The King

“Please? You’ve learned manners in the past eleven years.”

“Will you help her? Will you help me?”

Help the girl. How? Easy. He had a few judges who owed him favors. He regularly fucked the wife of an important district attorney. He could make some phone calls. He couldn’t get the charges dropped. His contacts needed to cover their asses. But he could get her community service, probation with some luck. Nothing serious.

“What’s her name?”

“Eleanor Louise Schreiber.”

“Schreiber? German name.”

“It is.”

The corner of Kingsley’s mouth quirked in to a half smile.

“That explains the Beethoven. I suppose you don’t play Ravel anymore.”

Søren had played Ravel for him the day they met and many days after. Ravel, the greatest of all French composers. And now his heart turned to Beethoven—the greatest of all the Germans.

“I would play Ravel for you,” Søren said, his voice stiff and formal. “If that’s what it took.”

Kingsley’s eyes flew open.

“I’m not going to make you fuck me just so I’ll help your Virgin Queen. That’s her game, not mine.”

“Is there a price for your assistance?”

“You gave me a fortune. I’m richer than God, and you think you owe me something?”

“Don’t I?”

“A favor,” Kingsley said. “One favor.”

“Anything. Name it.”

Kingsley stood up, walked across the room and stood only inches from Søren.

“All I ask of you,” Kingsley began, “all I beg of you...don’t leave me again. Please. Eleven years. I thought I’d never see you again.”

Søren grasped Kingsley by the back of the neck and pulled him into an embrace—not an embrace of lovers but, instead, of lost brothers, soldiers from enemy armies reunited at the end of a long, devastating war that no one had won.

“I thought I would die without ever seeing you again,” Kingsley said, and his eyes burned with tears. “Every day I thought that.”

“Thought or hoped?”

“Feared,” Kingsley said, clutching Søren’s forearms. “My greatest fear.”

Kingsley closed his eyes, and if he kept his eyes closed he wouldn’t have to see that white collar around Søren’s neck. If he kept his eyes closed he could pretend it was eleven years ago and they were alone in the hermitage together. Søren would beat him and take him to bed, and after he’d finished, Kingsley would throw his arm over Søren’s stomach, rest his head on Søren’s chest and fall asleep. When he woke up Søren would still be there. Søren would always be there.

“I promise you this,” Søren whispered, “I will never turn my back on you. I will never leave you. I will never forsake you. As long as it’s in my power, I will be your friend, and I will be here for you whenever you need me.”

“You paid for this house. It’s your home even more than mine. Make it your home.”

“I will if that’s what you want.”

“More than anything.” He opened his eyes and looked up at Søren. “No one loves me. And I don’t love anyone here. No one trusts me and I don’t trust anyone. I need you.”

“You trust me? After what I did to you?”

“I trust you. Because of what you did to me.”

Søren took a deep breath. Kingsley felt his chest rise and fall.

Kingsley sensed Søren’s reluctance to pull away, but pull away he did.

“I’ll help your girl,” Kingsley said. “I know people. I’ll make sure she doesn’t go away.”

“Don’t hate her. You’ll want to hate her, and we both know why. But try to keep your heart open.”

“How long have you been back in the United States?” Kingsley asked.

Søren seemed taken aback by the question.

“A few months,” he said.

“You’ve been to the city before?”

“Yes.”

“But you never came to see me.”

Søren didn’t say anything. Kingsley hated him for that silence.

“You weren’t planning on seeing me ever again, were you?” Kingsley asked.

“I thought about seeing you again,” Søren said. “I wasn’t sure if I should. For the obvious reasons.”

“Your little girl got herself in trouble, and that’s what it took to bring you back to me? How can I hate her?”

Søren nodded. It looked as if he had something else to say. Whatever it was, he decided against saying it.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Søren said. “I’ve been up all night, and it looks like you have, too. We’ll talk more after we’ve both had some sleep.”

“Good.” Kingsley was so relieved to hear he’d see Søren tomorrow, he was almost ashamed of himself. He could have cried from relief. “I have a car. It can take you home.”

“It’s fine. I have a way back.”

“Please, don’t tell me you’re taking public transportation. I can handle the vow of celibacy better than that.”

