Make Me Sin (9 page)

“Grace.”

“The same A.J. who dates sluts named Heavenly?”

“Actually she’s a prostitute,” I correct. “He pays her. And all the rest of his girlfriends, near as I can tell.”

Grace begins to chuckle. It’s a low, throaty laugh that would make a phone sex operator green with envy. When she’s through enjoying the depth of my humiliation, she says cryptically, “Chloe Anne Carmichael, there’s hope for you yet.”

I throw an arm over my face. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”

“It means it’s time for a meeting of the sisterhood of the traveling panties. Lula’s, half an hour. I’ll call Kat.”

She hangs up. I know, from past experience, if I call her back she won’t answer. And if I don’t show at the appointed time, they’ll come and get me.

I drag myself from the couch to go get dressed.

“
Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. That must’ve been terrible for you.” Kat looks at me with big, sympathetic eyes and squeezes my hand.

We’re at Lula’s, a local Mexican restaurant where the three of us always meet in Venice Beach, at a table loaded with margaritas, baskets of tortilla chips, and a vat of salsa. Kat and Grace sit across from me. While Kat has been carefully listening to my retelling of the story about what happened with Eric, Grace has been fidgeting, anxious for me to get to the good part.

Right on cue, she demands, “Chloe, enough already. Get to the good part.”

Kat looks confused. “How can there possibly be a
good
part?”

I send Grace an evil glare I learned from watching A.J. practice it on me. Completely unfazed by it, she says, “That’s interesting. Did you pick up that little voodoo stare from your new boyfriend?”

It sucks when your friends are smarter than you.

I put my nose in the air and act like she hasn’t spoken. “What Grace means by ‘good part,’ Kat, is actually the
worst
part.”

Kat’s eyes narrow. She looks me up and down, as if checking for bruises.

I throw up my hands. “What is it with everyone assuming that because Eric’s a cop he’s going to beat me!” I glare at Grace. “Or burn a cross on someone’s lawn! On behalf of our police force, I’m insulted! Besides, you guys have known him for months, he’s a sweetheart.”

Kat—apologetically, I have to admit—says, “We also knew Jeremy for months before we found out he was the one stealing all your underwear. And wearing it.”

Grace points out with her usual dastardly logic, “And I wouldn’t call a man who destroys your favorite vase in a snit just because you had a tiny tongue slipup a ‘sweetheart.’ I’d call him unbalanced, and then I’d call him a cab and send his sorry ass home.”

“Calling a man another man’s name in a moment of passion—no matter if there was penetration—is not a tiny tongue slipup, Grace. It’s unforgiveable.”

“Oh, honey, give me just a slight break, will you? I’ve called men by the wrong name when they were doing everything from eating my cookie to plowing my corn hole! That boy just needs to grow thicker skin.”

With a groan, I drop my head to the tabletop and hide my face in my folded arms.

Someone says a tentative, “Excuse me.”

I look up and see a wide-eyed girl of about seventeen standing tableside, clutching a rolled-up magazine and a pen. The style of her clothes and general lack of sophistication suggest she’s a Midwestern farm girl. She stares adoringly at Kat.

“A-are you Kat Reid? The makeup artist? Nico Nyx’s fiancée?”

Kat and I look at each other. Wow. This is weird. Nico and Kat aren’t even married yet, and she’s already a celebrity. This girl wants her autograph.

Grace takes charge. “Oh, she gets that all the time, don’t you, Hortense? I hear the resemblance is uncanny.”

Farm Girl looks unconvinced.

“Honestly,” Grace insists, “would Nico Nyx’s fiancée be out having dinner in a crappy Mexican restaurant with no bodyguard?” Her laugh is indulgent. “I don’t think so.”

I know for a fact that she does have a bodyguard, Barney, who discreetly watches us from his position near the kitchen door. Knowing Nico, there are also half a dozen ninjas posted around as well, lurking under manhole covers or hanging upside down from the rafters like bats. His protectiveness of her is legendary.

The girl squints at Kat, then makes up her mind. “You’re right. I’m such a silly willy!” She wags the magazine in Kat’s general direction. “You’re
much
thinner than she is.”

She trots off. Grace bursts into gales of laughter.

