Forbidden Sister (The Forbidden 1)

“You will. What about your social life? You haven’t been invited to any parties, asked out on any dates?”

I looked away. She had been tiptoeing around this ever since my return to school. My answers were always vague, with a show of indifference.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “None of that is important to you?”

“It’s important.”

“So?”

“The sort of invitations I’ve been getting are not what either of us would appreciate.”

“What do you mean? I’d like some answers, M,” she insisted when I didn’t respond.

“What do I mean?” I sat back. “Okay, here’s what I mean.” I rose, went into my bedroom, and returned with an envelope that I tossed onto the table.

She looked at me curiously, picked it up, and looked inside. Slowly, she took out the two ten-dollar bills and the note. She looked at me again. I sat back with my arms folded under my breasts and waited for her to read the note.

“What is this, a joke?”

“Yes, it’s a joke, or maybe it isn’t. Maybe that idiot thought I would respond.”

She read the note again and then read it aloud. “ ‘This is for the first ten minutes. There’s more if I can last longer’?”

I nodded.

“I don’t get it.”

It suddenly occurred to me that Roxy never knew what Chastity had done and what I had done with Chastity. I had backed myself into a corner and finally had to confess.

“It’s not your fault. It’s mine,” I said.

“Explain,” she demanded, and sat back with her arms folded, too.

I shook my head and leaned forward. “After Papa had seen you in the limousine waiting for one of his coworkers, I would hear them talk about you often. That was how I learned that you lived in this hotel and what you were doing.”

“So?”

“So I was curious about you, Roxy. I used to think I might walk into you on a New York street. I know Mama hoped for that.”

She relaxed, looking less angry. “If I wanted to get in touch with you and them, I would have.”

“I’m sure you wanted to,” I said.

She looked at me sharply. “Oh, you are, are you?”

“Yes, now that I’ve gotten to know you more, I’m sure. But you didn’t because you were . . .”

“What? Don’t tell me I was embarrassed and ashamed of myself.”

“No, I think you were just afraid.”

“Afraid? Of what?”

“Of how much you would realize you needed them, maybe not me as much but definitely them.”

For a moment, she just stared at me. “So what are you going to be, a psychiatrist?” she asked belligerently.

“Maybe. I have a good background for it now,” I fired back.