Page 85 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

God. Those words hit me like a punch to the stomach.

“What would have happened if you hadn’t gone through with it?” I ask, moderating my tone to sound more sympathetic. It’s obvious he’s miserable.

“You’re pissed at me,” he says, flipping the script. “You think I’m some shady fucker now, don’t you? Please believe me when I say this isn’t an everyday thing.”

“I asked you a direct question, and of course you’re shady, but only because of the sex clubs?—”

“How is that shady?”

I cover his mouth with my hand for a full second so I can say, “Answer my question. What would happen if you told her no?”

“I don’t know,” he says when I lower my hand. “I don’t tell her no.”

“Why not?”

“She’s been my best friend since we were eighteen years old—we’ve been througheverythingtogether.”

I meet this declaration with some skepticism. It seems to me like he goes through plenty without her. Like last night, for instance. And today. Unless none of this means anything to him, which doesn’t feel like the case. Meaning—he’s clearly going through something, and she might be the reason, but I’m the one he wanted to talk to about it.

“Was she not available for drinks today, then?” I ask, backing into my point.

“Okay, smart ass. I see where you’re going with this, and I don’t expect you to understand—I’m not sure anyone could. But why would I want to give her more reason to push me away?”

“You think doing her bidding is gonna win her back? Even if it hurts innocent bystanders?”

“Graham Lawther isn’tinnocent.”

“Silas is,” I say flatly, abruptly rising from the table to get a drink at the bar.

When I try to pay, the bartender waves my debit card off. “It’s covered.” He tips his chin in Gibson’s direction.

I roll my eyes. “Whatever Daddy wants,” I mutter, and the bartender chuckles.

“Can you call him?” Gibson asks as I slide back into the booth and get to work on my tequila.

“What would you like me to say to him? Hey—your sugar daddy’s about to go through some things. You might want to steer clear?”

“So, it’s not serious between them?” Gibson asks in what looks like disbelief.

“If they’re still seeing each other, it’s gotta be, doesn’t it? Silas isn’t like me.”

“What doesthatmean?”

“He wants a relationship.”

Gibson grimaces.

“And yes, I will call him. What am I allowed to say?”

“Whatever you need to say to make it okay.”

“Jesus, you’re a mess. And you’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk,” he says, “but I don’t feel great either. Jesus, you should have seen the look on his face.”

“I see the look on yours,” I say.

“And?”

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