Page 40 of Make Me Sin (Bad Habit 2)
“How would you know it’s gross? Maybe it’s the hottest sex you’ll ever have, but you’re so busy looking down your nose at it, you’ll never know.”
My eyes bug out. “You’re advocating your little sister hire a gigolo to get some firsthand experience in the area, is that it?”
He goes all practical on me. “Well, if you do, I know this guy in LA—”
“Please stop talking now.”
“Look, I admit it’s . . . not mainstream.”
Suddenly, I’m angry. “No, Jamie, that’s not it at all. This has nothing to do with me being narrow-minded or judgmental. It’s wrong. I’m sorry if it makes me sound like a church lady, but screwing someone for money is wrong.”
“Why aren’t you mad at the prostitutes, then? They’re the ones taking his money. If there were no prostitutes, men couldn’t visit them.”
I almost curse at him. “You’re such a lawyer.”
He shoots right back, “And you’re too quick to point fingers. Nothing in this world is black or white. Nothing. I don’t know much about this A.J. of yours, but if he only can be with a woman who he pays, there’s something to that. And besides, if that’s really the case, this entire conversation is moot.” He adds, “Unless you’re willing to send him an invoice, that is.”
I mutter, “I’m sure they get paid up front. You don’t want that much money in receivables.”
“Really?” He sounds interested. “How much are we talkin’? Two, three grand?”
“Try five.”
He whistles. “Damn. And I thought Dad charged a lot per hour. He’d freak out if he knew a hooker had thirty-five hundred bucks on his going hourly rate.”
It’s my turn to be shocked. “Dad charges his clients fifteen hundred dollars per hour?”
Jamie laughs. “Only for old clients. For new ones he charges twenty-five hundred.”
Holy guacamole. I honestly had no idea. “That doesn’t even seem like it should be legal!”
His voice turns wry. “You weren’t complaining when it was paying to put you through USC. Or padding your trust fund. Or financing that graduation trip you took to Paris with all your girlfriends—”
“Point made. No need to rub it in.”
“All right. I know I’m being a little hard on you, but I just want you to keep an open mind. At the very least . . . try to have compassion. You never know what it’s like to be someone else until you’ve lived what he’s lived.”
“Walk a mile in his shoes, that whole bit?”
“Exactly. And don’t sound so snarky, it’s true.”
Annoyed with Jamie, with the conversation, with life in general, I stand and go to the living room window. Outside it’s growing dark. Cars flash by with their headlights on, in traffic even at this hour, on the weekend. The streetlights are winking on.
“When will you be in LA again?”
“I don’t know. I’m giving Mom and Dad a little room to breathe after your dramatic announcement at dinner. I think they might finally be realizing their son is never going to marry Bunny Anderson’s very homely, very rich daughter.”
“Are you angry with me for that?”
“Never. I’ve never hidden who or what I am, they’ve just chosen not to see me. But you always have, and you’ve always accepted me just as I am. I love you for that, bug.”
I’m touched. We don’t often say these things to each other. Stiff upper lip and all that. “I love you, too, Jamie.”
“Gotta go. Call me if you need any more man advice.”
I say wryly, “Or if I need the number of that gigolo.”
His laugh is loud. “Right. And bug?”
