The King

by Tiffany Reisz

  using the term people loosely, that’s saying something.” Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her. He’d met Maggie years

  ago when he’d been sent on a long undercover assignment in

  Manhattan. Older, rich, well-respected and powerful, Maggie was also a sexual submissive who loved nothing so much

  as spending all night on her hands and knees for a man. He’d

  taken great pleasure in giving her knees rug burn for two

  months straight.

  “You miss me, don’t you?” he asked her.

  “No.”

  “Do you think if I hadn’t gone back to France, we still

  would be together?” he asked.

  “Kingsley?” Maggie reached across the table and snapped

  her fingers in his face. “Pay attention. Your club has been

  closed for a month. Can we talk about how much money

  you’re losing and why?”

  “I have plenty of money.”

  “Do you not care about the people who work for you who

  lost their jobs?”

  “I’m still paying them.”

  “When did you become so altruistic?”

  “I’m a very giving person. Orgasms, beatings, rug burn,”

  he reminded her.

  “I’m leaving. When you’re ready to discuss your legal situation, call my office.” She gathered her things and stood up. Kingsley took her by the wrist and pulled her back down to

  her chair. As he expected, she didn’t put up a fight. “I’m sorry,” he said, moving his chair directly in front of

  hers. “I am. This is my own fault, which is why I don’t want

  to talk about it. But I need to. I need you.”

  Maggie exhaled heavily. She took Kingsley’s hands in hers.

  On her left hand she now sported a wedding band. His beautiful, servile, submissive Maggie, who had once spent twentyfour hours straight chained to his bed…was now married. And

  to a librarian of all things.

  “Tell me what’s going on. The truth,” she said. “I can’t help

  you if you won’t tell me what’s happening.”

  “I fell in love,” he said.

  She smiled at him sympathetically. “The root of all evil.

  Who is she? Or he?”

  “She’s a hotel called The Renaissance.”

  “Your strip club is closed. You’re being investigated for tax

  code violations. And your friend Irina’s being deported. And

  this is all about real estate?”

  Kingsley nodded.

  “Well,” she said. “That’s Manhattan for you.”

  “I want to open a new club,” he began. “A club for us. For

  our kind. The world’s largest S and M club. I found a place I

  wanted, but it’s owned by Reverend James Fuller.” “Reverend Fuller? The Reverend Fuller? The Reverend

  Fuller who opens legislative sessions with prayers, held the

  Bible for the mayor when he was sworn in and baptized the

  governor’s granddaughter? That Reverend Fuller?” “The same,” he said.

  “Okay. Tell me everything.”

  He told her. He told her about Sam and The Renaissance, about trying to buy it from Fuller and having his offer refused. He told her about the church, the camps and the teenage kids being tortured for being gay. He told her that while he could find another building for his club, he loathed Fuller so much

  he refused to give up.

  “Maggie,” he said, raising her hand and kissing it. “This is

  my city now. This is my home. I can’t let Fuller bring his empire into my city. You know what I am. I was sleeping with

  another boy when I was sixteen. Fuller would have sent me to

  one of those fucking conversion therapy camps if he’d had the

  chance. Me and him. And Fuller’s not sorry. He only closed

  the camp because two of the campers made a suicide pact.” “Did they die?” she asked, horrified.

  “One died. The other girl lived. Lived and worked for me

  for a few months.”

  “Sam?”

  “She told me what happened to her at that camp. I spoke

  to some others who’d gone to his camps. They confirmed

  everything she said. There’s a thirty-two-year-old man in

  Queens who still has the burn scars from the electrodes on

  his testicles.”

  Maggie winced. Once Kingsley had realized Sam had betrayed him, he’d begun doubting everything she’d told him.

  But when it came to the camps, she’d been telling the truth.

  The man with the burns hadn’t wanted to talk to him at first,

  not until Kingsley promised him that he’d do everything he

  could to keep Fuller from opening a church in the city. Kingsley had found him through a lawsuit he’d filed against Fuller

  and the church seeking restitution for his massive therapy and

  medical bills. The man hadn’t had sex in five years because

  he couldn’t bear to let anyone see the burns on his genitals. “He’s not a man of God,” Kingsley said. “I know a man of

  God, and that man of God makes me think God might be on our side. But Fuller, he’s a demagogue. And he’s dangerous.

  And I don’t want him in my town.”

  “I get it,” Maggie said. “I can’t say I want him or his church

  in my town, either.”

  “What about Irina?”

  “They’ve ‘lost’ her paperwork. INS is as bad as the health

  department. Someone deep in the works is throwing a wrench

  into everything I try to do.”

  “You got her out of jail. That was a good start.” “Getting the charges dropped again was easy. They don’t

  have any evidence. Keeping her from being sent back to Russia will be the hard part. Especially since she’d been twice arrested. She doesn’t make a very sympathetic case.” “Her husband bought her, abused her, and she put eye drops

  in his drink so he’d be too ill to rape her one night and that’s

  not sympathetic?”

  “He was never charged for anything. She was. You know

  how the world works, King.”

  “I know. I don’t want to know, but I know.” He made a

  decision then and there, and he spoke it aloud before he lost

  his courage. “I can’t let Irina be deported. I’ll call Fuller. I’ll

  tell him I give up. He wins. I lose.”

  “Are you sure?” Maggie asked.

  He wasn’t, but he didn’t know what else to do. He could

  survive without the Möbius. He would beat any charges

  brought against him for tax code violations. But he’d made

  Irina a promise to take care of her, and he would keep it. “I’m sure,” he said. He sat back and put his boot on the

  chair across from him.

