The Queen

“What is?”

“Just yesterday Michael was fifteen years old and had barely healed scars on his wrists from when he tried to kill himself in my church. And today...today he’s twenty-one and married. Michael. Married.” He looked at her and half laughed.

“I know. Crazy, isn’t it? I swear yesterday I was fifteen, and I saw my new priest for the very first time, and loved him from the moment I saw him, and knew I’d love him until I died. Today I’m thirty-eight, and I still love him and know I’ll love him forever.” The days danced and flashed around her like fireflies on a summer’s night. “Where is the time going?” she asked him. “How did it all go by so fast? And what if it’s all gone tomorrow?”

“We live each day like it’s our last. But not by running about wildly, attempting to cram every possible experience into one day. Instead...every day we should make our peace with God and each other. Say what needs to be said and not leave it for another time. If I knew I would die tomorrow I’d spend all night telling you and Kingsley how much I love you both, and I wouldn’t let God take me until I was certain you knew I meant every word. I would sing it to you like the angels sing praise to God in heaven—unceasingly.”

“We know. Kingsley and I, we already know.”

“But I would still tell you,” he said softly. “Even if you didn’t need to hear it, I would have to tell you.”

She held him close again, kissed his cheek, his forehead, like a mother kissing a scared child. And he was scared. She could feel it in every touch.

“Talk to me. Distract me. Help me get through these hours.”

“Will you hear my confession?” Nora asked. She turned and met his eyes. How she loved those eyes, the strength and color of steel. “This could be my last chance to confess to you, after all.”

“I won’t leave the priesthood. I promised you I wouldn’t.”

“You were in the wedding pictures. You performed a same-sex marriage. You kissed me in front of two hundred wedding guests, half of them we don’t know. You can tell me all you want that it’s fine, that it won’t matter, but we both know those are not the actions of a man who is planning on being a priest for much longer.”

“I have to tell them. Some things shouldn’t be secrets.”

“You tell them the truth, and they will kick you out.”

“Possibly. I’ve made choices, difficult ones, but I did it in full knowledge of the consequences. Nothing stays the same forever, after all.”

“That’s not true. My love for you is forever. I made that promise, and I will keep it. But tomorrow or next week or next month you might not be a priest anymore. So please...hear my confession and absolve me? One last time?”

He rose from the pew and moved a chair from the side of the chapel and set it in front of her. From the leather sporran of his kilt, he pulled a leather case, unzipped it and unfurled a purple sash. He kissed it and draped it around his neck and over his shoulders. He sat in the chair and pressed his palms together. Nora looked at his hands and saw they were now steady and still.

She smiled and looked up to the octagonal window. The sun would set in under three hours. By nightfall everything could change.

“First of all,” she began, “I’m confessing these sins to you because I committed them against you and only you can absolve me of them.”

“What are your sins?”

Nora loved Søren. This was an incontrovertible fact of the universe, strong as gravity, inevitable as sunrise. She’d told him almost everything there was to tell him about their years apart, everything but this. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him but she didn’t want to keep the truth from him anymore. No more secrets. No more lies. Nothing between them anymore and never again.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she began her confession. “When we were apart there were two times I almost came back to you and didn’t.”

“Two?” Søren looked at her, wide-eyed and stunned. Usually she loved shocking him, it was such a feat. Not today. “Why didn’t you?”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

Then Søren said to her the two words she’d once said to him that had changed her life.

“Tell me.”

3 (#ulink_8e5fc2da-523d-5d6a-ac7c-cdaf39ab0fb2)

Power Games

New York City 2005

ELLE HAD NEVER felt more powerless in her life.

A strong statement from a woman who’d been the property of a sadist and dominant for her entire adult life. She’d knelt at his feet, called him “sir,” obeyed his every order, submitted to his every desire, sexual and sadistic. Not even with her forehead on his bedroom floor, a collar around her neck and a flogger on her back had Elle felt this trapped and impotent. With Søren she could have stopped it all with her safe word. What would she have to say to stop it now?

Elle was broke and homeless, had no job and no idea where to go if Kingsley kicked her out of his house. There was no safe word that could save her tonight. So when Kingsley sat on his desk in front of her in the middle of a cool spring night and said to her, “I want you to become a dominatrix,” she didn’t laugh in his face. She didn’t have the luxury anymore of laughing in Kingsley’s face about anything. He had all the power, and she had none. An unusual and unpleasant sensation. She resolved never to feel it again.

“A dominatrix?” Elle repeated after Kingsley had made his royal proclamation. “Me?”

“A dominatrix.” Kingsley pointed at her chest. “You.”

“So...you want me...to beat people up...for money?”

“Non. Not for money.” Kingsley waved his pointing finger in front of her face in that annoying French way he had of tsk-tsking her. She almost bit that finger off. Instead she behaved herself because she was too scared not to. “For a lot of fucking money, Elle.”

“How much fucking money?” she asked.

“When I’m done training you, you’ll be making one to five thousand dollars an hour.”

If Elle had water in her mouth at that moment she would have spit it all over the front of Kingsley’s barely buttoned white shirt.

“A thousand dollars an hour?”

“Minimum,” Kingsley said.

“Dominatrixes don’t usually make that kind of money.”

Mistress Irina, Kingsley’s Russian sadist, worked the top end of the scale. And she made five hundred dollars an hour—a thousand an hour when the client demanded very special and intimate attention that would likely lead to hospitalization. The extra fee was for all the paperwork involved.

“But you will. You will be offering a service others will not.”

“Sex?”

“Sex would hardly warrant five thousand an hour. Almost anyone can lie on their back, close their eyes and think of France.”

“It’s England.”

“Why would anyone think of England during sex?”

“Forget it. Tell me what I’m doing.”

“You know what you’re doing,” Kingsley said. “Exactly what you want to be doing except you’ll be doing it for money.”

“A lot of fucking money,” she said, looking up at Kingsley. He sat on the edge of his desk with one foot on the arm of the chair, gazing down at her waiting for her answer.