The King: The Original Sinners Book 6 (27 page)

He made it to Wakefield an hour before the game started and found Søren working in his office. He had his collar and clerics on and had stacks of books piled high on the desk, note cards marking pages. The only photograph in the office was on Søren’s desk—him in his white vestments standing next to a lovely blonde woman gazing on him adoringly. Søren and his mother on the day of his ordination. A small but elegant office. A sacred space devoted to learning and prayer. It couldn’t have been more different than Fuller’s. Not a golf club in sight.

“If you came for confession,” Søren said, glancing up at him from his notes, “do it now. I will not be in a state of grace after this game if we lose.”

“We aren’t going to lose.”

“Do you know what their pastor said to me after the last game? He said their team was predestined to win. Now I understand how holy wars get started.”

Kingsley laughed and sat in the chair opposite Søren’s desk.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?” Kingsley asked.

“You just did,” Søren said, making a note on a white card.

Kingsley paused and laughed.

“What?” Søren glanced up from his writing.

“Déjà vu. Anyway, you didn’t give anyone my private phone number, did you? Write it down? Give it to your secretary?”

“No. I have it memorized, and I’d never tell anyone unless it was a life-and-death situation. Why?”

“No reason. Are you ready to go?” Kingsley asked. “We should warm up.”

“I suppose. It’ll be a better use of my time than this.” Søren slipped his legal pad into his top desk drawer.

“What are you working on?”

“My Ph.D. dissertation.”

“I can think of a nearly infinite number of things that would be better uses of your time. And surprisingly, only half of them are sexual.”

“Only half?”

“Two-thirds,” Kingsley said. “Let’s go.”

“Going,” Søren said. “I need to stop by the house and change. I’ll meet you at the field.”

“Do you have to wear the collar on Saturdays, too?”

“No. But it’s for the best I do.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Eleanor’s here today, and I need as much armor as possible around her.”

“She’s here?” Kingsley sat up straighter.

“No.”

“You just said—”

“Pretend I didn’t.”

“Can I see her?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“She’s busy, and I don’t want you distracting her.”

“She’s sixteen. What’s she doing that’s so important?”

“Youth group.”

“Is that as horrible as it sounds?”

“We have a seminarian here today. He’s speaking to a group of teenagers about discerning God’s will in their life. Eleanor’s under orders to pay very close attention.”

“You ordered your teenage girlfriend to go to youth group on a Saturday morning during summer break?”

Søren smiled fiendishly as he stood up and came around his desk.

“Sometimes the depths of my sadism surprises even me.”

“That makes one of us,” Kingsley said, standing to leave the office.

Søren replied with a swift slap to the center of Kingsley’s back, making hard quick contact with a cluster of welts.

A flinch and gasp gave it away, and Kingsley had to grab the door frame to steady himself as pain washed over him.

“I remember that sound,” Søren said, shutting his office door and locking it.

“What are you—”

“Hold still.”

He hadn’t belonged to Søren in eleven years, but an order was an order. Søren had said, “hold still.” Kingsley held still.

Søren grasped the bottom of Kingsley’s T-shirt and pulled it up and off of him. Kingsley heard a whistle of appreciation.

“Jealous?” Kingsley asked.

“Only impressed. You have bruises on top of bruises. Who did the work?”

“No one you know.”

“What made these?” Søren traced half circles on Kingsley’s upper back. The light touch on his abraded skin hurt enough to arouse him. He had to breathe to avoid getting a massive erection in a priest’s office. He wasn’t Catholic, but he assumed that was frowned upon.

Then again, maybe not.

“Electric cable looped in half,” Kingsley said. “Feels like getting punched by fire.”

“No cuts.”

“Not with her. She prefers impact-play. A little candle-wax when she’s in the mood.”

“She?”

“She’s a dominatrix I know.”

“You know her intimately,” Søren said, his voice low. The skin on Kingsley’s back was so sensitive he could feel the breath from Søren’s words brushing over his wounds.

“Very intimately. We’re sleeping together.” Kingsley turned around and showed Søren the welts on his chest.

“Good.”

“Good?” Kingsley repeated, playfully aghast. “Did a priest just tell me it’s good I’m engaging in sadomasochism and fornication?”

“I took the vow of celibacy, not you. And I’m pleased to hear you’re feeling more yourself again. I can’t imagine you being content to only top.”

“You should meet her. You two can talk shop.”

