Make Me Sin (5 page)

“Well, if things keep going in the direction they’re going, sir, I think we’ll have an announcement to make quite soon. With your blessing, of course,” he hastens to add.

My mother instantly forgets about Nina and the cloth. She clutches her pearls. Her cry of joy, though I’m not certain I’ve ever heard it before, is genuine. My father relaxes back into his chair and folds his hands over his belly, beaming like a happy Buddha. My brother slowly sets his coffee on the table, his face impassive, watching me carefully.

As for me? I burn. I smoke. I writhe in impotent fury, gritting my teeth so hard they’re in danger of shattering.

No one has asked my opinion on the subject of marriage to Eric, most importantly the man himself. Almost worse is the glaring reality that, except for my brother, everyone in this room is convinced I’m wasting my time on my silly little flower hobby, and I should hurry up and get down to the real work of landing myself a husband before I turn into an unmarryable spinster. And lucky me, lo and behold! A gallant suitor has just offered his hand—for my father’s approval.

I’m living in a Jane Austen novel.

It goes from bad to worse.

“Oh, darling, we’re so
please
d
!” My mother hastens to Eric and grips his shoulder, as if he might change his mind and she’ll be forced to hold him against his chair. “You certainly had to kiss your share of frogs, Chloe, but now that you’ve found your—”

“Prince Charming?” Jamie interrupts my mother’s gushings with a tone just as pointed as his look. Before I can banish it, the image of a Viking god flashes before my eyes, a god with piercing golden eyes and a lion’s mane of hair, thundering bare chested over a battlefield on a stallion.

I’ve been watching way too much HBO.

“Yes, James. Prince Charming. As I was saying, now that you’ve found him, we can put all this flower shop nonsense behind us and get on with the more important business of wedding planning!” She pulls a hankie from her sleeve and dabs at her eyes, sniffing dramatically. “Oh, this calls for a toast!”

No, mother, this calls for a mutiny.

I stand. I wipe the remaining wine from my chin. I place my napkin on the table. “Eric and I are not getting married.”

The room comes to a screeching halt. Nina, who has just arrived from the kitchen with a wet towel, turns around and dodders out.

“Babe,” says Eric, hurt.

“Not anytime soon, anyway, Eric. There are a lot of things we need to talk about first. And a little news flash: this isn’t the nineteenth century. My father’s blessing is nice, but it isn’t necessary. I’ll marry whomever I want. Probably someone who respects me enough to consult with me and ask my feelings on the matter before he makes a dramatic announcement to my family.”

“Now, Chloe,” my father says in his deepest, most commanding courtroom voice, “let’s not get hysterical.”

If he thinks this is hysterical, he ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

“We’re simply thinking of what’s best for your future—”

“You haven’t asked what
I
think is best for my future—”

“You haven’t shown great intelligence in that regard—”

“That’s so unfair! Just because my choices aren’t what
you’d
make, that doesn’t mean I’m a complete idiot, or a failure for that matter—”

“You’re upsetting your mother—”

“We’re even, then, because she’s upsetting me!”

“Enough!” My father pounds his fist on the table so hard all the glassware jumps, falling back with a clatter.

Silence descends. The grandfather clock in the corner begins a doleful chime.

It’s eight o’clock on a Sunday evening in January, and I am finally at my wit’s end.

I look at my parents. My mother, swathed in silk and pearls, my father, lord of the manor, master of all he surveys. I know these flawed but genuinely good people love me. They have provided me with a lifetime of constant—if somewhat distant—affection, have gladly paid for my extravagant education, have done everything in their power to ensure I’ve had every advantage in life. Yet what they don’t know about me could fill volumes.

The terrible truth is that they don’t want to know. They want their dream of the perfect daughter, the obedient, sweet-natured girl who marries the perfect man and attends all the right parties and knows how to manage a household staff.

I am not that girl. Or, if I was, I’m not any longer.