“Oh, be quiet, Grace. You know the camera adds ten pounds,” says Kat, disgruntled.

She’s got the figure of a fifties sex symbol, all boobs and butt and tiny waist, and is a little sensitive about it. Personally, I think she’s beautiful. Guys are always going gaga over her curves. Standing next to her, I feel like an underfed giraffe.

“Ah, the perils of fame!” Grace says between hoots.

“Can we get back to the important topic here? Mainly, what was the worst part of your story, Chloe?”

I have to take several long swallows of my margarita before I work up the courage to speak. “The worst part . . . was the name I called Eric. Which . . . was . . .” I clear my throat. “A.J.”

Kat frowns. “Well, obviously that’s a mistake. You couldn’t have possibly been thinking of A.J., you’re not even attracted to him.”

I pull my lips between my teeth and stare at her.

Her mouth drops open.
“No!”

Grace squeals and claps like a ten-year-old who’s just been given a pony at her birthday party. “Yes! Ha-ha! Isn’t it fantastic!”

Kat looks at me as if I’m possessed by the devil himself. “No! You
hate
him! He hates
you
! I’ve seen this all up close and personal! You can’t
stand
each other!”

“I know,” I say miserably. “Only now I sort of . . . don’t.”

Grace sighs. It’s a happy sigh. It sounds as if she’s just won a hundred million dollars. It irritates me so much I down the rest of my drink.

“You’re
supposed
to be my friend. You’re
supposed
to feel bad for me. You’re
supposed
to tell me what to do to make up with Eric! Instead you’re acting like this is the best thing that’s happened since you had that affair with the Italian cultural attaché!”

Grace pushes her long red hair off her neck in an elegant sweep of her wrist that is supremely her. “It’s not
that
good. But seriously, Chloe, as far as I can tell—and please forgive me, because I say this in total love—you have never been properly fucked.”

“Gee, don’t hold back, Grace. Tell us how you really feel.” I toss a chip into my mouth, crunching on it violently, wishing it were Grace’s head.

“All I’m saying is once you get a taste of a real man, nothing else in the world ever tastes the same. If you’re going to have a fling, A.J. Edwards is the. Perfect. Man for it.”

Kat pulls a face. “He’s also the perfect man if you’re interested in contracting a life-threatening venereal disease. I went on tour with those guys. You should
see
some of the hos he hangs out with.”

“Literally,” I mutter.

Grace isn’t buying it. “He’s too smart to get VD, Kat. He probably owns stock in a company that produces titanium condoms or something. There’s no way a player like that doesn’t take
every
precaution. Plus, high-end prostitutes are certified clean. I mean, really, they have papers to prove it. The clients expect it. You can’t charge five thousand dollars a pop and have the clap. Or worse.”

A chip falls out of my mouth. It lands on the table. Five thousand dollars? When A.J. told me he paid “thousands” for his high-rent hos, I thought it was an exaggeration.

“Dear God,” says Kat. “What kind of skills do you need to have to charge that kind of money for sex?”

I can tell Grace is about to provide a laundry list by the look on
her face. I hold up a hand to stop her. “No! I don’t want to know!”

She gazes steadily at me. Her steely-grey eyes look even more steely
than usual, which means I’m about to get a lecture. “Chloe, if you’re going to sleep with a man whose preferences run toward women who know how to expertly massage the prostate with anal balls while giv
ing a blow job, you might want to brush up on your bedroom skills.”

“Gross!”

Vindicated, she sits back, shaking her head. “It’s like shooting puppies in a barrel.”

I turn to Kat. “Help me out here.”

“Hey, you’re the one who has the hots for him.”

“I never said I had the
hots
for him! I just don’t hate him so much anymore . . . is all.”

Grace drawls, “Riiiight. You just don’t hate him so much. Which is why you’re calling out his name during sex.”

I need to get new friends. These two are the worst.

Something terrible occurs to me. I bolt upright in my seat and grab Kat’s hand just as she’s lifting a loaded chip to her mouth. Salsa flies all over the place.

“Hey! I was going to eat that!”

“You
cannot
say a
word
to Nico about this. Promise me you won’t.”

