The King

“Do you never knock?” Kingsley asked.

“The moaning and groaning had stopped, and the walls have stopped rattling,” Søren said. “I assumed the coast was clear.”

“Clear for what? What are you doing here?”

“Fulfilling my end of the deal, like I said I would.”

“Are you here to yell at me again?” Kingsley asked as Søren walked in.

“I didn’t yell,” Søren said, taking a seat opposite Kingsley’s desk. “At no point did I raise my voice at you.”

“It felt like yelling.”

“Even the lightest touch can hurt an open wound. You can’t blame me for being worried about you.”

“Stop worrying. You aren’t my father.”

“I should hope not,” Søren said, furrowing his brow. “If so, my infant self has some explaining to do.”

“You aren’t my priest, either,” Kingsley said, although Søren didn’t look like a priest today. He wore his usual off-duty uniform of a long-sleeved black T-shirt and black pants.

“Why, Kingsley, aren’t we looking very defensive today.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that. You asked me to teach you the whip trick. Here I am.”

“I asked you to teach me a whip trick?”

“I can’t say I’m surprised you don’t remember.”

“I remember.” Kingsley narrowed his eyes at him. Now that Søren had reminded him about it, he remembered.

“I can go if you’ve changed your mind,” Søren said, standing up.

“No. Sit. Don’t go.”

Søren looked at him and sat back down.

“I don’t do coke very often,” Kingsley said. “I was having a bad night. That’s all.”

“How many bad nights do you have?”

“One or two. Not many,” Kingsley said.

“I know I gave you the money with no strings attached. But I never suspected you’d use it for drugs.”

“You want the money back?”

“No. I want you to take better care of yourself. That’s all.”

“Take better care of myself? An interesting statement coming from the man who used to beat me black-and-blue on a regular basis. I see you’ve found some new whipping boys.”

“Whipping girls.”

“Only girls these days?” Kingsley asked.

“Only women. I’m less likely to go too far.”

“I loved it when you went too far.”

“And now,” Søren said with a smile, “you know why I don’t play with you.”

Kingsley lowered his head and rested his chin on his crossed arms.

“Kingsley?”

“What happened to you? You’re different,” Kingsley said.

“You want to know the truth?”

“I asked.”

“Her name is Magdalena.”

“Secret girlfriend?”

“She’s the madam of a Roman brothel. She and her employees cater to a very specific clientele.”

“Masochists?”

“Mostly.”

“That’s where you’ve been going to...” Kingsley waved his hand.

“It is.”

“Normal men join a gym to work off their extra energy,” Kingsley said. “So I’ve heard.”

“I’m not normal men. And don’t pretend you are, either.”

Kingsley rolled his eyes, waved his hand again. “So she’s your friend and...?”

“My first two years of seminary were difficult. I’m not sure I would have made it without Magdalena. I owe her, but she refused to accept any form of remuneration from me.”

“I’ve known a lot of prostitutes. Never heard of one refusing money from a john. Of course, it’s you, and I’d pay you money for another—”

“Kingsley, she and I never slept together. We were friends. I learned from her.”