Quietly, I say, “I’m twenty-five years old. I’m not your baby anymore. I’m sorry if the person I’ve become is a disappointment to you, but this is who I am. If you’re not willing to accept me this way, then I think it’s best if we don’t see each other for a while.” I pause, look at Jamie’s face, at the gleam of approval in his eye, and add, “And by the way, your son is gay. Stop being such assholes about it.”

The following silence is so total, it’s almost deafening. Into it, James begins slowly to clap.

I turn and leave the table, and let myself out the front door.

S
anta Monica Boulevard is surprisingly busy for a cold Sunday night. Then again, I’ve never walked down the boulevard on a cold Sunday night, so I really have nothing to compare it to.

Eric drove us to my parents’ in Beverly Hills for dinner. Walking back to my apartment in Hollywood would take weeks. Or at least a few hours, which in walking time is the same thing. I have my handbag and cell phone, so I could call Uber, or even hail one of the taxis regularly passing by, but I need to walk for at least a little while. I need to clear my head.

I need to calm down before I get home, where I know Eric will be waiting for me.

My mother’s final cry of “What’s gotten into her, Thomas?” as I marched out of the house is still echoing in my brain.

Not what, mother. Who.

I can’t get him out of my head. This new rebelliousness, the anger, the cursing . . . it all started when my life collided with A.J. Edwards. He sent me into a tailspin I haven’t recovered from.

I know it’s not actually his fault. He’s not standing next to me holding a gun to my head, making me act all crazy and out of character, but he might as well be. He’s infiltrated my brain like a ninja, and no matter how I try, I can’t evict him.

I’m stewing so deeply in my juices, I don’t notice when it begins to rain. It’s only when I step into a puddle and my foot is soaked with ice water that I jerk out of my reverie, and look around.

Crap. I don’t even have a jacket on. I’m getting drenched.

I dart into the first doorway I see, taking shelter. As I’m shaking the water from my hair, four beautiful young men glide by me, open the door, and enter what I now realize is a gay bar.

The blazing neon sign in the window—“Flaming Saddles” it screams—should have been my first clue.

Confession time: I love gay bars. They’re places of uninhibited fun. Also, in spite of what some people think, gay men love women. They just don’t want to sleep with them. The majority of gay men I’ve met have good relationships with their mothers and sisters, have tons of girlfriends, and have a healthy respect for the gender in general. As long as you don’t say anything stupid along the lines of “I bet if you spent the night with me, I’d change your mind,” they have no problem if a vagina-owning human shares drinks with them in their bars.

When my brother first moved to Manhattan a few years ago, he took me around to all the best spots, introducing me to some of the sweetest, least judgmental people I’ve met anywhere.

Outside of New York City, West Hollywood has the best gay bars in the country. It’s been a crappy night, and I need some distraction. I’m going in.

Inside is an Oz of flashing rainbow lights and bar-dancing cowboy bartenders. Bonnie Raitt croons on the jukebox. A giant iron steer threatens to charge from a raised platform. There’s sawdust scattered over the wood plank floor. The Wild West Saloon theme abounds right down to the old black-and-white westerns playing on the overhead TVs.

I slip onto a stool in a corner near the steer, and text Kat and Grace to see if they can join me. Neither one can, which means I’ll be drinking alone like the sad sack I am. In celebration of the first time I’ve ever told my parents off, I order champagne.

Which is when I notice him.

On the opposite side of the room, in a dark corner beneath the mounted head of a longhorn, sits a man in a black hoodie. He’s hunched over the table in front of him, nursing a beer, wearing aviators and an expression that could turn molten lava to ice. His shoulders are so wide, they almost completely block the neon Budweiser sign behind him. I don’t even have to see the mass of dark golden hair tucked under the hoodie to know who it is.

“You’ve
got
to be kidding me.”

The cute waiter returns with my champagne. “What’s that sweetie?”

I realize I’ve spoken aloud. I look down at the table, embarrassed. “Nothing. Sorry. Just thinking out loud.”

