Page 18 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
“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.
