It’s locked with a padlock. A sign warns, “Private Property. Intruders Will Be Shot.”
I’m very confused.
On Monday at Lula’s, I eventually admitted to the girls that I was having some pretty conflicted thoughts about A.J. After hearing the rest of the story about my night with him at the gay bar, Grace’s opinion was that it ultimately didn’t matter what secrets A.J. might be hiding, because I really only needed him for what was between his legs. (She’s sentimental that way.) She said go for it, have a crazy fling, learn a few new tricks in the sack, then go marry Eric or some other normal person, have my two point three babies, and live the life I was brought up to live.
That made me vaguely depressed.
Kat’s opinion was more ambivalent. She doesn’t want me to get hurt. She also knows you can never, ever judge a book by its cover, so even though A.J.’s particular cover is mad and bad, what’s on the inside might be anything but.
“First,” she cautioned, “you need to sort things out with Eric.”
I have repeatedly tried to do so, but he isn’t cooperating. I can’t get him to return my calls. When I mentioned that to Grace, she said, “So there you have it,” as if I were now free and clear to shop my vagina all over town.
I left Eric another apology message, asking him to call. I waited another full day to hear back. When the crickets got too loud, I decided I wasn’t going to wait any longer. Now here I stand, befuddled.
According to my GPS, this road is supposed to lead to the address Kat gave me where A.J. lives, but I can’t get around the darn locked gate. Which, by the looks of it, no one else has gotten around in a long time, either. Except . . .
Off to the left side of the road, where the dirt gives way to wild grasses and trees, there’s a man-height, oval break in the fence. It’s almost hidden behind a wall of shrubbery, but I see it, and go over for a look. The grass beneath it is flattened, and bald in some patches. There are slim tire tracks in the dust.
It’s a way in. A way in that someone on a two-wheeled vehicle is regularly using.
Oh, goodie. I found the entrance to the bat cave. I wonder if Bruce Wayne is at home.
I maneuver the car so it’s parked off the main part of the road, lock it, and continue on foot. It’s a pretty good incline, and soon I’m sweating. I don’t normally mind a good sweat—I love to run, and take regular hikes up Runyon Canyon—but I really don’t want to see A.J. when I’m looking like I just hopped off a treadmill.
After another ten minutes of walking, I realize I’ve left my phone, along with A.J.’s flower order form with the incorrect address, in the car.
I stop in the middle of the road, and look around. I see only gently rolling hills covered in trees and low shrubs on either side of me. Where perhaps, my mind inconveniently suggests, murderers and rapists are hiding. I chew my lip, undecided. Do I go back? Do I keep going?
Then a dog barks off in the distance, and I think I might be getting close after all.
I continue on. After another half mile or so, I crest the top of the low rise, and stop dead in my tracks.
“Oookay,” I say aloud, staring. “That’s not creepy.”
The road dead-ends in a broad, circular driveway perhaps three hundred yards ahead. In the center of the circle is a dry, cracked marble fountain choked with weeds. Beyond it is a sprawling, dilapidated, abandoned hotel. It looks right out of that horror movie where Jack Nicholson plays the writer who goes crazy and tries to murder his family.
Parked in front of the hotel, gleaming in the afternoon sun, is A.J.’s death mobile.
I stand gaping until the dog I heard earlier trots into sight around the rusted hulk of a dumpster on the side of the building. He’s a pale caramel color, thin and small. He has only three legs.
He spots me and freezes. His ears flatten. He seems to shrink closer to the ground.
“Hey, buddy. It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.” I kneel down, holding out my hand.
He starts trembling. He skips backward a step. Poor thing, he’s terrified of me. Then, somewhere inside the hotel, music begins to play. The dog turns its head, perks its ears, and tears off in the direction it came, faster than you’d think a dog missing a leg would be able to.
I stand, listening for a moment, trying to identify the music. There’s a lone, piercing flute or clarinet, accompanied by a soprano, who is singing in . . . Italian, I decide.
Inside the abandoned hotel, with a three-legged dog as company, someone is blasting an Italian opera. This is getting weirder and weirder.
I move toward the massive double doors at the front of the building. It’s obvious this place was once beautiful. Now it’s a ruin. The tall beveled-glass windows are streaked with dirt. The carved lintel about the door is sagging and warped from both moisture and age. The roof was probably last repaired in 1930. Paint peels off the façade in long, curling flakes. But an echo of its majesty remains. Up close, it’s a little less creepy.
A little.
I walk up three rotted wood steps, cross the porch that runs the length of the first floor, and try the knob on the front door. Just like I’ve seen happen in the movies, it breaks off in my hand. The door swings slowly open, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of the interior. I toss the knob and go inside, feeling like Nancy Drew.
If I hear a disembodied voice hiss, “Get ooouuuttt!” I am so out of here.
The room opens into a grand foyer flanked by twin staircases that sweep upward to a second level. There’s no furniture, or anything on the walls except faded floral wallpaper, dotted with slightly brighter squares where paintings once hung. An enormous crystal chandelier, dull with dust, dangles precariously from a frayed cord on the ceiling two stories above.
