Page 61 of The Liar's Reckoning

I blow out a breath.

She giggles. “Sorry—you’re just hot, Graham. You can forgive me for wanting a piece, right?” She gives my ass playful pinch, and I shirk away.

“Not tonight,” I tell her, hands up to hold her off.

“Why? We can put on some sexy boy porn, get you in the mood…it’ll be fun.”

“Boy porn?” I ask, turning on the stove burner and pouringsome oil into a cast iron skillet. Images of Silas flash behind my eyes. Lips wrapped around my dick. Eyes on me. Tongue on my nipple. Fingers in his ass.

The thrumming bass of Soundgarden and Chris Cornell’s aching voice make me ache too…but not for porn and a blow job from Avery. I want to sneak downstairs. I want Silas’s eyes on me. I want to text him and tell him to meet me at the Chelsea apartment in the morning. I want to buy lube and maybe not condoms and stock the drawers with things for him to use on me. Plugs, clamps, handcuffs…

I want to kiss him.

“Guy on guy is hot,” she says, rudely echoing some of my own thoughts. “I love the sounds they make.

I clear my throat. “How much porn do you watch?”

“A lady never tells.”

“You don’t think it’d be weird—what—servicing me while I’m watching gay porn?”

“I’ve done way weirder, babe. Trust me.”

Avery is a lot of things, but shy about her past isn’t one of them. I’m lucky she’s managed to keep it quiet around my parents. Very few conversations with her pass without a reference to her life as an escort. Silas on the other hand…I’m not sure I ever could have guessed had I not already known. I hope he doesn’t think I judge him for that.

“Can we eat first?” I ask.

She laughs and gives me a quick side hug. “Yes. You cook. I’ll go find something good to watch.”

Avery is persistent,and her tricks work. By the time Sunday morning rolls around, she’s taken up residence in my bed and has an appointment to get her birth control implant removed.

I’ve vacillated constantly between knowing it’s the right thing to do and wanting to scream at her to stop. It might feel good in the moment, but it doesn’t feelright. When I think about bringing kids into the mix, it’s like watching a cell door slide closed, sealing me to a fate I signed up for long ago.

A few strands of her blond hair are adhered to my stubbled jaw, and it strikes me as the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced. It’s the first time in my life I’ve woken up with someone. And not just anyone—my wife. My wife in every sense of the word. I gulp as the weight of that knowledge presses down on me.

So many emotions crowd my thoughts. Terror. Resignation. Sadness. Regret. Hope. Love, even. Or at least a very, very intense fondness for this woman who takes me as I am and accepts me.

She also trusts me. And that’s the thought that cracks my chest open along with the one thing missing when I look at her—desire.

Her tricks may work—her heart is in the right place. Her body is warm and real and willing, but nothing stirs when I look at her—nothing but a hurricane of guilt and doubt.

She deserves better, a man who would grab her by the waist right this second and haul her on top of him. Tangle his hands in her silky hair and appreciate the warmth between her thighs. Someone who can go a full minute without thinking about a rough kiss and another cock to grind against.

I decideto make my parents happy and go with them to mass this morning. Avery readily agrees and hurries to her room to shower and get ready.

I text my mother to let her know I plan to be there. Once I’m sworn in to the senate, it might not be so simpleto decide on a whim like this. My father plans to get me a full security detail, and while I told him I don’t plan on being anyone’s target, he’s convinced it’s the wisest course of action. I don’t have a lot of haters, yet, but this is the honeymoon period. One vote in the senate could change that overnight.

Another cell door clanks shut at the thought of that.

I get a warm reception at mass—a lot of hands to shake and pictures to take. My smile feels plastered on. With my cheeks aching, it’s a relief to settle onto the uncomfortable pew between my mother and my wife. Avery slides her hand into mine, and it no longer feels like my chest is cracked. More like someone’s cranking a rib-spreader wider and wider until I’m flayed open.

I came to pray—to commune with the saints, but all my recitations are muscle memory. The words barely register. I pray harder, forcing my focus onto the sentences, the pleas and the praise.

I can’t lie and say any of this has ever particularly resonated for me. I believe in God and the Holy Catholic Church and all that, but it feels more ritual than real. I’ve never felt the light of God in my heart or felt like faith would make or break me. I’m not sure how I feel about heaven, though if I had to imagine hell, it would definitely strongly resemble law school.

I guess what I’m saying is, none of this feels like it applies to me. People like me are deliberately excluded from God’s grace, and so I’ve pretended to belong my whole life without any of the benefits that go along with, you know—actually belonging.

Avery converted before we got married, and so we’ve talked about it some. She enjoys the pomp and circumstance. Communion. The swinging of the incense and the decked out altar boys. She’s also weirdly fascinated with priests. She and I have that in common. I like confession, though. It’s a neat and tidy transaction. Like a shower. Go in dirty, say a few Hail Marys, come out clean.

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