45. Silas
45
SILAS
H olden Fucking Lawther is the newest resident of The Eastmoor. He’s basically what Graham would look like if Graham were fifty pounds heavier and two inches taller. He’s even got a mole on his cheek—it’s the other cheek and it’s lower than Graham’s, but the tug I feel in my gut meeting him the first time is excruciating.
He’s got a hearty handshake and a broad smile for a rich Wall Street guy. Even his wife reminds me of Avery. Thin, blonde, pretty—a trophy with a chatty streak. Unlike Avery, she looks like she belongs here and always has. I have to assume she also comes from money. Her name is Blake, so…it stands to reason.
She’s pregnant, too. It’s a lot for me to take in during the first hour of my Saturday shift.
“Do we need to give you a guest list for a housewarming party?” Blake asks.
I start to speak, but a croak comes out. Clearing my throat, I try again. “It would be helpful, yes.”
“We’ll write one up, and I’ll bring it back down in a bit,” she says.
I nod, pressing the elevator button for them. Holden is studying me like he’s trying to memorize me for a test. When I make the mistake of meeting his gaze, his eyes narrow. “How long have you been at The Eastmoor?” he asks.
Take a guess, asshole.
“Almost a year now.”
“Nice.”
“I’m only part-time,” I add.
“What are those hours like?”
“Honey…” Blake looks up at him, a mix of curiosity and embarrassment on her face.
“Just two days a week. Twelve hour shifts. Seven to seven.”
“You make a living on that?”
“Oh my God. I apologize for my husband?—”
“Among other things,” I tell the nosy fucker.
He smirks. “A hustler. I get it.”
The elevator opens. “I’ll have the list to you soon,” Blake says, trying to recover some dignity from the not-so-small talk.
“Perfect. Pleasure to meet you both. Welcome to the Eastmoor.”
Once they’re gone, the overwhelming urge to punch a wall surges up my chest, and my fists tremble with it. The rage finally shudders out of me leaving me lightheaded and needing to sit. The lobby traffic is light this early on a weekend, and I’m grateful.
I don’t like thinking about Graham or our time together. I especially despise thinking about the things I learned once we broke up. I went down a Senator Lawther rabbit hole, finding everything there was to find about him online. Every news clip, every mention.
While he never did use the words “thoughts and prayers,” and he never spoke out against the LGBTQ+ community, he certainly towed the party line. I had no idea how many interviews he’d done—how often he was on television. No clue about his ability to turn a direct question on its head, making everything about party politics in an effort to vilify the left.
Christian might not have had all the facts when he called him anti-trans and anti-immigrant that one day years ago when he found out I was seeing him, but he wasn’t far off. Graham only has a way of framing things to make himself sound like he’s fighting for something, not against it. He’s for tougher immigration policies. He’s pro heteronormative families. Pro-life. Obviously.
It’s not like I’d expected him to be some congressional maverick, but there was so much he never told me. A whole side of him I never saw. Or he lied to keep me from seeing it.
I’d been sick when the truth settled in.
It was the icing on the shit cake after he released his statement about the video, denying everything.
I nearly ball up the guest list Blake Lawther gives me when I see his name at the top with the notation —early written next to it.
Perfect.
I wonder if his brother who obviously recognized me will warn him.
I wonder if Graham will stay the fuck away or at least wait until my shift is over. I have all day to wait and wonder and pick apart the emotions coursing through me—the ones that want to be anywhere else, and the ones that are desperate for a glimpse of his face. A look into his eyes.
I have to keep it together. He can’t know how much I hate him. How much he hurts. How much damage he did. But I want him to. I want him to see me like this. Angry and alive and fucking fine without his stupid, useless lies.
He destroyed everything good I ever felt for him with one post, breaking my trust as easily as he broke my heart.
The day doesn’t drag in the way part of me wishes it would. As much as I need the hours to tick by fast to stop the guessing game of will he show or won’t he, it’s far too soon when his all-too familiar figure approaches the door I’m paid to open.
He’s not surprised to see me, but he does catch his breath when I meet his gaze.
When he fails to form a word, I nod my head. “Senator.”