“Chloe, even if I did, he would laugh me right out of the room. He’s seen you two together. He’d never believe it in a million years. When I told him you needed A.J.’s address, the first thing out of Nico’s mouth was, ‘Why, is she going to plant a bomb under his porch?
’
”

That makes me feel a little better. I release her wrist, and sit back in my chair.

“Needed his address?” Grace repeats, a little cattily I think.

“It’s not like that. He placed a flower order for some chick in Russia, and the address was wrong. Trina probably wrote it down incorrectly. It ended up being some cemetery. Anyway, the dude doesn’t own a phone, or a computer, which means he has no email, so I have no other way to contact him.” I add a teeny, tiny lie. “I’m going to send Jeff over to get it.”

Kat and Grace stare at me.

“What?”

Kat says, “Russia?”

Grace says,
“Cemetery?”

I shrug, plowing into the salsa with two chips. I’m trying to make a chip-and-salsa sandwich. “Yeah. I know. What’s even weirder is that he told me when he looks at me, he sees ghosts.”

Grace starts laughing again. “He sees dead people? Like the kid in that Bruce Willis movie? This shit is solid gold!”

Kat isn’t laughing. She’s just staring at me with this really weird look, like she can’t decide if she wants to say something or not. So of course I have to know.

“Tell me right now or I’ll throw my chip sandwich in your face, girlfriend.”

She dusts off her hands, takes a swig of her drink, and wipes her mouth with her napkin. It looks like she’s stalling. Finally, she asks, “Have you guys ever noticed A.J.’s accent?”

Grace and I repeat in unison, “Accent?”

“Yeah. His accent. His oh-so-subtle-but-definitely-there European
accent.”

Grace says, “You’re on crack.”

Kat shrugs. “That was almost exactly Nico’s response when I asked him about it, too.”

But I don’t dismiss it so lightly. Kat is really intuitive about certain things. Like,
scary
intuitive. She’s the one who told me I should check my ex-boyfriend Jeremy’s closet for my missing underwear.

“He grew up in Las Vegas. How could he have a European accent?”

Instantly, Grace has me pegged. “You Googled him, didn’t you?”

Crap. I motion to the waiter to get me another margarita.

“His tattoos
are
a little Russian prisony looking, though,” she adds thoughtfully.

“Prison? What?” I’m totally confused, but Kat picks up Grace’s train of thought right away.

“That’s what
I
thought! Those tattoos on the backs of his hands are totally Viggo Mortensen in
Eastern Promises
!”

Grace licks her lips. “God, he was so hot in that.”

“And when we were on tour, one time I saw him without a shirt. It was a total accident. I walked into the wrong dressing room. You’ve never seen a guy go sideways so fast, though. He was so pissed I thought he was going to explode. He acted like I’d caught him fucking a chicken or something.”

A chicken?
I look to Grace, the expert. “That’s not a real thing, is it? Please tell me people don’t have sex with poultry.”

She smiles at me like I’m the village idiot and pats my hand.

Kat says, “If you think fucking chickens is weird, you should’ve seen some of the stuff we saw in the red light district in Amsterdam when we were on tour.” She shudders. “I’ll never look at bananas the same way again.”

“You guys are really starting to freak me out.”

“Moving on: Is his chest as lickable as it looks underneath all those stupid hoodies he’s usually wearing?”

Grace is more interested in hearing about A.J.’s naked torso than I’m comfortable with.

“I was too busy being goggle-eyed by all the tattoos to really notice. You’d never know it, but he’s got full sleeves, wrist to shoulder, in addition to stuff just everywhere, all over, front and back. Nico has lots of tats, but I’m talking hard-core. I’m talking
full-on
hard-core.”

I remember his face when he told me to get my ass on the back of his bike. I remember the look in his eyes. Now I imagine he’s naked, covered in tattoos, and, with that same look in his eyes, ordering me to strip and get my ass in his bed.

I drop my face into my hands. What’s happening to me? I’m a
good gir
l
!

“Look.” Kat digs her cell from her handbag, types something, waits, then hands it to me. It’s a website depicting various types of tattoos, in particular the types criminals in the Russian penal system are known to have.

“Okay, so the tattoos on A.J.’s hands might look similar to some Russian prison tattoos. That’s not evidence of anything! Maybe he just likes the culture!”