of relief, of surprise. And Kingsley was relieved to see him alive, relieved to see him standing, relieved to simply see him, this man he’d loved all this life.
Søren started to stay something else, but Kingsley stopped him with a quick vicious punch to the face.
Søren’s head snapped to the left. Kingsley had to give the man credit. He took the punch well. He’d put other men on their backs by hitting them as hard as he’d hit Søren. For good measure and because he deserved it, Kingsley punched him in the chest. He aimed for under the rib cage and he was fairly certain he felt something crack.
“This isn’t kink, by the way,” Kingsley said. Søren clapped a hand onto Kingsley’s shoulder to steady himself. He wasn’t doubled over but close to it. “Consider it a lesson in empathy.”
“I missed you, too, Kingsley,” Søren said, his voice steady, but with a note of discomfort. He looked down and saw Søren’s clenched hand. And slowly, ever so slowly, Søren relaxed his hand.
“Turning the other cheek?” Kingsley asked. “Maybe you did learn something in seminary, after all.”
Søren stood up straight at last and raised a hand to his nose. A line of blood trickled from it. He touched it and looked at the blood as if surprised to see it there.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this greeting?” Søren asked, his voice composed but hard as granite.
Kingsley reached into the pocket of his trousers and held out the handle of the riding crop he’d given Elle, the handle of the riding crop she’d left for Kingsley as a message, the handle of the riding crop Søren had broken.
He dropped it onto the floor of the church in front of Søren’s feet. Kingsley looked Søren in the eyes.
“Don’t ever break my toys again.”
Kingsley turned to leave, but Søren stopped him with a question.
“Why weren’t you with her?”
Kingsley froze. Slowly he turned back around.
“So much for turning the other cheek,” Kingsley said. He smiled. “It’s impressive, really. You don’t even have to hit me to hit me. You are indeed the greatest sadist in the world. Congratulations. I hope you’re proud.”
“You shouldn’t have let her go through it alone.”
“No, I shouldn’t have. I should have been there. But where the fuck were you?”
“I was in Rome, and I left her with you. I left her for you to take care of and instead I come home to find her bleeding in my bathroom and sick as I’ve ever seen her.”
“Yes, and what did you do when she was bleeding and as sick as you’ve ever seen her? You did that.” He pointed at the broken riding crop on the floor at Søren’s feet. “And now she’s gone. Maybe you should have stayed in Rome with the Pope. She’d still be here.”
“If I’d been here, I wouldn’t have let her go through it alone. If you’d called me—”
“I told her to call you. She refused. She said she didn’t want to burden you with the decision. She had to make it herself so it would never be on your conscience. That was the most scared I’ve ever seen her, and even then, she was thinking of you.”
Søren didn’t speak but he didn’t look away. He held Kingsley’s gaze, unapologetic.
“It’s funny,” Kingsley said as he made a sudden realization. “For over ten years I’ve thought one thing about her. Yes, she’s beautiful, beyond beautiful. Kinky. Smart. Every man’s dream. But I always thought perhaps...she wasn’t good enough for you. This little girl from Nowhere, Connecticut, with a nobody mother and a piece of shit father. How could she ever be worthy of you? Now I’m starting to think something different. You hide behind your collar and get to play God while the rest of us do your bidding and suffer the consequences. You get the glory. She gets the bruises. Maybe it’s you who’s not worthy of her. Maybe it’s you who’s not worthy of me, either.”
“Have you spent the last year planning this speech?”
“No,” Kingsley said. “The last twenty years.”
“Twenty years? I would have expected a longer speech then.”
For that Kingsley almost hit him again.
“I used to think you walked on water,” Kingsley said, meeting Søren’s eyes. “Now I know you’re drowning like the rest of us.”
“I am drowning,” Søren said, and Kingsley paused in the doorway. There it was again—the sound of an eggshell cracking inside his heart. He ignored it.
Kingsley walked out of the sanctuary and out of the church before Søren could say another word or before Kingsley could say anything he might regret someday.
Roland was out of the car in an instant, opening the door for Kingsley.
“Where to now, sir?”
“Home,” Kingsley said tiredly.
