The Liar's Reckoning (Doormen of the Upper East Side #4)

1. Silas

1

SILAS

Three Years Ago

T his isn’t my first time at the Plaza hotel, and I doubt it will be my last. It’s cliché as a choice for a meeting like this, and always fails to capture a mood, but it’s a favorite of rich tourists, and the staff here don’t ask questions.

Upon seeing and recognizing me, the aging concierge hands over the passkey to the elevator. My boss, agent, pimp—whatever you want to call her—arranges all of this in advance. I nod my thanks and make my way to the small bank of ancient elevators. Checking my phone to confirm the room number, I press the button for the tenth floor. As the ride commences, I run a hand over my clean-shaven jaw, check the knot on my silk tie, and tug at my sleeves to let the cufflinks show.

One couple remains on the elevator when the doors open on ten. I step out into the carpeted hallway, and the smell of the place hits me. It’s not bad, just—old. The Plaza is an homage to its own origins. If there have been updates, they’re specifically designed to look un-updated. It reminds me of The Shining . Old fashioned carpet, scroll furniture, gilt-framed art, and the color scheme—primarily beige and white—does nothing but depress me. And, if I’m honest, creeps me out.

When I get to 1008, I knock lightly on the door, though the Do Not Disturb sign is already out. In the moments where I wait for it to open, all the usual nerves flare. Will he be old? Will he be gross? Will he be kind or cruel? Will he tip well for services not already agreed upon?

He’s already paid two grand for six-hours with me, but à la carte services are billed on the back end.

The knob turns, and I release my held breath, forcing a pleasant expression onto my face and allowing my shoulders to relax before I lay eyes on him.

Whatever I was expecting, he’s a surprise. I’d guess he’s not much older than me. He’s white and classically handsome with good bone structure and a sharp, clean-shaven jawline. He’s my height, my build—if slightly softer—and he’s got nice eyes. Bright green, sparkling eyes that make it hard to believe he’s unkind.

His small grin is fraught with nerves, his hello more a breath than a word. The brief I got from Katia indicated that his experience with men is limited—her impression was very limited. I zone in on a small mole on his right cheekbone, a beauty mark, and it’s then I realize he’s also familiar. Not that I think I’ve met him, but maybe I’ve seen him around.

“Silas,” I say, holding out a hand for him to shake.

“Graham,” he says.

He slides his palm into mine and shakes my hand.

“You’re better looking in real life,” he says, also breathlessly.

“Thank you.”

“Your bone structure…” He shuts himself up, shakes his head, and steps out of the way. “Please come in. Thank you for being on time.”

I step into the King suite, the ugly carpet soft beneath my Italian leather soles. Katia has provided me with an entire wardrobe curated to meet any request. Tonight, the request was business formal. As one of her top five escorts, Katia takes care that I represent her and her business well. As one of only three gay male escorts, she spoils me.

“Is Silas your real name?” he asks, shutting the door.

“Is Graham yours?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, Silas is my real name.”

“I like it,” he blurts. “And mine’s Graham. For real.”

His last name isn’t my business, so I don’t press.

Looking around the room, I notice the table by the window is set with a bottle of wine, a bottle of water, and two covered dishes.

I’ve learned over the two plus years I’ve been doing this job to go with the flow. If a client wants a date, I’ll provide conversation and light flirting.

If they want a lap dance, I have one that never fails. If they want to dance, I’m able to lead or follow, and I know all the classic ballroom steps. I also know the club moves if it’s that kind of night, which I doubt this is given the cufflinks.

This looks like a date.

“I don’t know whether you drink when you’re working or…” He trails off.

“I’ll have a glass of wine,” I tell him. Just one. There’s a fee to get me drunk, which I’ll have to be forthcoming about if that’s what he wants.

Drugs are strictly out of the question. That’s my own line. The last thing I can afford is an expensive habit that has me losing focus. While this is a good paying job, I only do it once—maybe twice a week at most. My other two jobs take up the majority of my time, and I prefer the honest work to this. This is strictly for the paycheck. I need all the money I can get, and in this town, there’s never enough .

Graham crosses the room to the table and pours two glasses of wine, handing one to me and keeping the other for himself. He gestures for me to sit, going so far as to pull out my chair. It’s a nice touch.

He takes the seat opposite, swallows a large gulp of wine, and lets out a long breath. “I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“Congratulations.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not a real marriage. Do you know Avery Keene?”

“No,” I tell him.

“She used to work for the agency. I hired her about a year and half ago to go to a big charity event my family was throwing. She was a huge hit, and we got along, so I hired her to come to dinner with the family a few weeks later. Paid her to spend the night, in the guest room, of course, because my parents are really strict—and we ended up talking. Anyway, when I decided to run for office not too long after that, she was game to keep faking it for free when I told her I’d be willing to marry her to keep up appearances.”

I’m listening to this with the straightest face I can manage, but the story is borderline insane. Meanwhile, I’ve figured out who he is. He’s running for senate. Not the state senate, but the actual senate in DC. He’s a Republican, and his chances of winning in New York seem minimal, but I don’t really follow politics. I know nothing about who he’s running against, though, so I guess anything’s possible.

“I’m not straight,” he adds. “Never have been—never will be, which she knows. I just can’t be out. Ever. Does this sound crazy?”

I give him a slight nod.

“My family is Catholic. They own a media company—Catholic news, radio stations, literally all over the world. I actually can’t be gay.”

“What do you do with the fact that you are?” I ask .

“Nothing, really. Not before…” he makes a vague gesture indicating me, his cheeks darkening.

My eyes narrow. “Never? No kissing? No hook-ups? Not even in high school?”

“Definitely not in high school. There was one kiss that got pretty heated in law school, but it was interrupted, and it never happened again.”

“Have you been with women?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

I admit, this is fascinating. “How old are you?”

His flush deepens. “Thirty-three.”

“And you’re…”

“A virgin? Yes.”

I do my best to hide my shock. I’ve never come across anyone like him before. Not at his age. Or, frankly, with his looks. Sheltered is the word that immediately comes to mind. “Sorry,” I say. “None of my business.”

“It’s okay,” he rambles on. “If I can’t tell you, who can I tell?”

“I’m guessing no one?”

“My fiancée knows.”

I can’t help it. He’s got me curious. “Does she know where you are tonight?”

“No. I just mean she knows I’m not straight.”

I fight a frown as I take a sip of wine.

“What about you?” he asks.

“What about me?”

“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 into that . 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. I follow 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’s allowing me 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.”

“There’s also the part of me screaming that I’ve been waiting for this since law school and is extremely impatient.”

I grin. “Waiting for what? Exactly?”

He holds my gaze. “To touch a beautiful, naked man.”