Page 22 of The Liar's Reckoning

“Maybe a class?—”

“What do you do?”

Silas looks up from the weight rack, lips pursed at my interruption. “I’m a runner.”

I give him a defeated look. Nothing is more boring than running on a treadmill. “A runner, huh? Marathons?”

“When I have time. I haven’t done one in a few years though.”

“There’s no playlist in the world…”

“Or you could just run in the park like I do. Give your brain some time to breathe without listening to anything.”

“I’d feel like I was wasting time.”

“Thirty minutes? Who doesn’t have thirty minutes? Or a better question—who can’t find a spare thirty minutes to do something purely for yourself.”

When he says that, I remember the last thing I didpurely for myself,and my dick threatens to chub up again. “I take your point.”

He tacks on in a mumble. “I mean ifIcan do it…”

“When do you fit it in?” I ask.

“When I get off my shifts at Hanover.”

“After being up all night?”

“I always have a burst of energy in the morning.”

“How old are you, Silas?”

“Twenty-seven. Why?”

“A lot of energy,” I say, sitting down on the mat to attempt to touch my toes again. I still only make it to my knees. Sometimes when I arrive for these sessions a few minutes early, I’ll catch a glimpse of Silas finishing up another client’s session. He’ll be down on the mat with them, holding their hands to help stretch them out. He’s never offered that service to me, but I haven’t said anything. I figure he has his reasons.

Although… “Can I get some help here?”

Why shouldn’t he help? It’s not like we have to interlace our fingers. He just needs to tug on my wrists a little.

He looks down at me. “You’ve got it. Walk your fingers a couple inches down your shins. There you go.”

My back and ass protest wildly at the intensification of the stretch. I immediately walk it back.

“You ever hear the saying practice makes perfect, Senator?”

“I’m familiar with it,” I grumble.

“Then how do you expect to get more flexible if you don’t push your limits? For that matter, how do you expect to make it through a whole weight set without losing your breath if youdon’t give your heart and lungs what they need to support your muscle groups?”

I glare up at him. Generally, Silas is polite to me. Not much more, but not much less. He’s not even a particularly harsh trainer, but he’s no cheerleader, either. Still, I sense an undercurrent I can’t pinpoint. All I know is it makes me feel small. A little like shit. I should ask if another trainer has availability. I’m invested in the cause of getting into shape, but I don’t need to walk out of here hating myself half the time.

“Do you speak this way with all your clients? Is this tough love or something? Do I look like I need that?”

“Speak what way?”

“Like I need to be taught a lesson or something. Like you can’t wait for me to get out of your face.”

“I don’t sound like that,” he says dismissively.

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