“Did you have a flashback with her?”

“A few times,” he confessed, still embarrassed about the one he’d had in front of Søren. “They’ve mostly stopped. Not completely, but they aren’t stopping me anymore.”

Søren pressed the flat of his hand into the knot of welts on Kingsley’s rib cage. He winced and inhaled sharply.

“It hurts coming back to life,” Søren said. “It’s a brutal, dirty business. Paddles on the chest pushing electric current into the dead heart, Dr. Frankenstein shooting lightning through his monster’s corpse. Life is a force so strong it can blow a stone off a tomb. It’s never easy—resurrection. It’s violent and it hurts.”

“It’s better than the alternative,
non
?” Kingsley asked, turning around to face Søren. He pulled his shirt down. “Staying dead?”

“It’s good to have you back.”

“I’ve missed me,” Kingsley said.

“You were always very fond of yourself.”

“I charmed the pants off of me,” Kingsley said as they walked out of Søren’s office.

“I’ll blame you if we lose today because you’re bruised all over. There will be consequences, possible eternal.”

“We aren’t going to lose. Go, change. I’ll meet you at the field.”

When Søren was gone, Kingsley considered heading straight to the field. He considered it for one split second before deciding on an entirely different course of action.

Somewhere in this church was Søren’s Virgin Queen. And Kingsley was going to see her.

Once outside the sanctuary Kingsley poked around until he found the breezeway that led to the attached annex. Once inside the annex, he heard voices—loud, obnoxious voices—and knew there were teenagers ahead. He found a door and peeked inside. About two dozen teenagers ranging in age from thirteen to eighteen sat in folding chairs arrayed in a semicircle around a very young and scared-looking man. Søren had called the man a seminarian, so he must have been a priest-in-training. Apparently his training included being subjected to a trial by fire. Kingsley nudged the door open a little wider and heard the seminarian attempting to talk over the din of three teenage boys who seemed determined to punish him for ruining their Saturday.

Behind the three rowdy boys sat a girl in black combat boots, a ratty denim skirt and a black low-cut shirt. She ran her fingers through her mass of wavy black hair and stretched luxuriously in her seat with the decadent unapologetic laziness of a cat that’d been forced out of bed too early. Had to be her, right? All the other girls looked like girls. This girl looked like a woman. She had a woman’s curves, a woman’s confidence and a woman’s utter boredom with the boys who surrounded her. She wore gobs of black eyeliner, which gave her eyes a smoky, seductive look, and Kingsley couldn’t stop staring at her.

He’d already mentally put the girl in his bed and made her come five times before he discerned that an argument had broken out in the room. One of the boys, a tall skinny punk in a
Terminator 2
T-shirt, was telling the seminarian that there was no reason for him to listen to a man who was never going to get married, have kids and wasn’t even a real priest yet. What did he know about God’s plan for his life or anyone else’s? And the girl, that strange seductive girl with the creamy skin, was politely telling the Terminator to shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down. The Terminator ignored Combat Boots in favor of standing to give a high five to a boy two seats over.

That was a mistake.

Combat Boots gracefully raised her foot, hooked an ankle around the leg of the chair and swept it to the side as the Terminator went to sit down again.

With his chair gone, the boy hit the floor and landed on his back. He coughed as if the impact had knocked the wind right out of his lungs. Everyone gasped in shock, everyone but Combat Boots. She stretched out her legs and rested her feet on the center of the boy’s chest. She leaned forward and smiled down at the now defeated Terminator.

“God’s plan for your life is for you to shut the fuck up.” Hers was a throaty voice thick as honey and drugging as wine. Sitting back, Combat Boots pointed at the stunned young seminarian and crossed her legs. She made certain to bounce her feet a time or two on the boy’s chest. “You have our attention now.”

If he’d landed a little harder, the boy might have cracked his skull on the hard floor. This possibility didn’t seem to bother Combat Boots in the least. She gave the boy on the floor a smile entirely devoid of apology or remorse.

“You little sociopath,” Kingsley said under his breath. Not even Søren was so blithe about inflicting pain as this girl. “Fuck me until I forget I’m French.”

There was no way, none, not a chance in heaven, hell or the purgatory they were living in right now that girl was a submissive. Søren had fallen in love with a baby domme who had a sadistic streak in her as wide as her smile. This girl would have men at her feet all her life by her will or theirs and whether they liked it or not.

Most of them would like it.

