The King
Page 50
“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-tsking 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?”
“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-tsking 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?”