His lips part, but still, nothing comes out, and he doesn’t come inside. He’s frozen. He’s got a lot of fucking nerve to act like this means something to him. Good or bad.
“Silas,” he says in a hoarse whisper.
I shake my head. “You don’t know me. Either come inside or be on your way.”
“I—Holden?—”
“I know,” I say through a tense jaw.
“I’m sorry.”
Fuck your apologies.
I gesture to the lobby, giving him even more room to come in if he’s got the balls.
He does. The second he’s inside, I march to the elevator and press the button. “Tenth floor,” I say, heading back to my post.
The chime of the doors opening comes blessedly soon, but as they snick shut, I swear I still feel him. I look up, and he’s standing behind me, staring.
“What? Tenth floor. Did you not hear me the first time?” I’m trying so hard not to be rude. I’m at work, and I need this job—if not for the money, for the benefits.
“I knew you worked here.”
“I gathered that. And yet, here you are.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.”
I stiffen and turn my back on him. How could he know about her? “Please stop talking.”
“I just needed to say that.”
My patience snaps. “Get the fuck away from me.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers again.
I don’t move a muscle until the elevator shuts again, and I’m finally alone. At which point, I go into the staff restroom behind the elevator bank and slam my fist repeatedly into the metal stall door, leaving a dent the size of my head.
“I have something fun we could do this weekend,” Lilah says when I arrive Thursday night for a visit with Gil. This appointment was last minute, which usually means he’s had a bad day, which usually means he’ll fuck me, and I’m more than on board with that. He’s a beast when he tops, and I need it. I need it so bad, I keep looking at the hallway to his room as Lilah’s trying to talk to me.
“There’s a protest I want you to come with me to.”
“A what?”
“A protest. You know that asshole judge they’re trying to appoint in New York? He’ll be at this gross charity event, so the community is organizing to be there and let him know in no uncertain terms New York doesn’t want him.”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“Well, you will when he gets appointed and starts stripping our rights one by one.”
“I don’t want to go any protests, Lilah. Not my scene. Also, I’m going to Florida this weekend.”
“Ugh. Seriously? This is something we could do together. You could meet some new people—it might not be your scene but it’s a fun scene, and it wouldn’t hurt you to take politics more seriously.”
I laugh at that. She’s not wrong. It could have saved me a lot of trouble—knowing who the bad guys were. “My aunt is expecting me.”
“You’ll be back in time the for the Hamptons, right? ”
The trip to the Hamptons has been on my schedule for a month.
“Yes. Trixie’s got her eyes on a new Tempurpedic, so I’ll be there.”
Lilah’s bright eyes sparkle. “It’s gonna be so fun to have a date for all the parties.”
“You deserve a real date,” I tell her.
“Oh, well…there may be a certain someone who I might have to sneak away with a few times.”
She’s got my attention. “Yeah?”
“Childhood BFF. She’s at Yale, so, I never get to see her.”
“Romantic.”
She waves her hands frantically. “I can’t talk about it. I get too emosh. Okay—so no protest, but Hamptons is a go.”
“Right.”
“I’ll take it. Go on—my brother’s waiting for you.”
I nod and head into Gil’s room.
He fucks my brains out, and I couldn’t be more grateful for this job. I come harder than I have in months.
Afterward, blissed and boneless, I slip into sleep on accident. I wake up to Gil kicking at my ankle. “You gotta go,” he rumbles.
“Give me a fucking break, man,” I groan.
“If you wanna blow me, I’ll let you stay a little longer.”
“You can go again?”
“What am I, eighty? You’ve been asleep an hour. Of c-c-course I can go again.”
“On one condition,” I say as I reposition myself in the bed.
He whips his big cock out and gives it a few rough strokes. It firms up fast.
“Are you gonna come out with us in the Hamptons?” I ask.
“Nope. No way.”
I replace his hand with mine and move between his parting thighs. “Why not?”
“P-p-place gives m-me panic att-attacks. ”
“Won’t having me there help, though?”
He scowls as he looks down at me. “Maybe.”
“Just think about it.”
“St-stop trying to fix me and do your job, Silas.”
I smile up at him and wrap my lips around his thick length. He closes his eyes, and his head drops back, disappearing from my view.