He walked—fast—away from her. If Søren were smart, he’d do the same. But no one in love was ever very smart.

Kingsley made it to the field before Søren did, but when Søren arrived, Kingsley couldn’t stop smiling.

“What are you laughing at?” Søren asked as they ran laps around the field to warm up.

“I don’t think you want to know...”

Even in the heat with the sun beating down on them, Kingsley couldn’t suppress his grin.

“I think I do. In fact, I’m certain I do.”

“If you must know, I’m starting to believe in God,” Kingsley said.

“What brought this on?”

“I foresee a miracle occurring in the future.”

“Which is?”

“You,” Kingsley said as the team gathered on the sideline. “Being humbled.”

“And what makes you say that?” Søren asked, sounding both imperious and skeptical.

Kingsley only smiled on and said three words.

“I met Eleanor.”

29

August

“TELL ME TO
close my eyes and think of England,” Kingsley said to Sam when she walked into the office holding a Styrofoam bowl in her hand.

“I’ve been to England. Great country, nice people. I tried to get Princess Di in bed.” She sat on his desk in front of him and took a bite of whatever it was in the bowl.

“How did that work out for you?” he asked.

“My attempted seduction involved me staring longingly at Buckingham Palace until a man in a funny hat politely told me to move along. Do I want to know why you’re closing your eyes and thinking of England?” she asked, taking another bite from her bowl.

“I think I have to seduce Lucy Fuller.”

Sam screwed up her face in disgust.

“Oh, God, don’t do that,” she said. “There has to be a better way. I have to go puke up my ice cream now.” She set the bowl on his desk in disgust.

“If I fuck her and get it on tape, I can use it as leverage to get Fuller to sell me his building.”

“She’s horrible, King.”

“I know. She’s got a new book coming out about how to turn your gay children straight. Forced fasting and prayer vigils. And if that doesn’t work—exorcism.”

“I don’t think your dick is going to solve this problem,” Sam said.

“Why not? It solves all my other problems.”

“Can’t you trick Fuller into committing a crime and get it on tape?”

“That’s entrapment. That can blow back on us. What we need is a real crime. A scandal. A secret. He has to have a secret.”

“I’m sure he does,” Sam said. “And you’ll find it. You stick to Reverend Fuller.” She picked up her bowl again, held out her spoon, and Kingsley took a bite. He tried for a second bite but Sam wouldn’t give it up. “I’ll stick to Lucy Fuller. And this ice cream. I should have gotten the bigger size.”

“Why are you so hungry today?”

“It’s a secret.”

“I’m in the business of secrets.”

Sam narrowed her eyes at him and then took a seat in Kingsley’s lap.

With unabashed pleasure he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight to him. She wore a new suit today—tight tailored white blouse, skinny tie, black trousers and suspenders.

“You want to know my secret?” she whispered in his ear. “I am bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Kingsley groaned and pushed her off his lap. Laughing, Sam sat on his desk and picked up her ice cream again.

“You asked. It’s why I’m craving chocolate. Seriously, I want chocolate more than pussy today. What I need is a pussy that I can put chocolate in. Sorry. I have thoughts like this when I’m on the rag.”

“That’s not the sort of secret I need to know.”

“What? You don’t swim the red river?”

“I have swum the red river. Swam? Swum? I hate English.
J’ai nagé la riviere rouge.
”

“Good. You get to keep your stud credentials. Only pussies are afraid of pussies.”

“I am not afraid of pussies.” Kingsley stood up and opened his mouth. She fed him another spoonful of her ice cream. “Speaking of pussies, Blaise is in DC again. Felicia has an overnight with a client. You want to sleep with me tonight?”

“Will you give me a back rub? I’m crampy today.”

“Absolutely.”

“Then I formally accept your invitation.”

“Good.” He snapped her suspenders, and she yelped. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Where are you going?”

“To seduce Lucy Fuller.”

She pushed him back, hard.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I was kidding,” Kingsley said. “I’m reformed. These days I only fuck people I want to fuck. I don’t fuck fundamentalist preachers or their wives. Catholic clergy only.”

“It’s good to have standards,” Sam said, obviously relieved. “So, no fucking the Fullers. What about the money? Did you look through the financials The Barber sent over, too?”

“I did. Nothing there, either. The church is sitting on millions of dollars—most of it from the sale of merchandise and Lucy Fuller’s books on how to be a godly wife.”

