Page 59 of The Liar's Reckoning

I glance at him with his furrowed brow, one corner of his lower lip caught between his teeth. Not that I would want it, but he and I both know this can’t be anything. That doesn’t mean I never want to see him again—or dothisagain. What he lacks in experience he makes up for with his willingness to try. It’s intoxicating. Borderline addictive.

I’ve got no clue where my life is headed in the long run. He’s got a path. One that apparently involves babies and a pretty picture for political posters. I do want him, though, and I get off on being someone’s dirty secret. It’s part of what makes escort work interesting. Corrupting a senator? Shit…Iloveit. Not that I ever would, but the blackmail possibilities are endless. Something about that makes it even hotter—that he would risk it just to fuck me.

“Yeah,” I say. “I promise I’ll stop being atotaldick.”

He grins, and there’s something shy in it that’s almost too charming to look at.

I have a feeling I know what’s hanging him up, though, so I go ahead and address it. “I get you’re new to hook-ups,” I say. “I also get you’re not out there trolling gay clubs and looking for someone to take into the bathroom for a quick hand job. You’ve got a life, I’ve got a life. You just keep doing you. If you want to meet up, text me. No judgement.”

He nods carefully. “Right.”

“Hey.” I clap a hand on his arm. “Don’t look so bummed about it. Welcome to the world of casual sex. It’s fun if you don’t think about it too hard.”

“And if I do?”

I give his arm a squeeze before letting go. “Do us both a favor, Senator. Don’t.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Seriously, go make babies with your wife. Tell me to fuck off whenever you want. I won’t take it personally.” Those words feel like a lie as soon as they exit my mouth. Not the making babies part—that’s an inevitability. I probably would take him blowing me off personally, but nothing could be worse than Ben dumping me for London.

I might need to put aside some money and time for therapy if my shit with Ben keeps popping up at times like this. I have no interest in being scarred for life because I made the mistake of falling for someone who wasn’t as invested. And I won’t lie—my arms are a little tired from holding them out so stiffly to keep anyone from getting too close. This guy particularly. Keeping him away has been exhausting.

“I’m not sure how it’s gonna go with Avery. I haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Graham says.

“Well, what else are you gonna do?” I ask. “If you insist on being a fucking Republican, this is the way of your people, right?”

“Gay people can be Republicans,” he argues.

“Apparently, but I can’t really say I get it. Try not to take away any of my fundamental rights while you’re in Washington, okay?”

He scowls. “I’m not in it for that.”

“What are you in it for, then?” I’m curious.

He doesn’t have an answer ready, which surprises me. He shoves his hands in his pockets, scuffs his shoe on the floor, looks down at it, and shakes his head. “I’m good at compromises, I guess.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I might not agree with everything my party stands for, but maybe I can help moderate some things.”

I snort. “Good luck with that. Anyway, I gotta go.”

“I can try,” he says as I turn toward the door.

“If that’s really what you plan to do down there, then seriously—good luck.” I turn back at the last second and surprise him with a kiss on the cheek. “See you later.”

He manages to grab a fistful of my tight shirt and hold me in place before I can pull away. He presses his lips to my cheek in return. “Thank you,” he whispers before letting me go.

20

GRAHAM

Knowing Silas is in the building and I can’t see him has been challenging for me from day one, but tonight? It sucks.

Avery’s being sweet, and I’m doing my best to let her distract me by cooking risotto together and listening to an old grunge playlist. She’s her middle-class Midwest self tonight in a cotton pajama set and a messy bun. Her feet are covered in thick, fuzzy socks, and she’s swaying her hips while she minces clove after clove of garlic. I’m shelling shrimp in the sink, so we’ll both smell amazing later.

We’ve emptied one bottle of chardonnay—that was mostly her—and she suggests a rosé next. I wash my hands and pull another bottle from the wine cooler, standing beside her to uncork it. “How much of that do you think we need?” I ask, staring at the decimated garlic bulb.

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