  Then he kicked the chair so hard it f lew ten feet across

  the f loor.

  “Kingsley.”

  He raised his hand to silence her. Maggie looked at him

  with compassion but said nothing.

  “The club, it would have been something special, Mags.

  You would have loved it there. The Renaissance, it was perfect for it. I’ve never wanted a place so much in my life. That

  club was my baby.”

  “You can still build it. We’ll find somewhere else for you.

  I’ll help you any way I can.”

  Kingsley gave her a tired smile. It was a relief in a way, letting his dream die. He had all the money he’d ever need, all

  the lovers any man could want… It was fine. Time to move

  on. Sam had turned on him and he’d been too hurt to even

  ask her why. Whatever her reasons, he wasn’t going to start a

  fight with her over it. No more causalit
ies. The war was over. And yet…

  “I’m sorry, King,” Maggie said, squeezing his hands. “I

  know surrender isn’t your forte.”

  “If it was only me, I’d fight to the bitter end.”

  “I know you would. And I think a few years ago you would

  have kept fighting anyway, collateral damage be damned.

  You’re getting noble in your old age.”

  “I’m twenty-eight. Same age as your boy-toy.” “Daniel’s not my toy. I’m his.” Maggie f lashed him a seductive grin as she gathered her things again.

  “I’ll never forgive you for getting married.”

  “I didn’t ask for your forgiveness.” She stood up, bent over

  and gave him the quickest of kisses on the lips. “I’ll contact

  Fuller’s attorney for you. You stay away from the man. No

  more antagonizing him.”

  “You’re enjoying telling me what to do, aren’t you?” “Remember that night you made me suck your cock for

  two straight hours?”

  “That was as much work for me as it was for you.” “Go home,” Maggie said. “I’ll call you when it’s all taken

  care of.”

  “I don’t want to go home,” Kingsley said, leaning his head

  back and running his fingers through his hair in exhaustion. “Last call,” Maggie said at the door. She pointed to the

  closed sign. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay

  here.”

  She gave him a wink and walked out. He hadn’t been kidding. As much as he loved Chez Kingsley, he was far too restless and worried to go home and sit waiting for Maggie to call

  him. He didn’t want to go home. And he didn’t want to be

  alone. And he didn’t want to be sober another second. He reached behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Jack

  Daniel’s. He sat it on the counter in front of him. If he closed

  his eyes he could picture Sam standing behind the bar, the

  bottle in her hand, f lipping and catching it. He didn’t want

  to drink the Jack. He wanted to inhale it, every drop until his

  heart stopped beating and his brain stopped thinking. And yet

  in the back of his mind he could hear Søren’s voice. Drinking is for celebrating, not for suicide.

  Too bad he didn’t have anything to celebrate.

  Maybe it was a Catholic feast day or something. He pushed

  the bottle aside, picked up the phone behind the bar and dialed a number.

  “What day is this?” Kingsley asked.

  “It’s Sunday,” Søren said, “which means it’s still been eleven

  years.”

  “Is it a saint’s day or a feast day?”

  “It’s always a saint’s day. It’s also Clergy Appreciation Day,

  according to Diane. Seems to be the only explanation for why

  my desk is covered in baked goods,” Søren said, sounding utterly bewildered.

  “Clergy Appreciation Day. That will work. On my way.” “On your way?”

  “Yes. I need to get drunk. I’m depressed and miserable

  and angry. And you said I can’t drink unless I’m celebrating something. You and I can celebrate Clergy Appreciation

  Day together. And you owe me. I destroyed First Presbyterian for you.”

  “I owe you?”

  “Oui.”

  Søren paused. Kingsley waited.

  “The rectory at nine,” Søren said.

  “You want to celebrate, too?”

  “I’m a priest in love with a sixteen-year-old girl. Bring a

  big bottle. We’ll both crawl inside it.”

  36

  KINGSLEY LAY ON THE FLOOR WITH AN ALMOST empty bottle of pinot noir in his hand and a full glass in the other. Søren sat at his piano playing a familiar song. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt, and if Kingsley could ignore the crosses on the wall and the Bible on the table, he could almost forget Søren was a priest. The lamp-lit room throbbed in time with the music. The piece ended, and Søren turned around on the piano bench.

  “That’s a good song,” Kingsley said, raising his glass in a salute.

  “No idea what it is,” Søren said. “I heard it while making hospital visits. I’ve spent the last week trying to work out the melody. You know it?”

  “Is called ‘Purple Rain.’” Sam had that CD. She had a huge music collection, and he’d come home one day to Prince, the next day to Nine Inch Nails. He’d caught her and Blaise dancing to something called The Humpty Hump one rainy Thursday. “I’ll buy you a copy.”

  “‘Purple Rain?’ Who’s the composer?”

  “A man named Prince.”

  “Prince? Is he an actual prince?”

  “I don’t think so. But am I an actual king?” Kingsley asked with a disdainful shrug. “Pfft.”

  “Pfft?” Søren repeated. “Pfft? Is that French for something?”

  “Is French for pfft,” Kingsley said. “Where did you get the piano? You are a priest with no money.”

  Søren picked up his wineglass. “I told my sister Elizabeth how our dear father tried to bribe me into quitting seminary with a Ducati. She said she’d buy me a Steinway if I did get ordained. I thought she was joking. The piano showed up in June.”