“Please, stop reading those books,” Sam said. “They’re making you weird.”

“They are not.”

“Yesterday you asked me if we’re spending enough quality time together.”

“Are we?” Kingsley asked.

“Oh, my Jesus.”

“Admit it, Sam. Our marriage has never been better,” Kingsley said.

‘I’m burning those books,” Sam said.

Kingsley sighed. “I’m only trying to find something on these people. They’re the Stepford Christians. No second homes, no secret islands, no lavish apartments for mistresses. The Fullers are rich, but so far that’s their only sin.” Kingsley sighed. “What about you? Did you find anything on your quest?”

“No,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Didn’t really pan out. Still looking, though.”

“Keep looking. It’s there. We’ll find it.”

“Where are you going now?”

“An abortion clinic,” Kingsley said.

“Is it mine?” Sam asked. “It’s mine, isn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have let you come on me.”

Kingsley glared at her. “It’s Fuller’s. His protest, I mean. I want to talk to some people who go to his church. And Lucy Fuller, if she’s there.”

Kingsley tapped her under the chin and strode from the office. He heard footsteps behind him.

“King?”

He turned around and saw Sam wearing a rare expression of earnestness on her lovely face.

“You promise you won’t go near Lucy Fuller?” she asked.

Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it? The thought of me with her. Why?”

“They run the camps that killed Faith. I know it was suicide, but she’d still be alive if it wasn’t for them. Just...don’t. Please?”

“I promise,” Kingsley said. “But you owe me.”

“Owe you what?” she demanded.

Kingsley took her ice-cream bowl from her and Sam glared at him.

“This will do.”

* * *

The clinic was out in Brooklyn, so Kingsley took a cab. Before his driver had turned on to the street, Kingsley heard the shouting and the bullhorns. He got out at the end of the block and walked to the protest. As he approached the clinic, the sounds of shouting only grew louder and more shrill. He remembered something he’d read back at St. Ignatius, something C. S. Lewis had written. In heaven there is silence and music. In hell there is only noise.

This was hell.

Standing in the midst of two dozen people holding signs, marching and shouting, was the devil himself, Reverend Fuller, grasping a bullhorn and echoing their “Abortion is murder” chant. A bullhorn? Sam was right. This was a man who did not deserve to get fucked by him or anyone else. Seemed a veritable crime that Søren was supposed to be celibate, and yet this man could breed with impunity.

Kingsley stood in the shadows of an alley and watched as Fuller worked the crowd, shaking hands, thanking the protesters for their dedication and inviting them to his church. Nearby a man with a camera recorded everything—Fuller with the bullhorn, the handshakes, the stomping feet and the waving signs.

During all the glad-handing, a small car pulled into the clinic parking lot, a young patient inside. Kingsley wished he’d come armed. If any of these assholes tried anything with that poor girl in the car, he would shoot them.

Perhaps it was for the best he’d left the gun at home.

Before the woman could leave her car, a man emerged from the clinic carrying a blanket. He looked about Kingsley’s age—twenty-eight or twenty-nine—and had short dark hair and a heavily muscled build. Square-jawed, solid and handsome, even a few of the female protestors gave him appreciative glances. He walked swiftly to the car, unfolding the blanket as he went. August in Brooklyn. Why did he need the blanket? The woman got out of her car, and Kingsley discovered the answer. The blanket wasn’t to keep her warm, Kingsley discovered, but to keep her identity hidden from the protestors and the man with the video camera. The clinic escort held the blanket open and stayed at her left side, imposing himself between her and the protestors as he led her into the clinic. The volume of the shouts increased as did the level of venom in the insults. The theoretical “Abortion is murder” became “You’re a murderer.” For all they knew, the woman was there for free birth control, but that didn’t stop the abusive commentary.

Kingsley waited and watched until Fuller left the protestors and got into a waiting black Lincoln Town Car that pulled up to whisk him away back to his church or his golf game. Once Fuller had gone, a strange thing happened. The cameraman packed up his equipment and the protestors wandered away. Fuller had staged a protest for the cameras to show his congregation and his television audience at home that he was already doing God’s work in New York City.

Kingsley stopped one of the protestors, a girl in her twenties.

“You look familiar,” Kingsley said to her. “Have I seen you in anything?”

“I did a couple local commercials,” she said. “One for a mattress company.”

“Was this extra work?” Kingsley asked.

