The King

“Stay down. Look at me.”

“I don’t want to look at you,” Kingsley said.

“I don’t care. Look at me.” Søren took Kingsley by the chin, forcing the eye contact. “Tell me where you were.”

“Slovenia.”

“Why?”

“I was shot there.”

“Is that all that happened?”

“I think so.”

He glanced away. It hurt to be looked at like this, with such concern and pity. That wasn’t how he wanted Søren to look at him. He wanted Søren to look at him with lust and desire and want and hunger.

He tried to stand up again, but Søren still wouldn’t let him.

“I touched your throat with the whip, and you started wheezing like you were actually choking,” Søren said. “You fell to your knees and wouldn’t speak.”

“I’m fine,” Kingsley said for the third and final time.

Søren sighed and pushed a damp lock of hair off Kingsley’s forehead.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Søren said, his tone almost, but not quite, apologetic.

“You didn’t scare me. I’m not scared.” His racing heart, his churning stomach made a liar of him.

“Well, this answers my question.”

“What question?” Kingsley asked, dropping his head. He didn’t want to look in Søren’s eyes. He saw fear in them, not of Kingsley but for Kingsley. And something told him Søren wouldn’t be touching him again for a very long time.

If ever.

“Now I know why you don’t let anyone hurt you anymore.”

Kingsley looked up at Søren from the floor.

“Get out of my house,” Kingsley said.

“Kingsley?”

“You said I don’t owe you anything. Get the fuck out of my house.”

Søren got the fuck out.

10 (#ulink_1f620939-f9e3-50bb-aacc-c9c12343c1ae)

SEVEN DAYS AND seven nights passed, and Søren didn’t come back to Kingsley’s house. He didn’t call, didn’t write, didn’t visit and didn’t once tell Kingsley he needed to get help. He was gone, gone, gone, and that was fine, fine, fine with Kingsley.

Except it wasn’t. Because Søren had promised never to leave him again. And he had.

Promises, promises.

Kingsley took another swig from the bottle of bourbon, coughed a little, and laid back on the chaise longue. He crossed his feet at the ankles and watched the light from the swimming pool dance across the ceiling. He had no idea why he still had the pool down here. No one ever swam in it. He kept the doors locked to prevent any of his inebriated houseguests from turning up facedown in it by accident. A bad sign when the only person who got anything out of the swimming pool was the pool boy. And even he wasn’t attractive enough for Kingsley to bother seducing.

But tonight he wanted to lie by the water while he drank. It was peaceful here. The pool wasn’t large or deep—ten by twenty feet across and four feet to the bottom. The floor was Mediterranean tile, and red, yellow and gold murals of northern Italy covered the walls. The paintings reminded him of a little village in the south of France he and his family had gone to every August when he was a child. A village right on the Mediterranean. Beautiful place, restful. Water, hills, vineyards. A vintner’s wife had seduced him there when he was twenty-two and hiding out while he recovered from his first gunshot wound. He had nothing but fond memories of the place. Being near water soothed his soul. If he had a soul. Did he have one? Didn’t matter if he did or not. He and God weren’t on speaking terms right now. And that was fine. Kingsley didn’t mind. What did he and God have to talk about anyway? The only thing he wanted to ask God was why He’d called Søren to the priesthood. Could God have played a sicker joke on him?

“Knock, knock?”

Kingsley sighed. Blaise’s gentle voice came from the door. He waved his arm tiredly at her, beckoning her in.

“He’s not here,” Kingsley said.

“I wasn’t looking for him, I promise,” Blaise said.

“Are you swimming?”

“And mess up my hair?” She tossed her honey-blond hair over her shoulder. “No, I’m checking on you.”

Blaise crawled up on the chaise longue next to him. Kingsley looked her up and down as she settled in next to him.

“You’ve outdone yourself with this ensemble,” he said. “You look like... What’s her name? That pretty blonde actress. The dead one with the hair. River? Ocean? Pool?”

“Veronica Lake. And that’s what I was going for. See?” She held up her leg to display her seamed stockings that disappeared under her pencil skirt. She had her hair coiffed in a forties peekaboo style.

“Why do you dress like this?” he asked. Every day she wore some new vintage outfit that put one in mind of old Hollywood.

“The world is sadly lacking in glamour. I want to be part of the solution, not part of the problem. And not all of us are as naturally gorgeous and eye-catching as you are, King,” she said, tapping the end of his nose. “Some of us have to work for it.”

“You like the attention. You’re the girl in the room who dresses like she forgot what decade she’s in.”

“I’m trying to forget what decade I’m in. The nineties need to shape up fast. You know what people are wearing now? On purpose? Flannel. I saw it on MTV.”

“I shudder.”

“Me, too. Awful. There is nothing glamorous about flannel.”

“You don’t dress like this to be glamorous. You dress to be remembered.”

“So? What’s wrong with being memorable? Even if someone forgets my name, they still remember the girl in the seamed stockings.”

“Nothing’s wrong with being memorable. Except when someone’s trying to forget you.”

Blaise sighed and laid her head on his chest.

“I knew you were in a funk,” she said. “You always get like this when you drink.”