Read Online Second You Sin by Scott Sherman - Free Book Online

Mrs. Fishmeyer said. “I didn’t get that.”
    “A homosexual!” Mrs. Goldmeister shouted.
    Mrs. Fishmeyer stil looked puzzled.
    “Like those boys on that show you watch, Project Runaway or some such,” Mrs. Dreckeri helpful y offered.
    “Oh, he’s a faygela! ” Mrs. Fishmeyer exclaimed.
    Mrs. Epstein gave me a sympathetic smile. “Wel , why didn’t you just say so, dear?”
    “Sorry,” I told her, refil ing their supplies of sandwiches and bagged carrots.
    “He tel s us every week,” Mrs. Goldmeister chided Mrs. Epstein.
    “Tel s us what?” Mrs. Epstein asked.
    “I think,” Mrs. Fishmeyer said excitedly, “he tel s us he’s on that show. Project Runaround. ”
    “A star!” Mrs. Epstein beamed. “Girls, we’re making lunch with a star!”
    “Oy,” said Mrs. Goldmeister.
    The women had this conversation, or one very much like it, every week. I thought they were adorable.

    I finished up with the ladies and helped the guys on the delivery crew load the large trays of bagged lunches into the delivery van. Then, I took a cab to the Upper West Side, where my client, Chase Landerpool, lived.
    I hadn’t bothered to change for our appointment, as it didn’t matter what I was wearing. With Chase, I wouldn’t be in it for long.
    Chase lived in an exclusive co-op two blocks away from the brownstone in which he grew up. The Landerpool family was an institution in New York, renowned for their vast wealth and generous philanthropy. The city’s third-largest cancer-specialty hospital was named after a Landerpool, as was a private school, a permanent exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art, and, I’ve read, a particularly pink and rare flower known as the Landerpool Lily.
    The only thing that bears the honorific of anyone in my family is my mother’s beauty parlor. And she had to buy that herself.
    At the rate I’m going, the only thing I can imagine being named in my honor would be a venereal disease.
    Not much of a legacy.
    As you might expect, Chase grew up with every imaginable opportunity and indulgence. Top-notch schools, travel to the world’s greatest cities, the coolest toys, and the most fashionable clothing—
    Chase had it al . Stil does.
    Chase also has a predilection for an unusual kind of sex. The kind of act that you’re not likely to find on the “likes” list of even the most progressive dating agency.

    In fact, Chase’s kink is so particular, so unusual, and so, wel , dirty, that, despite his youth (he’s twenty-eight, according to the society pages of the New York Times ), aristocratic good looks, and vast fortune, he stil has to hire a sex worker to get his needs met.
    Which, at one thousand five hundred dol ars a pop, works out pretty wel for me.
    Chase’s doorman let me into the building and walked me to the elevator that only went to Chase’s floor. He used his key to open the door, and then pressed the button to take me to the penthouse. The doorman, with whom Chase had arranged it al beforehand, did al of this efficiently and wordlessly.
    I’m sure he was wel tipped for his discretion.
    The elevator opened into a foyer that led to Chase’s living room. The apartment was a study in modernism and good taste. Floor-to-ceiling windows along one wal gave a magnificent view of Central Park. I took a moment to admire the Andy Warhol silkscreen that hung over a white Eames chair before proceeding to the large bedroom at the end of the hal .
    As always, the room had been emptied of its furniture before my arrival. Rubber mats covered the floor. The blinds were drawn. Two rol ing carts—one by the door, one by the window—held the supplies Chase needed to get off.
    The outfit Chase wanted me to wear hung from a hook attached to the back of the door. I stripped naked and pul ed on the supplied tight pants, baggy shirt, and shoes.
    I opened the closet. Inside, Chase had tucked a smal vanity. I sat on the tiny stool and applied the makeup as Chase had taught me. First the foundation,