The King
Page 53
“Her birthday was in March. She’s sixteen now.”
“I’m hanging up on you.”
“I like the new secretary,” Søren said. “Keep this one.”
Kingsley hung up on him.
“Well, that was rude,” Sam said.
“I hung up on him because he deserved it.”
“No, I mean it’s rude to talk to him in French. I couldn’t keep up.”
“He said he liked you,” Kingsley said. Sam’s eyes sparkled like a child’s on Christmas morning.
“Then I like him. I’ve never met a kinky priest before. He has a nice voice. Stern but soothing. I want to call him ‘sir’ and serve him tea and crumpets and listen to him read The Hobbit to me.”
“Everyone he meets wants to call him ‘sir.’ And his father’s English, so he’d probably appreciate the tea. I have no idea if he eats crumpets.”
“Do you think he’d read The Hobbit out loud to me?”
“Ask him that when you meet him. And make sure I’m there for the answer. Now, can you please give me my messages so I can kick you out of my bedroom?”
“I like your bedroom. It’s cozy in a Gothic nightmare kind of way. Was V. C. Andrews your interior decorator? Your bed has bed curtains. I’ve never seen that in real life before.”
“Messages?”
“Fine.” She grabbed her clipboard, rolled over on the bed and read.
“Message number one—Signore Vitale will see you on June tenth at two for a fitting.” She read the entire message in a cartoonish Italian accent.
“I don’t know who that is. And what am I getting a fitting for? Please, tell me I didn’t agree to go to a wedding.”
“Vitale is my tailor, and you’re getting fitted for a new wardrobe. You want to be a kingly king, right? Not just a king?”
“Right.”
“Then you need a better wardrobe. Trust me on this. Vitale is a genius. Message number two—Officer Cooper said Irina’s out on bail, and he gave me her phone number.”
“Good. She’s our new dominatrix in training. Call her and tell her she can move in this weekend. She’s staying with us until her divorce is finalized.”
“Is she nice?”
“She tried to poison her husband.”
“Nice. Message number three—Luka says she’ll be by tonight at nine.”
“And who the hell is Luka?”
“Old friend of mine,” Sam said. “Incredibly sexy. Her dad’s Jamaican and her mom’s Canadian. Weirdest accent ever. And she’s a pain-slut.”
“And I’m meeting her because...?”
“I think she could be our pro-sub. She’s never done it for money before, but she said she was up for a meeting.”
“A meeting or a beating?”
“That’s between you two. And now, I’m out of here. Good night, King Kingsley. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She salaamed at him on her way out of his bedroom.
“Sam?”
She paused in the doorway and turned around.
“The meeting with Luka—you take it. If she’s good, offer her the job.”
“You don’t want to meet her? Beat her? All that jizz?”
“I’ll let you take this one. Meet her. Talk to her. If you think she’s right for the job, hire her.”
Kingsley did want to meet her and probably beat her, too. He’d also probably fuck her, and he’d promised Søren and Dr. Sutton he’d be a good boy for two weeks.
“Sure,” Sam said with a shrug. “You busy tonight?”
“Very busy,” he said. “I’ll leave Luka to your good judgment.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Nice to be trusted. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. Anything else?”
“No. Yes. I forgot. One more message. A woman named Phoebe called. She said nine o’clock tomorrow. Which I assume means someone named Phoebe wants you to fuck her tomorrow night. Am I wrong?”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Should I call her back?”
Phoebe Dixon. He hadn’t seen her or fucked her in months. He assumed her husband had hinted that her extracurricular activities were no longer to be tolerated. Maybe Mister Dixon was out of town.
Out of town sounded like a very good idea right now.
“I’ll handle it,” Kingsley said. “Toss the message.”
“You got it.” She crumbled up the message and tossed it into his trash can on her way out of his door.
“Sam?”
“What?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob.
“You didn’t show me your scars,” he reminded her.
She smiled, but the smile looked both forced and faked.
“I don’t show anybody my scars.”
Sam walked out of his bedroom without another word.
Kingsley stood alone by his closet and tried to focus on getting dressed. But the message from Phoebe Dixon couldn’t be ignored. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think of a good enough excuse to get out of seeing her again. She only wanted him for one thing, and he was under orders from a doctor and a priest not to give that one thing to anyone for two weeks. Not that he was going to tell Phoebe or anyone else that. Telling her the truth wasn’t an option. Telling her no wasn’t an option. And pissing her off wasn’t an option.
