The King
Page 13
“I should meet our little princess,” Kingsley said.
“Not a princess, a queen.”
“Take me to her, then.” Kingsley didn’t actually want to meet her. He felt sick again at the thought of it. This was a dare. You saw a unicorn? Prove it, then. You say you’re Christ back from the dead? Show me the wounds.
“I can’t,” Søren said.
“Why not?”
“She’s in police custody.”
Kingsley laughed.
“Now I know why you’re here. Your Virgin Queen has gotten herself into trouble. You expect me to help her?”
“I’m asking you to. Begging you to if I must.”
“Even when you’re begging, it sounds like an order.”
“Would you rather I ordered you to help her?” Søren asked, stepping away from the window. “I can still play the game.”
“It was never a game to me.”
Søren turned and faced him, his eyes cold and steely.
“No. It was never a game to me, either.”
Kingsley sat down on the black-and-white sofa. He crossed his ankle over his knee and leaned his head back against the fabric. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips. God, what a night.
“Do I want to know what she’s in police custody for?”
“She stole five cars. Her father apparently owns something called a chop shop.”
“They steal cars, chop them up and sell the parts. Good money in it.”
“He made her steal for him. The police caught her in the act. Her father ran for it.”
“I hope they catch him and give him the chair.”
“Death is too good for him. But he’s not my concern now. She is. She’s facing serious time in juvenile detention or worse. I can’t let that happen. I found her a week ago. I can’t lose her already.”
Kingsley looked up at him through narrowed eyes.
“You...” Kingsley said. “You’re in love with her.”
Søren didn’t deny it. Kingsley respected him for that.
Honesty was its own special brand of sadism.
“I am.”
“Well, then,” Kingsley said, laying his head back again. “Maybe all hope is not lost.”
He expected Søren to laugh at that, but when he looked up he saw the steel in Søren’s eyes.
“We have to help her,” Søren said. “Please.”
“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.”
“Not a princess, a queen.”
“Take me to her, then.” Kingsley didn’t actually want to meet her. He felt sick again at the thought of it. This was a dare. You saw a unicorn? Prove it, then. You say you’re Christ back from the dead? Show me the wounds.
“I can’t,” Søren said.
“Why not?”
“She’s in police custody.”
Kingsley laughed.
“Now I know why you’re here. Your Virgin Queen has gotten herself into trouble. You expect me to help her?”
“I’m asking you to. Begging you to if I must.”
“Even when you’re begging, it sounds like an order.”
“Would you rather I ordered you to help her?” Søren asked, stepping away from the window. “I can still play the game.”
“It was never a game to me.”
Søren turned and faced him, his eyes cold and steely.
“No. It was never a game to me, either.”
Kingsley sat down on the black-and-white sofa. He crossed his ankle over his knee and leaned his head back against the fabric. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips. God, what a night.
“Do I want to know what she’s in police custody for?”
“She stole five cars. Her father apparently owns something called a chop shop.”
“They steal cars, chop them up and sell the parts. Good money in it.”
“He made her steal for him. The police caught her in the act. Her father ran for it.”
“I hope they catch him and give him the chair.”
“Death is too good for him. But he’s not my concern now. She is. She’s facing serious time in juvenile detention or worse. I can’t let that happen. I found her a week ago. I can’t lose her already.”
Kingsley looked up at him through narrowed eyes.
“You...” Kingsley said. “You’re in love with her.”
Søren didn’t deny it. Kingsley respected him for that.
Honesty was its own special brand of sadism.
“I am.”
“Well, then,” Kingsley said, laying his head back again. “Maybe all hope is not lost.”
He expected Søren to laugh at that, but when he looked up he saw the steel in Søren’s eyes.
“We have to help her,” Søren said. “Please.”
“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.”