Søren laughed—a joyful new morning laugh. Joyful? He hadn’t expected joy. Søren was happy in his new life? That was good. Kingsley wanted him happy. At least one of them was happy. Better than nothing.

“I promise, no public transportation.”

Kingsley followed Søren out on to the sidewalk. From the two-foot gap between his town house and the house next to him, Søren wheeled out a black motorcycle—a Ducati.

Kingsley whistled.

“If this is standard-issue transportation for Jesuits, no wonder you joined.”

“It’s a bribe, actually,” Søren said, pulling on a leather jacket and zipping it up. He slipped his white collar out of his shirt and pocketed it. Just like that, Søren ceased looking like a priest and became himself again in Kingsley’s eyes.

“Priests take bribes?”

“We have a long history of it. Ever heard of indulgences?”

“My entire life is an indulgence.”

“I’m starting to see that,” Søren said, looking the town house up and down. “But this bribe was my father’s doing. He assumed—wrongly—that I’d drop out of seminary so I could keep it. Jesuits hold all property in common. If I accepted the bike and stayed in seminary, I’d have to give it up to the order. They often sell large expensive gifts and use the money for more important things—like food and books.”

“What happened?”

“I told my superior at the province. He told me to take the bike, become a priest and let my father go to hell. That’s the sort of spiritual counsel I can live with.”

“Your father must hate you.”

“Almost as much as I hate him.”

Søren started the engine. Before he could drive off, Kingsley stepped in front of the bike.

“Don’t forget the favor. Don’t leave me again,” Kingsley said.

“Again? You seem to be forgetting something,” Søren said.

“What?”

Søren looked him deep in the eyes. And in those gray depths Kingsley caught a glimpse of something. Fury—old, cold, but still burning.

“Eleven years ago, I didn’t leave you,” Søren said. “You left me first.”

And with that, Søren put on his helmet, revved up his bike and rode off into the street.

Funny. Kingsley had forgotten that.

He had left Søren first.

6

THE THINGS KINGSLEY did for love.

Kingsley took a breath, walked up the steps into the Eastside Rifle and Pistol Range. He was on time, but Robert Dixon was already there. Dixon caught Kingsley’s eye, nodded at him, then raised his pistol and shot six bullets into the target. Kingsley stood safely behind him and watched. Dixon could shoot. Kingsley had to give him that. Six bullets, six hits. He’d peppered an erratic circle around the target’s heart.

Dixon, aged forty and looking every day of it, took off his earmuffs.

“Your turn,” Dixon said to Kingsley. “Impress me, and I’ll hear you out.”

With another sigh, Kingsley put on his earmuffs and safety glasses, aimed his 9mm and shot six rounds into a fresh target. Two in the head between the eyes, two in the heart and two in the groin just to make Dixon think twice.

Kingsley pulled off the earmuffs, turned around and faced Dixon.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Dixon asked.

“French Foreign Legion.”

“I thought all the French military knew how to do was surrender.”

“You’d be curtsying to the Queen of England if it wasn’t for the French.”

“What do you want? A thank-you note?”

“Just a favor. We’ll call it even between France and America then.”

Dixon looked him up and down. “Let’s go talk. Keep your hands off your gun.”

“Your idea to meet at a shooting range,” Kingsley reminded him.

“I shoot better than anyone I know.”

“Not anymore.”

“I’m pretending I don’t know you,” Dixon said. Kingsley didn’t blame him for that.

They left the shooting lanes and found a quiet corner near the lockers. Dixon pulled on his jacket, stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited.

“I need your help,” Kingsley said.

“You’re fucking my wife, and you come to ask for a favor. I almost admire that.”

“I wouldn’t have to fuck your wife if you weren’t too busy fucking your wife’s sister.”

Dixon’s eyes widened. Kingsley smiled.

“Go on,” Dixon said. “What do you need my help with?”

“A girl was arrested in Manhattan last night. She’s being charged today with five counts of grand theft auto.”

“A girl?”

“She’s fifteen.”

“We better throw in a charge for driving without a license then.”

“You’re funny,” Kingsley said, and mentally put two bullets in Dixon’s head. “I need the charges dropped.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“How much to make it happen?”

