The King: The Original Sinners Book 6 (15 page)

“You almost ended up with a black eye,” Søren said. “Pay more attention.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Kingsley looked down at the ball in his hand.

“I thought you’d want some retribution for the day I scored on you in school.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Kingsley said.

“You can’t have sex for two weeks. That has to give you at least a spare ten minutes a day,” Søren said.

“Ten minutes? Ten? You know I can last longer than ten minutes.”

“Do I? I seem to recall having to punish you a few times—”

“I was sixteen. And I’m leaving. Sam needs me to help her with the files.”

Kingsley turned around, intending to head back to the street.

“Coward,” Søren said.

“What did you call me?” Kingsley turned back around.

“You heard me. Are you intimidated because I’m taller than you are? Or is it because I’ve been living in Italy where the best football players in the world live?”

“France. The best football players in the world are in France.”

“I heard Denmark had a better team this year.” Søren dropped the ball and juggled it with a few deft kicks on his foot.

“My high school team could have beat Denmark this year.”

Søren kicked the ball three feet in the air. Kingsley caught it.

“You’re trying to get me to play with you. It won’t work,” he said.

“Why not? Scared I’ll beat you?”

“You forget, I like it when you beat me. But you’re very arrogant and proud of yourself,” Kingsley said. “And I’m fully capable of destroying you right now, and I’m not sure you’ll ever recover from the blow to your massive blond ego.”

“We seem to have acquired an audience,” Søren said, glancing around. Kingsley noticed at least a dozen young women in shorts and barely-there T-shirts had gathered round, trying to look inconspicuous and failing miserably.

“He’s a Catholic priest,” Kingsley yelled at them. The girls booed.

“He’s not.” Søren called out to them.

The girls cheered.

“I can’t have sex for two weeks,” Kingsley reminded him.

“You know you can spend time with someone you’re attracted to without having sex with them.”

“You really have lost your mind.”

“Try it. I dare you.”

“Drop the fucking ball,” Kingsley said.

“That’s our goal.” Søren pointed at two trees that stood three feet apart forty meters away.

“That might be your goal,” Kingsley said. “But
my
goal is to do something I’ve wanted to do all my life.”

“And that is?” Søren dropped the ball between them. Before Søren moved an inch, Kingsley turned and, with all his strength and the muscle memory formed from playing thousands of hours of soccer as a teenager, kicked the ball in a high perfect arc toward the two trees. The ball passed down the middle of them with the precision of a whip tip through the center of a business card.

Goal.

He turned to Søren and smiled.

“Beat the shit out of you.”

17

NOT THAT ANYONE
had ever asked, but if they had, Kingsley would have told them he bought the town house because he fell in love with the bathtub. Grand in size, porcelain with gold accents and claw-foot, it was a bathtub built for a king. He could live in it. If he kept playing football with Søren he would have to live in it. He needed the heat and the water to loosen up his chest where the scar tissue was healing too tightly. He arched his back to the point of pain and let the water seep into his scars. He tried to take a deep breath, but the scar restricted his movements.

Yet for all the agony, it couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He’d done it. He’d scored on Søren ten times to his six today. Not quite the rout he was hoping for, but defeating Søren, even in a game of Central Park soccer, was exactly what the doctor ordered. Unfortunately, the exertion had resulted in tonight’s renewed aches and pains. But it was worth it. For the bragging rights alone, it was worth it.

While soaking his sore muscles, he put on his glasses, picked up a book he’d bought yesterday and opened to page one. A few minutes later he heard a knock on the bathroom door.

“Come in,” Kingsley said.

Sam opened the door with a hand over her eyes.

“Number one or number two?” she asked from the doorway.

“Number...I don’t know. I’m taking a bath.”

“Bubble bath?”

“I’m not a girl,” Kingsley said.

“Okay, I’m keeping my eyes covered, then,” she said. “Which is not going to work, because I have messages to read to you.”

“Turn your back and read them to me,” Kingsley said. “Or look. I don’t care.”

Sam peeked over the top of her hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded. “You’re wearing glasses.”

“I’m farsighted. I can hit a target at five hundred yards, but words six inches in front of my face are blurry.”

“You’re reading in the bathtub. Are you sure you’re not a girl?”

Kingsley glanced down into the water.

“Fairly sure,” he said.

“What are you reading?”

Kingsley closed the book and showed Sam the cover.

Designed to Serve: A Guide to Becoming The Wife God Wants You To Be
by Lucy Fuller.

“You’re reading a Christian marriage guide?” Sam asked, wide-eyed with horror. Real horror, not amused horror. “Why?”

“I want to save my marriage,” Kingsley said, turning a page.

“You’re not married.”

“Someday my prince will come.” He turned a page. “Preferably on my back.”

“Do you really think you’re going to find any dirt on the Fullers in a Christian marriage guide? I mean, in our world being vanilla is a sin, but not to them.”

“I want to know more about Fuller’s family life. Lucy Fuller has written five of these fucking Christian self-help books. Christian dating, Christian marriage, Christian sex, Christian parenthood, Christian cooking. Do fundamentalist Christians eat different food than we heathens do?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get the book on Christian sex.”