“I do that all the time, too. My boyfriend keeps saying someone will think I’m a homeless guy who’s off my meds, but what do I care what some judgey stranger thinks? You go right on with your conversation, sweetie, and just raise a hand in the air when you’re ready for another, mmkay?”

Balancing a full tray of drinks, he walks away with better posture than I can ever hope to have. I’m left alone with my champagne and a sudden conviction that the universe is having a go at me. I’m the butt of some cosmic practical joke.

Because the giant on the other side of the room has risen from his table, and is heading my way.

Everything inside me starts to pound. I practice deep-breathing exercises, until he’s too close and I have to look up at him.

Without a word, he sits across from me, lowering his bulk to the chair with surprising grace. He removes his sunglasses. He takes a long swallow of his beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and waits.

“I’m not following you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

A.J. nods. I can’t tell whether he’s acknowledging what I’ve said, is agreeing with me, or is waiting for me to add more. He’s making me uncomfortable with his silence. All the anger I felt at dinner—which had begun so nicely to quiet down—surges back with a vengeance.

I lean closer to him and declare, “You made me call my parents assholes tonight!”

“Did I now.”

I think he’s amused. His facial expression hasn’t changed, but his eyes shine. In the low light they gleam like he’s running a fever. I wonder what my own reflect back at him.

“Yes, you did.” I don’t offer anything else, finding it more important to finish my champagne in one huge gulp. I lift my hand, motioning for the waiter. Across the room, he nods, catching my eye.

A.J. says, “Maybe they deserved it.”

“They absolutely did.”

“I did you a favor, then. Now you owe me one.”

He’s toying with me. I can sense it in the look in his eyes, in the way his lips seem to want to lift at the corners. I don’t feel like playing along. I stare at him so long it’s his turn to get uncomfortable. He drops his gaze and frowns.

“What are you doing here?” he growls.

“I could ask you the same question. This is a gay bar.”

His eyes flash up to meet mine. “Yeah. It is.” He offers no apology or explanation.

“Are you coming out to me right now, is that what you’re saying? You’re gay?”

He examines my expression. He takes his time with it, slowly letting his gaze rove all over my face, until he settles for staring at my
mouth for so long I have to restrain myself from squirming in my
seat. Finally, in a husky, almost carnal voice, he says, “You know better.”

If I don’t, my uterus certainly does. The pulse of heat that floods between my legs makes me clench my thighs together. Mercifully, the waiter arrives with another champagne.

“Here you go, sweetie.”

“Thank you. I’m also going to need a whiskey when you get the chance. Two fingers, neat.”

His gaze slides from me to A.J. and back again. He purses his lips, lifts his eyebrows twice in a hubba-hubba gesture, nods, and turns away silently.

“So you’re not gay. Congratulations.”

“You got something against gays?”

I’m insulted. “No!”

A.J. shrugs. “Me, neither. In fact, I think they’ve got more compassion than most, having to put up with so much shit their whole lives. Can’t be easy, being one way when society tells you you’re not okay unless you’re another.”

I’m floored by this little speech. A.J. Edwards is the last person alive I’d have called enlightened. I briefly wonder how else I’ve misjudged him, but then decide he could just be screwing with me. I don’t know him well enough to judge.

I hate that I don’t know him well enough to judge.

I mutter, “That explains your attitude toward prostitutes.”

A.J. squints at me. “You’re in a worse mood than usual, Princess. What’s up?”

Now he’s being nice? “You’re talking about
my
moods? Can I just say that your mood swings should be treated with medication and extensive psychotherapy?”

My whiskey arrives, placed delicately on the table by the waiter who retreats as fast as he appeared. He obviously senses my pending mental break. I shoot the whiskey, coughing as it scorches a path down my throat.