“I can’t get the charges dropped. That’s a big fucking red flag, and I’m not prepared to wave it.”

“Can you get them reduced? I want to keep her out of doing any time.”

“Who is this girl?”

“Friend of a friend,” Kingsley said.

“You have friends who are friends with fifteen-year-old girls?”

“I have interesting friends.”

“I didn’t know you had any friends, Edge,” Dixon said with a wide grin. Kingsley put two more bullets in him—center of his chest this time. “Or do fuck buddies count as friends these days?”

“Are you going to help her or not?” Kingsley asked.

“I’ll consider it. What’s her name?”

“Eleanor Schreiber. She lives in Wakefield, Connecticut.”

“Schreiber? Yeah, they’re looking for the father right now. They want her to roll on him and anyone else she can.”

“She’ll roll on him.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I put my job on the line helping a fifteen-year-old girl get out of going to juvie for multiple counts of car theft, I want to know the story.”

“Fine. Short story. An old friend of mine is a Catholic priest now. Her priest. He asked me to help her. I owe him a big favor. This is the favor.”

“You’re friends with a priest?”

“Trust me, no one is more shocked by that than I am.”

“Is he fucking her? The priest?”

“What?” Kingsley asked. Did Dixon already know something about Søren?

“It’s all over the papers,” Dixon said. “Every damn day there’s a new story about a Catholic priest fucking some kid. Boston’s exploding. Phillie, Detroit, Chicago... I get caught helping a priest with the underage girl he’s fucking and—”

“He’s not fucking her.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m fucking her,” Kingsley said, coming up with the quickest cover he could think of.

“You’re fucking her?”

“I went to visit his church. I saw her. I fucked her. I thought she was eighteen.”

“You thought she was eighteen,” Dixon repeated.

“Oops.” Kingsley shrugged.

“Now this is making more sense to me. I can’t see you doing a favor for a friend out of the goodness of your heart. I can see you fucking a fifteen-year-old girl.”

“Guilty as charged.” Kingsley raised his hands in mock surrender. “She’s looking at hard time. Can we get her community service?”

“You want her out of juvie so you can keep fucking her?”

“Not easy to fuck through iron bars. Possible, but not one of my kinks.”

Dixon went quiet. Kingsley waited. He couldn’t stand being around this man another thirty seconds. Dixon did favors all the time for the mafia and still went to church with his wife and kids every fucking Sunday.

“It’s not my case, but I can make something happen,” Dixon finally said. “There’s a judge who’s soft on teenage girls. Gives them community service in most of his cases, even violent ones. If I grease the wheels of justice, we can make it one of those cases.”

“How much grease?”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Done,” Kingsley said, not even bothering to negotiate. He didn’t negotiate where Søren was concerned.

“That was easy,” Dixon said. “You must really like this little girl.”

“Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point,” Kingsley said.

“What was that?”

“I said, yes, I really like this girl. Call it destiny.”

“Let’s hope my wife doesn’t find out about you and your little destiny. She likes you.”

“Let’s hope your wife doesn’t find out about a lot things,” Kingsley said with a smile. “I’ll send someone to your house later. Or maybe I’ll just drop it off next time I’m there.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“My mother was a saint,” Kingsley said. “I’m the only bitch in the family.”

He patted Dixon on the shoulder and walked past him. As soon as he was out of the front door, he stopped, leaned back against a brick wall and closed his eyes. He breathed for ten whole seconds as the tension left his body. These pissing contests never got easier. Dixon was stupid and powerful, and it was a terrifying combination in an enemy. Why did he even have enemies anymore? Wasn’t he supposed to be retired? Isn’t that why he’d left France, left the job, taken the money and run?

Then again, he was only twenty-eight. Who retired at twenty-eight? And if he wasn’t making trouble for someone, then what was the point of getting out of bed in the morning?

Kingsley rubbed his forehead, felt the weariness in his bones. He needed a better reason for getting out of bed in the morning.

Kingsley walked four blocks and found a pay phone.

“It’s me,” Kingsley said when Søren answered. He spoke in French. No need for names.

“What’s the verdict?” Søren asked.

“She’ll get community service. Good enough?”

He heard a pause on the other end, and Kingsley lived and died in that pause. Just like old times.

