The King
Page 52
“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.
“This is your first of fourteen nightly reminders to not have sex with anyone until you get your test results back,” Søren replied, also in French.
“Go fuck a fifteen-year-old.”
“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.
“This is your first of fourteen nightly reminders to not have sex with anyone until you get your test results back,” Søren replied, also in French.
“Go fuck a fifteen-year-old.”