An hour later, Roland pulled the car in front of the town house and Kingsley got out on his own, his bag in his hand. He’d forgotten he had people to open doors for him, to carry his bags for him. He’d been gone too long. So long he’d thought he’d feel something when he arrived at his house. Relief? Happiness? Contentment? But he felt only resignation. He’d run away from home like a child who’d fought with his father. He’d gone out into the big wide world and the big wide world had sent him back home again. So much for the return of the prodigal. No fatted calf for him. No feast. No fanfare.
He opened the front door and sixteen feet raced at him in a flurry of love and fur. He dropped his bags and hit his knees as his four black Rottweilers whined and whimpered, almost mad with happiness to see him again. He let them paw at him, lick him, knock him flat on his back with their joy.
“I was going to throw you a welcome home party,” said a voice from the top of the stairs. Kingsley looked up and saw a girl with bobbed brown hair skipping down the steps. “But the kids said they didn’t want to share you.”
Calliope was dressed in her usual uniform of a plaid skirt, kneesocks and an oversize cardigan. She was his devil in disguise—a wicked computer genius who looked like a schoolgirl, because she was one.
“They’re very possessive,” Kingsley said as he pulled himself off the floor. Calliope stood on the bottom step and Kingsley walked to her. “You look different.”
“It’s the haircut,” she said, tossing her head left and right. “Like it?”
“It’s très French. You look like Coco Chanel.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I said you looked French. There is no higher compliment.”
She laughed and crossed her arms over her chest.
“Am I allowed to hug my boss?” she asked. “Or would that be weird?”
“You aren’t going to hit on me, are you?” he asked.
“No. I’ll behave.”
“Then yes, you can hug me.”
Calliope leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him.
“You’re too skinny,” she said in his ear. “You need to eat. I’ll get us takeout from La Grenouille. And then we can watch The Matrix again.”
“I’ll need wine for that,” Kingsley said. “Lots of wine.”
“Can I have some, too?” she asked, pulling back to smile ingratiatingly at him. “S’il vous plaît, monsieur?”
“You’re underage.”
“Yes, but you’re French.”
“I am, aren’t I?” He paused and pretended to mull it over. He held up one finger. “Drink all you want then. But no driving.”
“That’s what we have Roland for, remember?” She embraced him again and for a moment Kingsley did feel what he wanted to feel upon arriving back at home after his journey—contentment, peace, happiness. But it was gone again in a flash.
“What about your Juliette?” Calliope asked. “When’s she coming?”
“She’s not,” Kingsley said.
“But what about everything I—”
“She’s not coming,” he said again. He forced a smile, but Calliope didn’t buy it.
“King, I’m so sorry.” She hugged him again, long and hard, and he let her.
“It’s fine,” he said, patting her on the back, comforting her as she tried to comfort him. “Some things aren’t meant to be.”
“Do you love her?” she asked, a child’s question. No adult would ask a question so honest.
“Yes,” he said. “But I’ll survive. That’s what I do. It’s what we all have to do whether we want to or not.”
“You better survive. I don’t want to have to get a real job.”
“This is a real job,” he said, pulling away from her. “You’re the personal assistant to a business magnate.”
“I’ve spent the last ten months having dungeons cleaned and hacking into the French governments personnel files.”
“And?”
“And I love it.” She grinned broadly at him. “So it’s good you’ll survive. And if she doesn’t see how awesome you are after all you did, she doesn’t deserve you.”
“You’re too kind. But I don’t want to talk about it. I want to play with my dogs and eat all the boeuf bourguignon in the city.”
“I’m on it,” she said, clapping her hands. “Your wish is my command. Come on, kids. Dinnertime.” She snapped her fingers and his four dogs—Brutus, Dominic, Sadie and Max—got to their feet and followed her like four huge black ducklings following their mother. He laughed at the sight of them. It was good to be home. He picked up his bag off the floor and tramped up the stairs. He’d take a long shower, shave, put on his favorite clothes, his favorite boots...then he’d feel like himself again. Or even better, he’d feel like someone else.
