Page 9 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“You, too, darling. Have a lovely evening.”

“I’ll see myself out,” I tell them as I’m leaving the office and winding my way back through the penthouse. It’s hard to reconcile the people who live in a place this light and bright with the dark debauchery that goes on a floor above, or Marianne’s daily guest lists.

It’s none of my business.

I take the elevator down to the basement, ready to explore an idea inspired by the idea of seeing another country—ready to dwell once more on Trinity.

My mother has goneto great lengths to teach me that the person you love in high school is rarely the person you’re meant to be with. Now that she’s married to my stepfather, she walks the walk. She and my dad were never married. They had me when they were seventeen. My father then promptly abandoned my mother for the Marines. He promised he’d return and marry her, but when he came back, he was married to a woman I don’t even remember because it didn’t last more than a year.

I was very much my mother’s son, which made it hard for me to have a relationship with my dad, but I fell in love in high school, too, much to her dismay. I fell in love with Trinity Meyers. In all the ways that count, I’m still in love with her, even though she’s been gone more than a decade.

I lost her to God first, and then to an accidental overdose. My poetry is my unending letter of atonement.

She died because of me.

Well—meandGod, but railing against a being I barely believe in only puts more rage and frustration in my heart. It’s easier to blame myself.

My search for God’s love is ongoing. The opportunity to confront Him in Rome, should I find something that brings mecloser to understanding Him and the hold He had on Trinity is too tempting to pass up.

All I know is Trinity was fine when I met her. Happy. A volleyball player and a friend to so many. At the end, I was the only one she spoke to, and every word was laden with misery and guilt I had no chance of absolving. Trying to understand what happened to her takes up more of my time than I’d ever admit.

I stay up late into the night writing. When I finally lie down to sleep, I’m wound up—alone and deep in my thoughts.

My dick is soft, but I touch it anyway after tossing and turning for several minutes. It almost always takes more than my hand to get me hard, though, my hand which has betrayed me—hurt someone—damaged her beyond repair.

My fleshlight is more efficient. It’s on the bedside table next to the lube. In an effort to get hard enough to use it, I pull up a saved video on my phone of a bearded man deep-throating a cock. Both dudes make the filthiest sounds imaginable. The clip is only about a minute and a half long, and there’s no cum shot, per se, but there’s definitely cum. After three views, my dick finally stirs to life, and I slide the fleshlight on, adjusting the suction, and turning to my side. I let it do its thing for a few minutes before I’m groaning and moving with it.

Flashing through my mind are images of my most recent hookups. A highlight reel. My cock sliding through Betty’s big, fake tits as she pressed them together and held her tongue out to lick the tip. The anonymous hook-up I had at a club a few weeks back where a woman covered in piercings and tattoos let me bend her over a toilet in a bathroom stall and fuck her from behind. Her crotchless fishnets had me pounding her mercilessly while she made no effort to hide exactly how much she liked it by shouting yesses andharderandgive me more of that dick.

The bartender at last week’s trivia night who blew me in the storage room when he was on his fifteen minute break. I’d turned him down before, afraid my lack of experience with men wouldhave me blowing in two seconds, but I finally gave in to my curiosity.

It’s the memory of my balls popping out of his plush mouth that gets me over the finish line and has me pulsing a huge load into the tight toy.

I fall asleep at last, looking forward to the next trivia night.

4

GIBSON

“Have you thought more about it?” Marianne asks as she spears a cube of cantaloupe with a fork and lets it hover before her lips, waiting for a response from me.

I’ve thought of nothing else since we spoke yesterday evening. “It’s too risky.”

She chews her fruit and examines me like she’s trying to find the cracks. There are plenty, so it’s a ruse—her acting like she doesn’t know their exact locations. “Avery’s devastated.”

“Does she have proof?”

“An apartment she never knew about in a neighborhood she’s never been? Proof enough, I’d think.”

“It’s suspicious, granted, grounds for further investigation, probably, but why do you need to be involved?”

“She’s one of my dearest friends.”

I can’t remember the last time love or friendship motivated Marianne to do anything. I give her a look that indicates this.

She responds with a dismissive glare. This morning, she’s got her hair piled in a messy bun atop her head. She’s wearing nothing but a white silk robe, a generous glimpse of cleavageavailable for me to drink in as I see fit. It’s difficult to focus on much else, but her proposal is dangerous.

Taking on a U.S. senator is bold even for her. Despite all her family political connections, she’s never shown more than a passing interest in politics—or politicians. Now that I outmaneuvered Ben Levin and am out of assistants for her to toy with, she must need something juicer to sink her teeth into.

---