Page 3 of The Liar's Reckoning

“Just—you know—tell me about yourself.”

I tend to be honest when clients ask. It helps establish boundaries, and with guys like Graham especially, it usually helps move the night along. He seems like the skittish type, and I can’t blame him given the wealth of information he’s already unloaded. “I’m from Queens,” I begin. “This isn’t my only income stream. I have a sick mom, and she requires around the clock care, so I pay for most of that. Her rent, my rent. Prescriptions, home health.”

“Sick how?” Graham asks.

“Congestive heart failure. Diabetes. Anyway, my aunt lives with her—they’re twins, both single. I never knew my dad—my mom and my aunt raised me.”

“What else do you do?” he asks. “For money?”

“I uh…I’m a personal trainer. And I work nights as a doorman.”

“Wow. Busy.”

“Yeah, I don’t get a lot of sleep.”

“You look good,” he lets slip.

I crack a smile. “Thanks.”

“Single? I’m assuming?”

I nod with no intention of getting intothat. Thinking about my ex still burns even though he’s been gone more than a year.

“Your profile was impressive. Stunning photographs. You’re very photogenic.”

He’s referring to the escort company’s profile page. It costs five-hundred dollars to access the escorts’ information—photos, areas of expertise—and then an in-person visit with Katia to book one of us. She calls it a consultation fee. Most of us are bona fide sex workers, but there are a few who keep things to public dates and don’t offer any other services beyond being arm candy. “Thank you.”

“I’m stalling,” he admits.

“I can help with that,” I offer.

“It’s been nice talking, though,” he says. “Obviously I’m nervous about tomorrow. And tonight…”

“Will it be a big wedding?” I ask, trying to help. He’s gotta be going through it right now if this is his first time with a man.

“Enormous. At St. Patrick’s.”

“Nice.”

“You’d think so, right? But it won’t be the first lie I’ve told a priest.”

I take another drink and catch him watching my throat. Ifollow the path of his own rough swallow. A virgin aside from one hot kiss.

I don’t do a lot of kissing with clients—and never on the mouth. My ex was the best kisser—maybe in history—and every kiss I’ve tried since has paled in comparison and totally derailed me. By derail, I mean, it makes it almost impossible to get or stay hard. “Do you need another drink?” I ask.

“I had one before you got here,” he says softly, his eyes going slightly glazed.

“Do you know what you want, or…?”

“I, uh…sort of.”

“We can keep talking if you’d rather,” I say.

Our eyes meet, causing a slight tug in my gut. There’s both a desperation and sadness about him that I never would have noticed had he not been so candid about his life. In fact, I get the sense he’sallowingme to see it.

“I booked you for six hours because I thought this might take me awhile. I factored for hesitation.”

“No problem,” I say. “There’s plenty of time.”

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