When he opened the door to his bedroom, he inhaled deeply. Calliope had done a good job. She’d kept the house in perfect order while he was gone. He could smell the wood polish on the bedposts, the leather polish on his boots in the closet. The air, however, carried the scent of abandonment. It was time he came home. He had the feeling his bed had missed him as much as he’d missed it.
He undressed and stood in the shower for a long time, willing the hot water to burn his misery out, willing the hot water to wash his heartbreak away. It didn’t, of course, but he felt better when he was clean again. He was only half dressed when he heard his phone ringing—the private line that rang only into his bedroom. He checked the caller ID. It wasn’t her. Would he be hoping it was her every time any phone rang?
“Edge,” he said into the phone.
“You broke a rib,” came the reply.
Kingsley laughed, his first real laugh in over a week.
“I thought you’d be happy about that.”
“How’s your face?”
“I have a bruise. Should be interesting explaining that to my church.”
“Welcome to the company of we who must lie about our bruises. Your Little One was one of our founding members.”
“I’ve never left bruises on her face.”
“Then I suppose you deserve a medal,” Kingsley said with more venom than he intended.
“I didn’t call to start round two.”
“No,” Kingsley said. “I know. I’m done. C’est fini.”
“Good. Because if you try that again, I will hit back.”
“I haven’t taken a beating in months. Your threats aren’t having the desired effect.”
“They never did.”
Kingsley paused and prepared his confession.
“I met someone in Haiti.”
“Is that where you went?”
“For a while.”
“Who is she? He?”
“Her name’s Juliette. But it doesn’t matter,” Kingsley said. “It didn’t work out with her. I might have taken my unhappiness about that out on you.”
It’s the closest Kingsley would get to saying he was sorry. Mainly because he wasn’t.
“She must have gotten to you for you to assault a priest in his church.”
“She was...is very special to me,” Kingsley said, hating the past tense. “I’m not telling you this for any reason other than...”
“What?” Søren asked, the slightest note of compassion in his voice.
“If what you feel for Elle is like what I feel for Juliette...”
“If you feel anything close to what I’m feeling and have felt since she left...then you have my deepest sympathies. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.”
“I want to ask you how you are, but I don’t want to know the answer,” Kingsley said.
“You know my life. You know my past.”
“I do,” Kingsley said.
“Then you know what it means when I say this is the worst thing I’ve ever been through.”
Kingsley winced. “For that I am sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault. I promise, if I could make it your fault, I would.”
“Do you think she’s coming back?” Kingsley asked him.
“Yes,” Søren said.
“You’re sure about that?”
“I know my Eleanor. I know my Little One. She will come back to me.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
Søren didn’t answer that, and Kingsley was glad. He didn’t want to know the answer to that question, either.
“She told you I asked her to hurt me?” Kingsley asked. “She told you she did hurt me?”
“She did.”
“You didn’t like that.”
“No. I still don’t.”
“I told you what she was a long time ago. That girl is no submissive. She’s a—”
“She’s mine,” Søren said. “Nothing else matters but that. She is mine. The end.”
“She’s yours, is she?” Kingsley pushed a wet swath of hair out of his face. “Too bad someone forgot to tell her that.”
“Are you finished now?”
“Finished with what?”
“Finished trying to hurt me?”
“I think so,” Kingsley said. “But I’m not ready to forgive you yet.”
“Is that because you haven’t forgiven yourself for letting her go through it all alone?”
“You smug bastard, I should have put you in the hospital.”
“Where do you think I’ve been the last hour? Good thing I have a doctor in my congregation.”
“How convenient.” Kingsley sat on his bed and hung his head. He and Søren were silent for a long time, long enough for Kingsley to get angry again. “Ten years ago the three of us stood in the hall of your church and had our first little conversation. There’d been a wedding and she was cleaning up afterward. You went over and I followed you and found her there. And I asked you if I could have her. Do you remember what you said?”
“Remind me,” Søren said, although Kingsley was utterly certain Søren remembered every word from that night.
“You said ‘Wait your turn.’”
“So I did. And?”
“And you should know,” Kingsley said, “if Elle ever comes back, it’s my turn.”
32
THE DAY HAD come.
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