A.J. says quietly, “Probably. But I think therapy is bullshit. The only person who can fix you is you; paying four hundred dollars an hour to pour your heart out to a stranger is just an emotional jerkoff. In the long run, you’re still stuck with yourself, problems and all. And I don’t put anything in my body that will alter my state of mind. Life’s too short to miss out on anything, even if it’s pain.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me pause with the glass halfway down to the table. I look at him. He looks back at me with naked longing darkening his eyes. I blink, and it’s gone. I might have imagined it.

“You’re drinking a beer. I think alcohol qualifies as mind-altering.”

He wordlessly turns the bottle around so I can read the label: O’Doul’s. It’s nonalcoholic.

This man is shattering every preconceived notion I’ve held about him. And about rock stars in general.
Except for the prostitutes
, I remind myself grimly. He’s got that one down pat.

“Let me get this straight. You’re a man who likes gay bars, but you’re not a gay man. You drink, but only if it’s nonalcoholic. You don’t believe in therapy or taking medication for emotional problems, but admit you probably need both.”

“Don’t forget the prostitutes,” he chides softly, and takes another swig of the beer that lacks any reason whatsoever to drink it.

“Okay, since you mentioned it, what’s with that? You’re not into normal relationships?”

“
Normal
relationships? No. I’m not. I’m into honest relationships.”

I stare at him, a little light-headed from drinking two glasses of champagne and a whiskey in such a short span of time. “Honest relationships. Like those that require money to exchange hands.”

He nods, holding my gaze. “A prostitute will only lie to you if you ask her if you were good. Even then, you both know she’s not telling the truth. It’s part of what you’re paying for. Otherwise, it’s an honest relationship. Straightforward. No bullshit. I want something. She wants something. We both get what we want, and go our separate ways. Some of the best people I’ve ever known have been prostitutes. And yes, the most honest.”

I gape at him. “But—but—you’re taking advantage of them! Of their situation . . . their lack of money, their desperation. How can you be so casual about using a person that way? It’s inhumane! Those poor women!”

Then a miracle occurs: A.J. throws back his head and laughs. It’s a deep, masculine, beautiful sound. I’m astonished by how much I like hearing it.

When he’s finished, he looks at me with a combination of amusement and pity. “You’ve seen
Hustle & Flow
one too many times. I’m not denying that kind of shit exists; it does. But the ‘poor women’ I hang out with aren’t streetwalking teenagers with pimps who beat them if they don’t cough up enough cash at the end of the night. My ‘poor women’ are freelancers, fully in control of their own destinies, who charge thousands of dollars per hour, Princess, to do something
you
give away for free. And probably don’t even like.”

“You’re right. I don’t like it; I
love
it.”

The words are out before I can censor them. A.J.’s expression loses all its humor and smug self-importance. He tilts his head, examining me with such piercing intensity I wish the floor would open up and devour me. Flustered, I blunder on. “And it’s not even the same thing. If I have sex with someone it’s because I
want
to, not because I
have
to. I do it in a context of caring and love, of mutual respect—”

“Bullshit.”

I wish there were cutlery on the table, because I’m seized with the overwhelming desire to drive a fork into A.J.’s eye.

“Bullshit?” I repeat carefully, challenging him.

“Yes. Everything you just said is bullshit.” His eyes flash. “Except maybe the first part. I think you were telling the truth about that.”

The anger inside me feels like a nuclear bomb detonating in my solar plexus. I’m so pissed I don’t even know where to start.

Dead serious now, A.J. says, “If you want me to explain
why
I think it’s bullshit, Princess, you’re going to have to tell me more truths. You up for that?”

My hands shake with the violent desire to curl around his neck. He’s so arrogant, so
infuriatin
g
! I’d like to . . . well, I don’t know what I’d like to do to him, but it would definitely involve drawing blood!

I feign boredom. After over two decades of living with my mother, a woman moved to great emotion only if it involves a sale at Saks Fifth Avenue, this kind of composure is second nature.

“I’m not afraid of you, A.J.,” I say, tranquil as a sphinx. “Ask away.”

His smile comes on slow and wicked. He’s obviously not buying my act. “Good. Question one: Have you ever had sex when you weren’t in the mood?”