Page 124 of The Liar's Reckoning

“Like I said—I’m not the only one with the video.” His voice is cold, eyes shadowed.

“Your wife is behind this?” I ask, taking a stab at making some kind of connection with him. Two men with vindictive wives forcing us to do things we don’t want to do—surely we can work something out.

But that hope dies when he says, “My wife and I are on the same page, Senator. You reek of hypocrisy. You betrayed your wife. And what are you doing to this guy?” he gestures at his phone on the table. “Stringing him along, I’m guessing.”

Fuck this.Fuck him.

“Are you deaf? I just told you I love him.”

“Then you must really hate yourself,” he says with a finality that feels like a slap in the face.

I flush like he actually struck me. Tears burn behind my eyes, and I blink them back, refusing to cry in front of this cold-hearted bastard.

One renegade tear escapes, and I swipe at it, furious with him—with myself. “You have no idea,” I say. Hating myself is a habit. He’s right. Iama hypocrite. A liar. A pathetic excuse for a man.

It’s a small mercy, maybe a miracle, that I don’t burst into tears in the middle of a restaurant now filling with people.

“Just get through the divorce first,” Gibson says, like he can mitigate the damage he’s done. “Consider what’s most important to you. What you aren’t willing to lose. You have options. They might not all seem like good ones, but they’re available to you.”

“Like what?” I hiss. “Changing my name and leaving the state? Never speaking to my family again? Losing—” my throat closes, my eyes returning to his phone. I run a hand through my hair, take a breath, and turn to stand.

Gibson’s hand locks around my wrist over Silas’s bracelet. “Graham,” he says, almost sympathetically. “It isn’t wrong to love him.”

I stare at the place where he’s touching me. “Tell my father that. My brothers. My fucking priest.”

“I’m telling you because you’re the one who needs to hear it.”

“Let go of me,” I say, low and menacing.

He does immediately. I rise, snapping my jacket around my shoulders and reorienting myself with the exit. “If I do all these things—is that the end of it?”

He hesitates a moment too long for my liking, but then says, “Yes.” It sounds like a promise that only a man like Gibson could make.

“I can’t do it all overnight,” I say. “But tell your wife she wins. And tell Avery she can go fuck herself for letting that snake into her life.”

38

SILAS

Graham is cooking when I wake up. The smell of garlic and meat sizzling in butter lets me know he’s got steaks going. For someone who grew up with a hired cook, he knows his way around a kitchen. He says it’s all thanks to YouTube, which is believable. I now know how to play guitar thanks to some excellent tutorials.

My singing voice could use some work, but Graham loves it, and since he’s the only audience I ever play for, I’m not shy about singing either. I stretch out, relishing the ache in my limbs from being well-used this morning after I got home from work. There’s a bruise on my chest from where the harness dug into my breastbone, and my nipples are both purple with hickeys, making them look obscene and swollen around the piercings.

The shower is my first stop since I basically passed out after I came. I pay special attention to my asshole and my piercings when I wash up, my cock stiffening as I stroke two soapy fingers in and out of my hole.

You’d think a few weeks of living with someone would have me less horny, but the way he travels—I’m constantly hard up for him. It’s like I run on his cum and need to befilled to the brim to keep existing while he’s away. Luckily, he seems to operate on the same principle. Or he has a breeding kink he’s too shy to verbalize. It suits him, though. Suits me, too.

The shades are drawn in the apartment, leaving the low ambient light in the living room and the brighter lighting in the kitchen. Graham’s look of pure longing when he sees me is the strongest aphrodisiac known to man. He’s in a t-shirt and sweats. I’ve got on a tight tank and gym shorts. I wanted to tease him with the piercings because sex before dinner is always a good idea. Works up the appetite.

“Look at you,” he barely whispers.

I lean on the counter, facing him, a couple of feet from the stove where he’s standing, checking out every inch of my body. His gaze lingers on my obvious erection.

“How was your shower?”

“Lonely,” I say. “How was your lunch?”

He shakes his head and turns back to the cast-iron pan. “I’d rather talk about your dick.”

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