The King
Page 94
“You want to know my secret?” she whispered in his ear. “I am bleeding like a stuck pig.”
Kingsley groaned and pushed her off his lap. Laughing, Sam sat on his desk and picked up her ice cream again.
“You asked. It’s why I’m craving chocolate. Seriously, I want chocolate more than pussy today. What I need is a pussy that I can put chocolate in. Sorry. I have thoughts like this when I’m on the rag.”
“That’s not the sort of secret I need to know.”
“What? You don’t swim the red river?”
“I have swum the red river. Swam? Swum? I hate English. J’ai nagé la riviere rouge.”
“Good. You get to keep your stud credentials. Only pussies are afraid of pussies.”
“I am not afraid of pussies.” Kingsley stood up and opened his mouth. She fed him another spoonful of her ice cream. “Speaking of pussies, Blaise is in DC again. Felicia has an overnight with a client. You want to sleep with me tonight?”
“Will you give me a back rub? I’m crampy today.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I formally accept your invitation.”
“Good.” He snapped her suspenders, and she yelped. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Where are you going?”
“To seduce Lucy Fuller.”
She pushed him back, hard.
“Don’t you dare.”
“I was kidding,” Kingsley said. “I’m reformed. These days I only fuck people I want to fuck. I don’t fuck fundamentalist preachers or their wives. Catholic clergy only.”
“It’s good to have standards,” Sam said, obviously relieved. “So, no fucking the Fullers. What about the money? Did you look through the financials The Barber sent over, too?”
“I did. Nothing there, either. The church is sitting on millions of dollars—most of it from the sale of merchandise and Lucy Fuller’s books on how to be a godly wife.”
“Please, stop reading those books,” Sam said. “They’re making you weird.”
“They are not.”
“Yesterday you asked me if we’re spending enough quality time together.”
“Are we?” Kingsley asked.
“Oh, my Jesus.”
“Admit it, Sam. Our marriage has never been better,” Kingsley said.
‘I’m burning those books,” Sam said.
Kingsley sighed. “I’m only trying to find something on these people. They’re the Stepford Christians. No second homes, no secret islands, no lavish apartments for mistresses. The Fullers are rich, but so far that’s their only sin.” Kingsley sighed. “What about you? Did you find anything on your quest?”
“No,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Didn’t really pan out. Still looking, though.”
“Keep looking. It’s there. We’ll find it.”
“Where are you going now?”
“An abortion clinic,” Kingsley said.
“Is it mine?” Sam asked. “It’s mine, isn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have let you come on me.”
Kingsley glared at her. “It’s Fuller’s. His protest, I mean. I want to talk to some people who go to his church. And Lucy Fuller, if she’s there.”
Kingsley tapped her under the chin and strode from the office. He heard footsteps behind him.
“King?”
He turned around and saw Sam wearing a rare expression of earnestness on her lovely face.
“You promise you won’t go near Lucy Fuller?” she asked.
Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her.
“It bothers you, doesn’t it? The thought of me with her. Why?”
“They run the camps that killed Faith. I know it was suicide, but she’d still be alive if it wasn’t for them. Just...don’t. Please?”
“I promise,” Kingsley said. “But you owe me.”
“Owe you what?” she demanded.
Kingsley took her ice-cream bowl from her and Sam glared at him.
“This will do.”
* * *
The clinic was out in Brooklyn, so Kingsley took a cab. Before his driver had turned on to the street, Kingsley heard the shouting and the bullhorns. He got out at the end of the block and walked to the protest. As he approached the clinic, the sounds of shouting only grew louder and more shrill. He remembered something he’d read back at St. Ignatius, something C. S. Lewis had written. In heaven there is silence and music. In hell there is only noise.
This was hell.
Standing in the midst of two dozen people holding signs, marching and shouting, was the devil himself, Reverend Fuller, grasping a bullhorn and echoing their “Abortion is murder” chant. A bullhorn? Sam was right. This was a man who did not deserve to get fucked by him or anyone else. Seemed a veritable crime that Søren was supposed to be celibate, and yet this man could breed with impunity.
Kingsley stood in the shadows of an alley and watched as Fuller worked the crowd, shaking hands, thanking the protesters for their dedication and inviting them to his church. Nearby a man with a camera recorded everything—Fuller with the bullhorn, the handshakes, the stomping feet and the waving signs.
During all the glad-handing, a small car pulled into the clinic parking lot, a young patient inside. Kingsley wished he’d come armed. If any of these assholes tried anything with that poor girl in the car, he would shoot them.
