Make Me Sin

17

His gaze, once again, becomes penetrating. “Which means you’ve never had a one-night stand. Or revenge s*x. Or s*x out of boredom, or when you’ve had too much to drink, or with a guy who liked you way more than you liked him and you needed the ego stroke. Right?”

I can’t answer. I don’t have to; he sees it all written plainly on my face.

“And you’re the one judging them,” he murmurs, effectively rendering me speechless.

The waiter arrives. He sets down my drink. “Can I get you anything else?”

Looking at me, A.J. says, “A side order of crow?”

The waiter, who by now realizes there’s something odd going on, giggles awkwardly, hesitating only a moment before saying brightly, “Well, let me know! I’ll leave you two alone.”

When he leaves, I’m left gagging on the dry, crusty rinds of my own hypocrisy.

I pretend the glass of whiskey is a crystal ball. I stare into it, hoping to divine a way to salvage my self-respect. Because A.J. is completely right; what I said was bullshit. Self-righteous bullshit, no less. I gather my courage and meet his gaze.

“You’re right about everything you just said. I owe you an apology.”

I can tell this staggers him, but he has the good grace to shrug it off with a simple nod.

“I still feel bad for prostitutes, though, no matter how much money they make. It can’t be . . . that can’t be an easy way to earn a living.”

After a long time he says, “No. It isn’t.”

I’m arrested by the unexpected melancholy in his voice. I stare at him in dawning wonder. “Oh my God.”

He looks up at me. “What?”

“You defend them! You not only defend them, you have empathy for them, too! And you think women who aren’t being paid for it should be able to sleep with whoever they want, without being slut-shamed!”

“Your point being?”

“You’re a feminist!”

He snorts. “And you’re drunk.”

He’s right. I’m definitely feeling dizzy. Still, I’m convinced I’ve glimpsed into the soul of the sad, beautiful Viking sitting across from me, and I want more. Unfortunately, at that moment, my cell phone rings.

It’s Eric. “Babe, where the hell are you?” he yells.

Wincing, I jerk my head away from the earpiece. “I’m fine, Eric. I stopped on the way home because I just needed . . . I just needed some space. I’ll be home later.”

“Stopped? Where?” I hear the panic in his voice.

“Just this bar—”

“You’re alone at a bar?” he shouts. There’s an alarming lack of trust resounding in his voice. “Jesus, Chloe, what are you thinking? Which bar? I’ll come get you!”

“Eric, please, calm down. It’s fine, I’m not alone. I’m with . . .” I raise my eyes to find A.J. gazing steadily at me. His jaw is rock hard. “I-I’m with a friend.”

There. I said it. I’m with a friend. A prostitute-loving, bipolar friend, who just this afternoon told me he had plenty of reasons to hate me.

I’ve gone completely off my rocker.

“What friend?” Eric roars, so loudly I pull the phone even farther from my ear.

Which is when A.J. takes it from my hand.

“You have two seconds to calm your s**t down, brother, before I make Chloe give me your address so I can come and calm it down for you.”

His voice is low and dangerous. A thrill of pure fear zings through me. On the other end of the line, there’s crackling silence, until Eric finds his tongue.

“Whoever you are, you just threatened an officer of the law. You’d better hope we don’t meet face to face. Brother.”

“I have a feeling we will,” says A.J., looking at me. He hangs up.

He sets my phone into my shaking hand. “Your boyfriend’s a cop?”

I nod.

His eyes are black. His mouth is set into a hard line, harder even than the muscles in his jaw. “He have a temper?”

“He’s never hit me, if that’s what you mean.”

He growls, “Plenty of ways to mistreat a woman that don’t involve putting your fists on her.”

My head is pounding. I decide this day has gone on long enough; it’s time to leave. I try to stand, but stagger as my foot catches on the leg of the stool I’ve been sitting on. A.J. is out of his seat, righting me with his hand under my elbow, faster than my eyes can track the movement.

“Easy, Princess.” He chuckles. “We don’t want you to fall and bang up that pretty face.”

I stare up at him. Though his face is shadowed beneath the hood of the sweatshirt, I can tell he’s wishing he could take that back. I’m not going to let him.

“You think I’m pretty?”

His lips thin. He looks away, motioning for the waiter to bring the check. He mutters, “Never said I didn’t.”

“Oh, right.” Tipsy, I laugh. “You only said you hated me. And that I was stuck-up. And frigid. By the way, I’d like to take this opportunity to correct you about something: I would know a d**k if it hit me in the face. I can’t claim to ever have had that experience, but I can say with all confidence that if a d**k suddenly flew out of nowhere and whacked me across the nose, I would absolutely know it was a dick.” I hiccup. “One thousand percent sure. The hairy balls alone would be a dead giveaway.”