“Thank you,” Søren said. “That is more than I’d dared to hope for.”

“Let me ask you something. If I hadn’t been able to help your little girl, what would you have done? What was Plan B?”

“I think she and my mother would get along quite well.”

Kingsley shook his head and laughed to himself. “I’m glad I could save you from the necessity of kidnapping a minor and transporting her across international borders.”

“Kidnapping is such a strong word. I prefer the term rescuing.”

“You really love her.”

“You will, too.”

“What’s so special about this girl you’re willing to commit felonies on her behalf?”

“Truth?”

“Truth,” Kingsley said.

“She reminds me of you.”

“That’s why you love her?” Kingsley asked, hoping the answer was “yes” but knowing it wasn’t.

“That’s why I’m trying to help her.”

Kingsley heard the pointed note in Søren’s words.

“I don’t need help,” Kingsley said.

“Are you certain of that?”

“Yes,” Kingsley said, and hung up the phone.

As he walked away, he had a fleeting thought.

What was the penance for lying to a priest?

7

April

“HIT ME,” KINGSLEY said as he tapped the table.

“I’m not going to hit you,” Søren said.

“You have to do what I say. And I say hit me.”

Søren glared at him. Kingsley glared back.

“You have an ace and an eight,” Søren said.

“Which means I have nine or nineteen. I’m calling it nine. Hit me.”

“You want another card because you want to say ‘hit me’ to me as many times as possible tonight.”

“I’m not disagreeing with that.” Kingsley tapped the table again. “Hit me.”

Søren gave Kingsley another card—a second ace. Now he had twenty or ten, depending on how he wanted to play it. He and Søren weren’t playing blackjack for money, so he didn’t care much if he won or not. In fact, he didn’t care at all. But he couldn’t deny the fact he was enjoying himself. Kingsley needed time to stop and stop completely. He hadn’t felt this... He couldn’t even find the right word. He hadn’t felt this something in years. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to lose it, and he’d found it the instant Søren had stepped through his front door.

“Kingsley?”

“I’m thinking.”

“You have twenty. You should stand.”

“I’m not going to take the strategy advice of my enemy.”

“I’m the dealer, not the enemy.”

“When did you start playing blackjack anyway?” Kingsley demanded as he perused his cards again. One more ace and he’d have blackjack. “Do they teach this in seminary?”

“Cards were an extracurricular activity. An entire household full of men who aren’t allowed to have sex? We find other hobbies.”

“So, blackjack?”

“Among other things.”

Kingsley gave him a searching look.

“Care to tell me what these other hobbies of yours are?” Kingsley asked.

“They’re on a need-to-know basis. You don’t need to know,” Søren said, fanning the cards in front of him.

“I need to know everything,” Kingsley said. “If I’m going to keep you from getting excommunicated or going to prison for seducing and/or kidnapping a teenage girl—”

“Seduce her? I haven’t even seen her for a full month.”

Kingsley cocked an eyebrow at Søren.

“She quit church?”

Søren cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter.

“She’s grounded.”

Kingsley dropped his head on to the table.

“Why didn’t I defect to Russia when I had the chance?” Kingsley sighed.

“Are you going to make a decision about your cards, or are we going to be here all night?”

“We’re going to be here all night.” Kingsley sat up again. Søren shook his head in disgust. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one with a girlfriend young enough to be grounded.”

Exhaling with exasperation, Søren swept up his cards and Kingsley’s. With his agile pianist’s fingers, he shuffled the cards one-handed. Kingsley watched the display of casual grace and dexterity with envy and longing. Once, those skillful hands had owned every inch of his body. He’d never wanted to be a deck of cards so much in his life.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Søren dealt the cards.

“King?” came a woman’s voice behind Kingsley. Without looking back, he raised his hand and beckoned her into the dining room. A beautiful young woman in a forties-style skirt and blouse stood next to his chair and waited.

He wrapped an arm around her hips and dragged her down to his lap.

“You’re interrupting,” he said to her. “Can’t you see how busy I am?”

“Oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” she glanced down at the table and back into Kingsley’s eyes “—card game?”

Kingsley pointed at Søren.