The soprano sings on.
I know more than I should about opera, as I grew up with a mother who believed children should be introduced to such things. Culture and whatnot. So I recognize this particular song. It’s “Il Dolce Suono,” or “The Sweet Sound,” from the opera Lucia di Lammermoor by Donizetti. It’s about a woman, Lucia, who’s in love with a man, Edgardo. But, for various reasons that only make sense in operas, she marries another man, Arturo. There’s lots of angst and threatening of duels, and Lucia finally goes crazy and stabs her new husband to death on their wedding night. Edgardo, desolate at the rejection by Lucia, then kills himself.
In short, it’s a tragedy about star-crossed lovers. It’s basically the Italian opera version of Romeo and Juliet.
Trying not to take it as a sign, I straighten my shoulders, reminding myself what I came here for. Which—allegedly—is to get a correct address for A.J.’s flower order.
Because I couldn’t have just asked Kat to pass along the message to Nico, right?
Following the music, I ascend the sweeping staircase. The second floor branches off in two main wings. I turn east. The song plays on. Now I hear another noise, a repetitive, low, thump, thump, thump. I have no idea what it could be, but it doesn’t stop.
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.”
I hear anguish in the husky timbre of his voice. Anguish, and a loneliness so vast and deep it makes my heart ache. Whoever this dead Aleksandra is, she clearly meant a lot to him.
I say his name. He leans his arms against the bookcase, closes his eyes, and hangs his head. He whispers, “You shouldn’t be here.”
I fight the violent urge to go to him, put my arms around him, and murmur words of comfort in his ear. I’m almost moved to tears by this spartan room, by the way he lives here, in a crumbling old ruin high in the hills, alone. Kat told me he’s lived here as long as Nico has known him. He goes to a pay phone at a liquor store off Sunset Boulevard once a day to check in with the band’s manager, who receives all his mail and phone messages. Anyone who needs to contact A.J. knows to go through the manager, and anyone who doesn’t know him would have one hell of a hard time finding him, if they ever could.
It’s as if he’s exiled himself from the world. As if he’s removed himself from the human race, from any chance of a random encounter.
As if he’s doing penance.
If A.J. has secrets, they belong to him. And they’re best left alone. I wonder if Kat knows more than she’s telling.
A.J. breaks the tense silence by saying, forcefully and with surprising bitterness, “Just go. Call your boyfriend to come and get you, and go.”
“We broke up.”
He lifts his head. He turns toward me, intense and intimidating, eyes blazing. “Was it because of the other night, what I said to him on the phone?” His burning gaze rakes over me. He snaps, “What happened? Did he hurt you?”
Here we go again. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”
Clearly not believing me, A.J. prowls closer. His energy is dangerous, yet I know it’s not directed at me. His gaze darts all over my face, my body. He’s looking for any sign of injury. That alone gives me the courage to say what I say next.
“And it wasn’t because of the night you and I were together.”
He waits, watching me in molten silence. A muscle in his jaw flexes over and over.
I whisper, “It was because I called him by your name.”
My face burns. So does his. We stand there staring at each other wordlessly, until I hear a soft whine from behind me.
Trembling, the three-legged dog cowers in the corner of the hallway, his thin tail between his legs. He gazes up at me in terror. His big brown eyes, which take up half his face, dart to A.J. He lifts his snout and yips.
He wants to come in.
A.J. kneels and holds out his bloodied hands. The dog, keeping a wary eye on me, hops slowly forward into the room until he’s past me, then breaks into an awkward run. He leaps into A.J.’s arms. A.J. stands, cradling his frail body and stroking his ears, murmuring softly to him. The dog snuggles closer to A.J., licking A.J.’s chin, wagging his scrawny little tail.
And I melt into a puddle like a stick of butter left out in the sun.
“What’s his name?”
Still stroking the dog’s head, A.J. says, “Bella.”
So he’s really a she. “She’s yours?”
“As much as anything can be.”
I don’t know what to make of that. But the dog has softened something in A.J., and I want to keep him talking. I move a little closer, noting the tattoo on the left side of his neck. It’s two black crosses, with a third, larger, in between. “Was she a rescue?”
His jaw tightens. I think I’ve asked the wrong question. When he answers, I realize it’s not annoyance with me, it’s a bad memory that’s making him frown.
“I found her in the back parking lot of Flaming Saddles one night last year. Some drunk asshole ran her over, left her there to die. Took her to the emergency vet, but they couldn’t save her leg.”
So Flaming Saddles is his regular hangout. Obviously he hasn’t made any friends there, either.
A.J. murmurs tenderly to the dog, “Doesn’t seem to bother you too much, though, does it, baby?”
The dog wriggles in glee in A.J.’s arms, responding to his gentle coo with a frenzy of licks to his face, and I think I might faint from shock.
A.J. loves this dog.
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—”
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