Page 93 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
“I never shared any of their religious convictions, because I thought if God did exist, he was a serious fucking douche bag with a crap sense of humor who in no way deserved to be worshipped by anyone, but it got to the point where I respected their beliefs. So when they died, I got the tattoo in honor of them. Because of all they’d done for me; it was the least I could do in remembrance.”
“What happened to them?”
He sighs. “The stupidest thing in the world: carbon monoxide poisoning. They had an ancient propane space heater in their bedroom that leaked, filled up the room with gas one night. That was it.”
I reach out and take his hand. As I thread my fingers through his, he watches with a strange, dreamy expression on his face, almost as if he can’t believe what he’s seeing. His eyes flash up to meet mine. His dreamy gaze turns melancholy.
“Death follows me, Chloe,” he murmurs. “It’s always been all around me, ever since I was born. It’s a part of me. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to get close to you. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you. I didn’t want to stain you with my bad luck.”
I unfold my legs and stretch out beside him, snuggling tight against his warm solidity. “Now who’s not being logical?”
He wraps both arms around me and squeezes me tight. “It has nothing to do with logic. Bad luck is a real thing. Just ask any gambler.”
“You’re just looking at it all wrong.”
He lifts his head and s
tares at me, brows raised.
“How many of your friends made it out of Saint Petersburg alive?”
His eyes darken.
“And what if you hadn’t been big? When you were six years old, if you couldn’t fight, what would’ve happened to you?”
His eyes get darker and darker.
“Exactly. And how many orphan slum boys are taught to read and to appreciate music and art by a kind, intelligent stranger? And if you weren’t there to help Sayori at the end, what would’ve happened to her?”
He’s perfectly still and silent, his normally bright amber eyes the color of dusk.
“So then you emigrate to a foreign country with a stolen passport—without getting caught for theft, or followed by any authorities who might be interested in the arson of a local house of ill repute—and find a place to live. You’re not murdered in your sleep. You’re not mugged by a gang of thugs. Even after all you’ve seen and experienced, you don’t develop a life-threatening drug addiction. You do inherit a drum kit—”
“From a dead man.”
“And no one around you tells you to stop playing, even though, as you said, you ‘thrash’ on it. From what I know of New Yorkers, they aren’t exactly shy about speaking their minds.”
He looks as if he’s considering what I’m saying. His brows have lowered, and drawn together.
“From there you move to another city, and just as your money runs out, you meet a man who thinks God has sent you to him.”
“Because he was insane. And I was shot, remember?”
“Yes, and when you wake up after being shot, there’s a pastor sitting in a chair beside your bed who’s convinced you’re a gift from the heavens above. And he and his wife adopt you, and furnish you with a loving home and all the necessary documentation to cover your past. I mean, really A.J., that’s a movie-of-the-week special right there.”
“They died,” he says flatly.
“As everyone does eventually,” I respond, my voice very soft. “And through no fault of your own. Wouldn’t they have had that space heater on in their room, even if you weren’t living with them?”
He’s silent.
“And Sayori would have died, too. Only not with the help of someone she loved. And not with the same peace of mind.”
He says harshly, “And Pavel? Maksim? Matushka? In what fantasy world am I excused for them? How can you wash their blood from my hands?”
I press my hand to his cheek and look into his eyes. “You were born into hell, A.J. Everyone in hell has blood on their hands.”
He sits up abruptly and turns his back to me. “I don’t accept it.”
