Page 64 of The Liar's Reckoning

He sounds like the kind of guy who should be exactly my type, but I tend to punch above my weight class. While I should probably be seeing cops or nurses or teamsters, I tend to go for architects, lawyers, and, apparently, senators. White collars are hot, what can I say?

My phone buzzes as my mom is encouraging me to agree to let her give the amazing Jason my number, and I check it to find a message from Katia. It’s simple like all texts from her are. A date, time frame, and location along with a question mark. If it were someone I’d met before, she’d also give me initials, but as there are none, it means whoever wants to hire me is a stranger.

I check my calendar, but I already know I’m likely free. Katia has my other work schedules. With a sigh, I thumbs up the message. It’s two grand worth of my time, and it’s not like I can say no to that. Rent here and in New York is due in two weeks, and Christmas is coming. It makes me uneasy not to know who it is, though, so I send a text asking for more information. She’ll give me a photo and a brief bio, but it might not come until later today.

Knowing that much will help me mentally prepare myself. Some of these guys take some serious mental prep. One thing I won’t know—the thing they don’t have to tell Katia is what they want from me. I have to figure all that out on my own in real time. There are rules, boundaries, hard limits they have to agree to, and Katia’s sphere of influence is large. In short, there’s not much danger of my being hurt unless the dude is a true psychopath and doesn’t give a fuck about the type of consequences Katia can rain down.

It’s one of my recurring nightmares, though. A Ted Bundy-type scenario. There aren’t many circumstances more vulnerable than letting a man own you for a space of time. My subconsciousdeals with the fear of the slim chance I’ll fall into the wrong hands one of these days. It’s a constant buzz of stress that surges every time my phone notifies me of a message.

It’s worth it, though. My mom looks good. She and Trixie are happy—content with a working furnace and full stomachs, free of financial burdens so they can take care of themselves and stay together for as long as my mom’s heart agrees to cooperate with the drugs and treatments. For as long as Trixie’s eyesight holds out. So I’ll keep the house standing, the meds coming, the Jasons visiting—whatever needs to happen to give the two of them nothing better to do than set me up with “such a nice boy.”

I leave Queens after a long lunch and take the subway back to my apartment. Jericho is in the kitchen when I arrive.

“Hey,” I say to her as she startles, a glass of water halfway to her mouth.

“Hi,” she breathes, tugging at the hem of her t-shirt, which is barely covering her silk panties. “You scared me.”

Drew, probably having heard us, emerges from one of the bedrooms in black boxer briefs, every one of his upper body tattoos on vivid display. His hair’s a wreck. “How’s it going?” he asks me.

“Good. Anyone else around?”

Drew grins. “Wouldn’t know.”

The other bedroom door is closed, so I assume someone else is here, and I have a decision to make. If Drew and Jericho want to go another round, which they should, I’ll likely be on the couch to hear it unless they have some other place they can go. Our living arrangements aren’t exactly conducive to my having a night off with no plans. I have a fleeting—obviously desperate—thought to text Ben and see what he’s up to, but I squash that fast. It’s depressing how fast those old reflexes come back.

Neither of us have contacted each other since I snuck out of his place last Tuesday morning so why ishewhere my mindwent? I don’t want to examine that. I have a feeling the answer would send me into a spiral.

“You two staying in?” I ask, getting to the point.

Drew reads my situation and gives a single nod. “Nah,” he says. “We’re getting out of here for a while.”

Jericho looks surprised but skirts her way around the kitchen peninsula and back into the bedroom, mumbling something about how she needs to get dressed real quick.

Drew gives me a sheepish smile. “Vitamin D has been delivered.”

“Good. It makes you less of an asshole, you know?”

“Yeah. I guess. The stress is just…” He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “Anyway. I haven’t seen you much. How’d things go with Ben?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it.”

He gives me a look that’s somewhere between disappointment and resignation. “I’m not gonna judge you.”

Shrugging, I drop my backpack near the door and plop down on the couch to hunt for the remote. “You don’t have to. I’m judging myself plenty.”

Chris comes home while Drew and Jericho are getting dressed. I’m relieved to see him. There’s nothing on TV I’m interested in, and if he’s free tonight, maybe it won’t be a complete waste.

If there’s anyone I might be willing to talk about Ben with, it’s Christian. Drew is supportive and validating, but Chris is someone who listens and thinks things through. The more time that’s passed—and especially today while it’s been such a topic—the more I think I need to talk it out. “You busy tonight?” I ask him while he unpacks the groceries he brought in with him.

“I’m free,” he says. “Wanna do something?”

Drew clears out with Jericho, and Chris and I go to a bar down the block. Once we’ve got a table secured and our drinks, Iask him how things are going for him. It’s the right thing to do since I’m about to hurl him a load of my own bullshit.

Chris’s life is almost painfully small and contained. I can never tell whether he’s depressed or just prefers to keep things simple. He works, he writes, he sleeps. He goes wherever he’s invited, and he screws around some, but there’s never any drama. There’s never any ongoing issue or struggle he’s dealing with—at least, not one he’ll cop to.

He tells me about a woman he spent a few nights with but goes on to explain why he’s not interested in seeing her again. Party girl. Always on her phone. Too loud. Asked too many questions.

“What’s wrong with questions?” I ask.

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