Kingsley groaned and pushed her off his lap. Laughing, Sam sat on his desk and picked up her ice cream again.
“You asked. It’s why I’m craving chocolate. Seriously, I want chocolate more than pussy today. What I need is a pussy that I can put chocolate in. Sorry. I have thoughts like this when I’m on the rag.”
“That’s not the sort of secret I need to know.”
“What? You don’t swim the red river?”
“I have swum the red river. Swam? Swum? I hate English. J’ai nagé la riviere rouge.”
“Good. You get to keep your stud credentials. Only pussies are afraid of pussies.”
“I am not afraid of pussies.” Kingsley stood up and opened his mouth. She fed him another spoonful of her ice cream. “Speaking of pussies, Blaise is in DC again. Felicia has an overnight with a client. You want to sleep with me tonight?”
“Will you give me a back rub? I’m crampy today.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then I formally accept your invitation.”
“Good.” He snapped her suspenders, and she yelped. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Where are you going?”
“To seduce Lucy Fuller.”
She pushed him back, hard.
“Don’t you dare.”
“I was kidding,” Kingsley said. “I’m reformed. These days I only fuck people I want to fuck. I don’t fuck fundamentalist preachers or their wives. Catholic clergy only.”
“It’s good to have standards,” Sam said, obviously relieved. “So, no fucking the Fullers. What about the money? Did you look through the financials The Barber sent over, too?”
“I did. Nothing there, either. The church is sitting on millions of dollars—most of it from the sale of merchandise and Lucy Fuller’s books on how to be a godly wife.”
“Please, stop reading those books,” Sam said. “They’re making you weird.”
“They are not.”
“Yesterday you asked me if we’re spending enough quality time together.”
“Are we?” Kingsley asked.
“Oh, my Jesus.”
“Admit it, Sam. Our marriage has never been better,” Kingsley said.
‘I’m burning those books,” Sam said.
Kingsley sighed. “I’m only trying to find something on these people. They’re the Stepford Christians. No second homes, no secret islands, no lavish apartments for mistresses. The Fullers are rich, but so far that’s their only sin.” Kingsley sighed. “What about you? Did you find anything on your quest?”
“No,” she said, not meeting his eyes. “Didn’t really pan out. Still looking, though.”
“Keep looking. It’s there. We’ll find it.”
“Where are you going now?”
“An abortion clinic,” Kingsley said.
“Is it mine?” Sam asked. “It’s mine, isn’t it? I knew I shouldn’t have let you come on me.”
Kingsley glared at her. “It’s Fuller’s. His protest, I mean. I want to talk to some people who go to his church. And Lucy Fuller, if she’s there.”
Kingsley tapped her under the chin and strode from the office. He heard footsteps behind him.
“King?”
He turned around and saw Sam wearing a rare expression of earnestness on her lovely face.
“You promise you won’t go near Lucy Fuller?” she asked.
Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her.
“It bothers you, doesn’t it? The thought of me with her. Why?”
“They run the camps that killed Faith. I know it was suicide, but she’d still be alive if it wasn’t for them. Just...don’t. Please?”
“I promise,” Kingsley said. “But you owe me.”
“Owe you what?” she demanded.
Kingsley took her ice-cream bowl from her and Sam glared at him.
“This will do.”
* * *
The clinic was out in Brooklyn, so Kingsley took a cab. Before his driver had turned on to the street, Kingsley heard the shouting and the bullhorns. He got out at the end of the block and walked to the protest. As he approached the clinic, the sounds of shouting only grew louder and more shrill. He remembered something he’d read back at St. Ignatius, something C. S. Lewis had written. In heaven there is silence and music. In hell there is only noise.
This was hell.
Standing in the midst of two dozen people holding signs, marching and shouting, was the devil himself, Reverend Fuller, grasping a bullhorn and echoing their “Abortion is murder” chant. A bullhorn? Sam was right. This was a man who did not deserve to get fucked by him or anyone else. Seemed a veritable crime that Søren was supposed to be celibate, and yet this man could breed with impunity.
Kingsley stood in the shadows of an alley and watched as Fuller worked the crowd, shaking hands, thanking the protesters for their dedication and inviting them to his church. Nearby a man with a camera recorded everything—Fuller with the bullhorn, the handshakes, the stomping feet and the waving signs.
During all the glad-handing, a small car pulled into the clinic parking lot, a young patient inside. Kingsley wished he’d come armed. If any of these assholes tried anything with that poor girl in the car, he would shoot them.