“It didn’t have any pictures,” he said. “She’s cute, no?”

He flipped the book over to show Sam the author photo on the back. Lucy Fuller was ten years younger then her reverend husband. She was thirty-five years old, had fake blond hair, a bright smile, gleaming teeth and dead eyes, which was exactly how he expected a televangelist’s wife to look.

“She’s a helluva lot better-looking than her husband.”

“You are a harsh critic,” Kingsley said,
tsk-tsk
ing at her. “You should read this. It’s full of good advice. She says if I want to make my husband happy, I have to dress modestly.”

“You were wearing a very modest corset and heels the night we met.”

“Chapter three tells me I have to be attuned to my husband’s needs and anticipate them before he has to ask. Do you think she’s talking about blow jobs? I hope she’s talking about blow jobs.”

“I doubt James Fuller has ever gotten a blow job in his life.”

“Chapter Seven,” Kingsley said, flipping through the book. “The importance of waiting until marriage for sex. You’re right. This book is bullshit.” He closed the book and tossed it on the floor.

“Total bullshit,” Sam said.

Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her.

“You know this church well, don’t you?” Kingsley asked.

“We have history,” she said. “Nothing exciting. Just unpleasant.”

“Tell me,” he said, looking at her expectantly. “Please?”

Sam crossed her arms over her chest and looked away into the corner of the room.

“I grew up in a fundamentalist church. My parents called me their ‘tomboy.’ That’s the way fundies make lesbians disappear. ‘Just a tomboy...she’ll grow out of it.’ Mom made it her personal mission to make a lady out of me. Makeup. Pretty long hair. Dresses. Girl stuff. Her lessons didn’t take. It was humiliating,” she said, and he heard the anguish in her voice. “I don’t like talking about it. Sorry.”

“I understand. There are things I don’t like to talk about, either. But sometimes I have to.”

“I know,” Sam said, and she gave him a forced smile. “I told you they run reorienting camps. My parents sent me to one of those camps.”

“I see,” Kingsley said, fighting a wave of rage that someone had done that to his Sam. “I assume it didn’t take?”

“No. It didn’t take. And it was the worst month of my life. And I’ve had some bad months.”

“Did you hear anything about the Fullers that we can use?”

“Not that I know of. Some of the kids there hated him. Some didn’t know him from Adam. Some thought he was their personal Jesus. I wish I knew more. I want to see that church go down in flames as much as you do.”

“I’ll find something on him. There’s always something. Towel?”

Sam grabbed a towel and tossed it to him.

“Turn around,” he said. “I’m getting out.”

“Oh, now you’re getting modest?” Sam asked, glaring at him.

“Chapter two,” Kingsley said. “Only my husband is allowed to see me naked.”

“Fine. I’m not looking at you,” she said. “I’m looking at my clipboard.”

“Why aren’t you looking at me?”

“You’re a dude and you’re my boss. I don’t want to see you naked.”

“I’m very pretty,” he said as he pulled himself out of the water and wrapped the towel around his waist.

“Will it make you happy if I check you out?”

“I wouldn’t recommend it actually.” Kingsley took off his glasses and set them aside. “Since you’re a worrier.”

But it was too late. Sam had looked.

“Oh, shit.”

Kingsley sighed.

“I was afraid of that,” he said. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Sam dropped her clipboard on the floor and walked over to him.

“I’m looking,” she said, and whistled to herself. “God damn, that must have hurt. What did that?”

“Bullet plus the surgery to dig it out.”

“Can I touch it?”

“I’m wet and wearing a towel, and you want to touch me?”

“Yup.”

“Look, Little Lord Fauntleroy, the reason I hired you to be my assistant was so that we could have some...” He paused and searched for the right word. “
Distance
between us.”

“I’m not giving you a blow job. I’m touching your scars.”

“Blaise gives me blow jobs. She doesn’t touch my scars.”

Sam looked into his eyes. Kingsley was acutely aware of the closeness of her body. Without his clothes on, he could feel the heat emanating from her. She’d shed her jacket and vest after he’d ordered her to “tone it down.” Suspenders held up her pin-striped trousers, and her white shirt was unbuttoned to the center of her chest. She might be dressed in men’s clothing, but he couldn’t deny how alluring and feminine he found her. At the V in her shirt he could see the slightest curve of her small but pert breasts. The last thing he needed was to get an erection and scare away the best assistant he’d found yet.

“Fine. I don’t believe in touching someone who doesn’t want to be touched.” She raised both hands in surrender. “I am, as you see, turning my back on you.”

She put one foot over the other and spun neatly around. “Now would you like to hear messages?”

“Not particularly. Do you think I should seduce Lucy Fuller?” Kingsley walked to his closet and dug for clothes. He heard something drop. When he turned around, he saw Sam picking her clipboard off the floor again.

“Seduce Lucy Fuller?” she asked, looking shocked and slightly disgusted. “Why?”

“It would cause a scandal if it got out she’d cheated on her husband. Might give us some leverage against Fuller.”