“I’m hanging up on you.”
“I like the new secretary,” Søren said. “Keep this one.”
Kingsley hung up on him.
“Well, that was rude,” Sam said.
“I hung up on him because he deserved it.”
“No, I mean it’s rude to talk to him in French. I couldn’t keep up.”
“He said he liked you,” Kingsley said. Sam’s eyes sparkled like a child’s on Christmas morning.
“Then I like him. I’ve never met a kinky priest before. He has a nice voice. Stern but soothing. I want to call him ‘sir’ and serve him tea and crumpets and listen to him read The Hobbit to me.”
“Everyone he meets wants to call him ‘sir.’ And his father’s English, so he’d probably appreciate the tea. I have no idea if he eats crumpets.”
“Do you think he’d read The Hobbit out loud to me?”
“Ask him that when you meet him. And make sure I’m there for the answer. Now, can you please give me my messages so I can kick you out of my bedroom?”
“I like your bedroom. It’s cozy in a Gothic nightmare kind of way. Was V. C. Andrews your interior decorator? Your bed has bed curtains. I’ve never seen that in real life before.”
“Messages?”
“Fine.” She grabbed her clipboard, rolled over on the bed and read.
“Message number one—Signore Vitale will see you on June tenth at two for a fitting.” She read the entire message in a cartoonish Italian accent.
“I don’t know who that is. And what am I getting a fitting for? Please, tell me I didn’t agree to go to a wedding.”
“Vitale is my tailor, and you’re getting fitted for a new wardrobe. You want to be a kingly king, right? Not just a king?”
“Right.”
“Then you need a better wardrobe. Trust me on this. Vitale is a genius. Message number two—Officer Cooper said Irina’s out on bail, and he gave me her phone number.”
“Good. She’s our new dominatrix in training. Call her and tell her she can move in this weekend. She’s staying with us until her divorce is finalized.”
“Is she nice?”
“She tried to poison her husband.”
“Nice. Message number three—Luka says she’ll be by tonight at nine.”
“And who the hell is Luka?”
“Old friend of mine,” Sam said. “Incredibly sexy. Her dad’s Jamaican and her mom’s Canadian. Weirdest accent ever. And she’s a pain-slut.”
“And I’m meeting her because...?”
“I think she could be our pro-sub. She’s never done it for money before, but she said she was up for a meeting.”
“A meeting or a beating?”
“That’s between you two. And now, I’m out of here. Good night, King Kingsley. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She salaamed at him on her way out of his bedroom.
“Sam?”
She paused in the doorway and turned around.
“The meeting with Luka—you take it. If she’s good, offer her the job.”
“You don’t want to meet her? Beat her? All that jizz?”
“I’ll let you take this one. Meet her. Talk to her. If you think she’s right for the job, hire her.”
Kingsley did want to meet her and probably beat her, too. He’d also probably fuck her, and he’d promised Søren and Dr. Sutton he’d be a good boy for two weeks.
“Sure,” Sam said with a shrug. “You busy tonight?”
“Very busy,” he said. “I’ll leave Luka to your good judgment.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Nice to be trusted. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. Anything else?”
“No. Yes. I forgot. One more message. A woman named Phoebe called. She said nine o’clock tomorrow. Which I assume means someone named Phoebe wants you to fuck her tomorrow night. Am I wrong?”
“You’re not wrong.”
“Should I call her back?”
Phoebe Dixon. He hadn’t seen her or fucked her in months. He assumed her husband had hinted that her extracurricular activities were no longer to be tolerated. Maybe Mister Dixon was out of town.
Out of town sounded like a very good idea right now.
“I’ll handle it,” Kingsley said. “Toss the message.”
“You got it.” She crumbled up the message and tossed it into his trash can on her way out of his door.
“Sam?”
“What?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob.
“You didn’t show me your scars,” he reminded her.
She smiled, but the smile looked both forced and faked.
“I don’t show anybody my scars.”
Sam walked out of his bedroom without another word.
Kingsley stood alone by his closet and tried to focus on getting dressed. But the message from Phoebe Dixon couldn’t be ignored. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think of a good enough excuse to get out of seeing her again. She only wanted him for one thing, and he was under orders from a doctor and a priest not to give that one thing to anyone for two weeks. Not that he was going to tell Phoebe or anyone else that. Telling her the truth wasn’t an option. Telling her no wasn’t an option. And pissing her off wasn’t an option.
