips all over itself in fluttering ecstasy.
&n
bsp; “Can I . . . can I pet her?”
He glances at me. There’s an awful moment when I think he’s going to tell me to go jump off a bridge, but then he relents with a curt nod. Judging by the look on her face, Bella isn’t completely convinced I’m not going to murder her. But, with a reassuring word from A.J., she lets me approach.
I pet her between her ears. She’s smooth and soft, like velvet. She nuzzles her wet nose into my hand, sniffing me. When she wags her tail, I know I’ve passed muster. “Good girl. You’re a sweetie, aren’t you?”
A.J.’s knuckles are swollen and split, clotted with blood. He doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. He’s too intent on watching my fingers stroke Bella’s head. Heat radiates from his body. Sweat runs in meandering rivulets down his chest. I’m possessed by the need to lick it off.
To distract myself from the vivid image of my tongue lapping at A.J.’s tattooed, sweaty skin, I casually say, “That’s quite the CD collection you’ve got.”
He doesn’t respond. In the awkward silence that follows my even more awkward attempt at conversation, I make a mental list of A.J.’s hobbies: Boxing. Opera. Dog rescue. Drinking alone at gay bars. Making me uncomfortable. Other than what I read on the internet—oh, and his fondness for hookers, of course—that’s really all I know about him. I wonder if maybe I open up and share something, he will, too. I take a deep breath.
“I like opera, too.”
He grunts. “I would’ve pegged you more for a Britney Spears fan.”
“Pop and Top 40 aren’t really my favorite music genres. Mostly I listen to eighties rock.”
His brows rise. Slowly blinking, he slides me a look. I think if I had lashes that long and thick I’d spend all day staring at myself in the mirror, practicing batting them to disarm unsuspecting strangers. Now I’m even more flustered. I start to babble.
“The seventies were good, too. I mean, you have to love the classics: AC/DC, Queen, Zeppelin, Aerosmith, the Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath—”
“You like Black Sabbath?”
I forget my intimidation and discomfort for a moment, and just answer like I would if I were speaking to anyone else. “Dude, they’re only the best metal band of all time!”
He considers me in silence for what feels like four thousand years. My face grows redder and redder. So much for forgetting the discomfort.
I finish with a lame “But eighties rock is really my thing. Love and Rockets, you know them? That’s my favorite band.”
Bella smiles up at us, tongue lolling in delight. She has decided she likes this new game where she gets petted by both her master and the incredibly stupid, crimson-faced girl.
A.J., releasing me from the prison of his stare, looks down at Bella. He rubs her belly thoughtfully. After a moment, he says, “It’s the quality of the voices.”
I wait, then mutter a hesitant “Um . . .”
“In opera. The voices are exquisite. In rock, pop, rap, R&B, pretty much every other genre of music, the quality of the singer’s voice isn’t as important as his sound. Which is to say his vocal style, not the purity or range of his voice. That can be dressed up in a million ways, especially today with all the auto-tune bullshit. But when an opera singer opens her mouth, you’re listening to an artist who’s honed her natural talent for hours a day, every day, for years. Like Inva Mula singing ‘Il Dolce Suono.’ She’s a lyric soprano. Her voice is laser pure, laser focused. And the colors . . .”
He closes his eyes.
I watch him in open fascination, because I can. I’m intoxicated by the way he looks right now, relishing the memory of the color of a woman’s voice. I find it impossibly, almost painfully, beautiful.
“Can you describe it to me?”
He inhales. His exhale is slow, deep, relaxed. Without opening his eyes, he says, “Only in comparison. A bass voice is like . . . a stormy midnight sky. Sapphire blue and deep purple, rich and opaque. Baritones are slightly lighter, still night, but a clear night, shimmering with stars. Tenors are the like hours just before dawn, when it’s not daytime yet, but it’s no longer full night. There are bolder blues, cobalt, emeralds, even hits of lavender at the higher ranges.
“Then there’s the lowest female voice, the contralto. That’s dawn. Orange, fuchsia, and red. Glimmering. The next higher range is alto, then mezzo-soprano, both lighter, more vibrant, sparkling pinks and aquamarines, a clear midmorning, headed toward high noon.”
He pauses. I’m completely enthralled. He inhales again, and his voice lowers an octave.
“Finally there’s the soprano. For me a lyric soprano voice is the brightest, most brilliant of all sounds. It’s like . . . looking up at a midday sun, squinting, your eyes watering because it’s so searingly bright. It’s gold and yellow and crystalline white, glinting and weightless. It’s like standing on a mountaintop on a perfect winter’s day, feeling snowfall on your upturned face. It’s like being showered in diamonds.”
I’m so moved by his words, I forget to stop staring when he opens his eyes and looks at me. His amber eyes are the softest I’ve ever seen them. My heart squeezes inside my chest.