“Or make him a sympathetic martyr to his whole congregation. You know people always blame the wife and never the husband.”

“Good point,” he said. “I didn’t want to fuck her anyway.”

“Why not?”

“She had an entire chapter in her book on marriage on why sodomy is such a crime against nature even married couples shouldn’t engage in it.”

“That’s bizarre.”

“Sodomy’s not a crime against nature. Nature invented sodomy. If Mother Nature didn’t want us engaging in it, she wouldn’t have made it so much fun.”

“I can’t argue with your science. Poor Lucy. Her loss.”

“Poor Lucy? She’s richer than I am. Did you know that? Her books and videos fund the WTL empire.”

“They always hit the bestseller list. God only knows why.”

“The WTL empire is built on their perfect marriage.”

“I have parents,” Sam said. “I don’t believe there’s such a thing as a perfect marriage.”

“My parents did. Until they died,” Kingsley said. “Maybe it’s for the best. They would rather have died than fall out of love with each other.”

Sam gave him a long searching look that Kingsley tried to ignore.

“I’d rather fall out of love with someone than die,” Sam said. “You can always love someone else.”

“Easier said than done,” Kingsley said, and his words sounded bitterer than he intended.

“So, who are you in love with you don’t want to be in love with?” Sam asked.

Kingsley glared at her.

“Right,” she said. “Distance. We’re trying to keep some distance.”

“If you please.”

“Sorry. Okay, I’ll get back to work digging around on Reverend Fuller.”

“Let’s divide and conquer. I’ll handle Reverend Fuller. You focus on Lucy Fuller. They’re making a lot of money off her books. Follow the money.”

He pulled his pants on and grabbed a shirt from off the hanger.

“Now, what are my messages?”

“Are you dressed? Is it safe to turn around again? I don’t want my delicate lesbian sensibilities overwhelmed by your incredible manliness. I might get the vapors, whatever those are.”

“It’s safe.”

She turned around.

“Kingsley, you haven’t buttoned up your shirt yet, and I can totally see your chest. You lied to me, and now I have the vapors.”

“Come here,” he ordered. She looked left and then right as if scanning the room for a trap. Maybe hiring Sam had been a mistake. All he could think about right now was getting her into bed and seeing the woman’s body she hid under her men’s clothing.

He took her by the wrist, raised her hand and laid it on the scar on the side of his chest.

“You’re lucky to be alive. Is this why you were wincing in your office?” She pressed her palm gently against the scar.

“The scar tissue is tight. It hurts when I try to take a deep breath.”

“You know you should listen to your body. Pain’s an alarm. It says ‘pay attention to me.’”

“I promise I’m paying attention to it. It’s not getting better.”

“I know what you need. There’s a lady in Midtown who does amazing therapeutic massage.”

“I don’t need a massage.”

“I can see if she gives happy endings.”

“I might need a massage.”

“Thought so. I’ll make you an appointment. She’s good with surgical scars and other wounds.”

“How do you know so much about scars?” he asked, impressed more by her moxie than her knowledge. No one but Søren ever dared to challenge him. He liked it.

Sam let her hand fall from his side.

“You’re not the only one around here with scars,” she said.

“Show me your scars.” He said “scars” but what he meant was “body.”

“My scars? My scars are—” The phone rang. Sam grinned broadly at it. “I’ll get it.”

“That’s my private line. You don’t have to answer my private line,” he said.

“The private line’s the one I want to answer.”

She jumped onto his bed and crawled across the red sheets. With a flourish she grabbed the receiver, held it to her ear and rolled flat on to her back.

“Kingsley Edge’s Bed, Sam speaking.”

With the phone at her ear and her legs dancing playfully in the air, she looked almost like a teenage girl in her bedroom. Kingsley took a deep steadying breath.
Lesbian,
he reminded himself.

“I’ll see if he’s in,” she said. “Hold, please.”

She sat the phone on the bedside table, pulled the covers back, and stuck her head between the sheets.

“King? You in there?”

“Who is it?” he whispered.

“He says he’s your father,” she said in a stage whisper of her own. “But that can’t be, because you said your father was dead.”

“Did he say he was
my
father or
a
father?”

Sam looked up at him.

“I’ll ask.” She grabbed the phone again. “Are you
a
father or are you Kingsley’s father? Kingsley’s father’s dead, and Kingsley is not at home to ghosts. And if you are a ghost, are you like a Hamlet ghost or a
Ghostbusters
ghost?”

Kingsley sighed. He shouldn’t be having this much fun with his secretary. He never had fun with his other secretaries. He just fucked them.

“You’re not a father, you’re a
Father
. Oh, so you’re the priest King told me about. Hey, can you explain transubstantiation to me in twenty-five words or less?”

Sam tucked the phone under her chin and held two hands up in the air. She ticked off numbers on her fingers. Kingsley counted twenty-one.

“Wow,” she said after a few seconds. “You’re good.”

“Give me that.” He took the phone from Sam. “What do you want?” he asked Søren in French. Whatever Søren was calling about, he didn’t want Sam to be privy to it.