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 infuriating! 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?”
I open my mouth to say no, but stop. The truth is, it happened just last week. Eric was horny, I was exhausted from a long day at work, and I didn’t want to have an awkward scene or make him feel like I didn’t want him, so I just . . . sort of . . .
“I see the answer is yes. And let me tell you this: when you fuck a man just to shut him up or spare his ego, that’s not mutual respect. That’s manipulation. In other words, it’s bullshit.”
My mouth closes with an audible snap. I motion to the bartender for another whiskey.
“Question two: Have you ever faked an orgasm?”
A telling flush creeps up my neck. If that pretty waiter doesn’t get his skinny behind over here right now with my whiskey, I’m going to slap that beauty mark right off his face.
“Another yes.” A.J.’s voice grows softer. “And this is an even worse yes, because not only is it a manipulation, it’s a flat-out lie. A lie that maintains your control, so you don’t have to risk being honest by telling a man what really makes you feel good. You get to keep your safe little distance, feeling superior, while the poor stupid fuck who’s trying so hard to do everything right is pumping away in ignorance, thinking he’s with a woman who cares enough about him to show him her heart.”
My face is flaming. I can’t look at him. For some unthinkable reason, I feel as if I might cry.
“Question three—”
“Enough. You’ve made your point.” But he isn’t done with me yet.
“Question three: Have you ever had sex with a man you weren’t in love with?”
I turn my head slowly and meet his gaze. “Does that make me a slut?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. In my opinion, a woman should be able to sleep with whoever she wants, whenever she wants, for any reason she wants, without having to explain or apologize. But your exact words were, ‘I do it in a context of caring and love.’ Which means, at the very least, every time you’ve had sex there was a real connection, real caring.”
His gaze, once again, becomes penetrating. “Which means you’ve never had a one-night stand. Or revenge sex. Or sex 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 shit 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.
Make Me Sin Page 5