The girl shrugged. “Fund-raising video, they said. Gotta make a living, right? That preacher guy’s such a douche bag. Good thing he pays well.”

“Right,” Kingsley said and let the girl go.

But the clinic escort, he’d been interesting. Kingsley decided to wait and talk to him.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. But his patience was rewarded when the man emerged from the clinic alone.

“I hope they pay you well for what you do,” Kingsley said as the man walked past him.

The man didn’t turn around. Instead, he walked backward until he stood in front of Kingsley.

“Volunteer,” the man said. “Got a problem with that, mate?”

“You’re Australian. I didn’t expect that.
Mon ami.
” He added the “
mon ami
” in retaliation for the “mate.”

“Yeah, and what the fuck are you?”

“French? American? Bisexual? Rich? Kinky? Pick one. Or all of them.”

The man lifted his chin and cocked an eyebrow at Kingsley. The Aussie was sizing him up. The man was taller than him and had more overall muscle mass. But Kingsley was a trained killer and didn’t sense anything threatening in the Aussie’s posture.

“Australian,” the man said. “Straight. Not rich. Not sure about kinky. It’s only kinky the first time, right?”

“I had a feeling I would like you. What’s your name?”

“Lachlan. Lockie, my friends call me. Not saying we’re friends.”

“I wouldn’t dare presume.” Kingsley nodded his head in polite and feigned submission. “I was impressed earlier. It must not be easy, doing what you do.”

“I don’t do it because it’s easy. I do it because it needs doing. I saw you earlier. You weren’t protesting and you don’t look pregnant. What do you want?”

“You,” Kingsley said. “Not in a sexual way. You wouldn’t by any chance be interested in a job, would you?”

“I have a job.”

“A different job, then. I’m starting a club. Opens in November. I need someone to work as a bouncer of sorts.”

“Of sorts? What the hell does that mean?”

“I’ll have professional submissives in the club. They’ll need a watcher when they’re with a client. It would be a far more pleasant form of escort duty.”

“I do important work here.”

“You can still work here. The hours won’t conflict, I promise.”

Kingsley took out a silver case and passed his business card to the man.

“Kingsley Edge. Edge Enterprises,” the man read aloud. “This is for real?”

“As real as it gets. I need a strong intimidating man who will be able to stand in a corner, keep his mouth shut and intervene if and only if a client crosses a line. He needs to be calm under pressure and able to face, let’s call it...
unpleasantness
without getting unpleasant.”

“I’m supposed to stand in a corner and watch someone beat up a woman without intervening?”

“Yes.”

“She’s getting paid for it?”

“Well paid. And she’s consenting. And she enjoys it. All my employees enjoy their work. I see to that.”

“And you’re going to pay me to watch?”

“Good job,
oui
?”

“I can think of worse ways to make a living.”

Kingsley smiled. “The club doesn’t open until the end of November. You call that number if you’re interested. My secretary will bring you in for a more formal interview.”

“I might be interested.”

“There is one thing that might dampen your interest.”

“What?” Lachlan asked, eyeing him.

“We’ll have male submissives, too,” Kingsley said, knowing most straight men wouldn’t be comfortable watching two men engage in kink. “Male submissives with male or female dominants. They’ll also need a watcher, a protector. That bother you?”

“I protect whoever needs protecting. I’m in this fucking city ten thousand miles from home because my sister married the world’s biggest wanker. I’m not leaving until I can take her back to Sydney with me.”

“Introduce her to me. I have a way of getting women to leave their husbands.”

The man shook his head and laughed. The laugh transformed his expression from one of stony suspicion into boyish amusement.

“I might call your secretary. I might not. I might hunt down that arse with the bullhorn and shove it down his throat.”

“Then this might induce you to come work for me,” Kingsley said. “That arse with the bullhorn? I’m buying a building from him to turn into my club. Whether he likes it or not. And I promise, he doesn’t.”

“Then I’ve only got one question for you.”

“Ask it,” Kingsley said.

“When do I start?”

Kingsley shook hands with Lachlan and found a pay phone.

“Do you have your clipboard?” Kingsley asked Sam when she answered.

“Aye, aye, Captain? Who do we have now?”

He filled her in.

“You found a bouncer at an abortion clinic?” Sam asked.

“He’s very cute.”

“Speaking of cute, you have a message.”

“What is it?”

“Mistress Felicia’s home. And you’ve been summoned.”