“Blaise, I would like you to meet my oldest and dearest friend...” He paused and looked at Søren when he realized he didn’t know if he was allowed to tell anyone Søren’s name. Out in the world Søren had gone by the name his father had given him—Marcus Stearns. Even now he was Father Marcus Stearns, SJ, according to church records. Søren was the name his mother had given him, and few called him that.

“Who the hell are you again?” Kingsley asked.

Søren stretched out his hand and took Blaise’s.

“Søren. Kingsley and I went to school together.”

“I’m Blaise,” she said, and gave Søren her brightest smile and the most unapologetic bedroom eyes Kingsley had ever seen. So unfair. Why did Søren always turn every head in the room? Kingsley looked at Søren who today wore normal clothes. Normal? Black slacks, a fitted black long-sleeve T-shirt. They’d be normal clothes on anyone but Søren. In them, Søren looked like something out of a fever dream. He couldn’t blame Blaise for looking at Søren the way she did.

But he did wonder why Søren looked at her the same way.

“Blaise, might I inquire what you’re doing interrupting this incredibly important card game of mine?”

“Against my better judgment, I answered the phone and took a message for you. But don’t get any ideas that I’m your new secretary, although you need to get a new secretary—”

“I will, chouchou. I promise.”

“You said that last week.”

“I got a new secretary last week.”

“Where is she?”

“She quit.”

“Did you fuck her?”

“I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

Blaise turned her attention back to Søren.

“Can you please tell your oldest and dearest friend to stop seducing his secretaries so they’ll stop quitting on him when they catch him fucking someone else?”

“Kingsley,” Søren said, shuffling the cards again. “Stop seducing your secretaries so they’ll stop quitting on you.”

“Thank you.” Blaise gave Søren a smile.

“My pleasure,” Søren said. Kingsley mentally slapped them both.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like playing secretary,” Kingsley said.

“That’s different.” Blaise shook her head. “If I’m pretending to be your secretary so you’ll fuck me on your desk—that’s one thing. But I don’t actually want to be your secretary.”

“Just give me the message,” Kingsley said, running his hand up her thigh and caressing the bare skin above her flesh-tone stockings.

Blaise reached into her nearly translucent pale pink blouse and produced a folded note from inside her lace-trimmed bra.

Kingsley unfolded the note, still warm from her body, and read.

Tonight at nine. —Phoebe

Kingsley tensed when he read the words and briefly considered lying his way out of the situation. But no...Phoebe was not the sort of woman one said no to.

“I have to go,” Kingsley said to Blaise and Søren. “I won’t be gone long—an hour or so. You’ll keep my guest company, won’t you?” he asked Blaise.

“Happily.” Her thousand-watt smile brightened a few more watts. With her on his lap, he could feel the heat emanating from between her legs.

“Good. You two have so much in common, so much to talk about. Blaise, tell Søren what you do.”

“I run a nonprofit,” she said, leaning forward on the table and resting her chin on her hand. The move allowed everyone in the room to get a much clearer view of her soft, ample cleavage.

“A nonprofit?” Søren continued shuffling the cards while never once looking away from Blaise.

“Tell him what it does.” Kingsley pinched her on the thigh, and she shuddered in pleasure. “Our Blaise is très altruistic.”

“It’s called Slut Pride. We educate people about women’s sexual freedom, especially in regards to women’s participation in BDSM activities. Some people like to tell us that it’s not feminist to enjoy being flogged. I say it’s not feminist to tell a woman what she can and can’t do. But enough about me. What do you do?”

“I’m a Catholic priest.”

Blaise said nothing. She gawked at Søren with her full red-lipped mouth agape. And then she laughed, a warm throaty sound that filled the room.

“You’re terrible,” she said. “You had me there for a second.”

Søren winked at Kingsley. Kingsley had never guessed Søren had this flirtatious side to him. Back in their school days Søren had been feared and envied by all the other boys, and Søren had almost never spoken to anyone but the other priests. Kingsley realized that, other than his sister, he’d never seen Søren around a beautiful woman before. Interesting. The man was human after all. Even if he was a priest.

“I must be off. You two chat, become friends. Blaise, peut-être you should take my friend upstairs and show him what BDSM looks like in action. I’m sure he’ll find it fascinating.”