The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(104)

His house.

Kingsley parked his car against the curb and watched.

He watched Sam walk out the front door carrying an envelope.

He watched Lucy Fuller roll down her passenger-side window.

He watched Sam toss something through the car window and walk back into the house.

He watched Lucy Fuller drive away.

Kingsley got out of his car and walked into his own house feeling as if he were entering the home of a stranger or an enemy.

He found Sam in his office, f lipping through files.

“Hey,” she said, giving him a smile. “I thought you’d be at Mistress Felicia’s all night.”

“How much are they paying you?”

“What?”

“How much are the Fullers paying you?”

Sam dropped the files she was holding on to Kingsley’s desk.

“I asked you to stay away from Lucy Fuller,” she said. “You promised me—”

“And you said you were on my side. We all make promises we can’t keep.”

“King, listen. I can—”

“How much are the Fullers paying you?” he asked again.

She paused, went silent. She seemed to be weighing her words, weighing her options. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this coldly, bitterly angry. Not even when Marie-Laure had died. Not even then.

“More than you are,” Sam finally said.

“So much ‘more weight,’ right?” Kingsley asked. “All that matters to you is more money.”

“Suits like mine are expensive,” Sam said.

And Kingsley replied with the only two words he could force out of his tight and clenched throat.

“You’re fired.”





32


September

“WHAT’S YOUR POISON?” THE BARTENDER ASKED, AND Kingsley answered, “Bartenders.”

Duke raised his eyebrow and Kingsley laughed. “I’m fine,” Kingsley said. “I’m not drinking tonight.” “Prowling tonight?”

“Not that, either,” Kingsley said.

“What can I get you, then?” Duke asked.

“Nothing,” Kingsley answered. “You can’t get me anything.”

Duke gave him a look of sympathy and moved on to another customer. Meanwhile Kingsley stared at the bottles of alcohol arrayed behind the bar. Bourbon, whiskey, rum, vodka and rye. He wanted to drink them all. Every single bottle. Not that it would do him any good. He’d tried drinking again, but all it gave him was a hangover. No matter how much booze he’d poured into the hole Sam had left, it never filled up.

One good thing had come of Sam’s betrayal and defection. It had hurt Kingsley so much he knew for certain he was alive again, as alive as he’d ever been and more. Knowing she’d taken money from the Fullers to feed them information about him had left him raging in every part of his being. Raging and grieving. He had never been so angry. He had never been so hurt. He had never felt more alive and wished more that he wasn’t.

When his parents had died, he’d been angry, hurt, griefstricken. But it had been an accident, and he’d had no one to blame.

When S?ren married Marie-Laure and she died shortly thereafter, Kingsley had felt that same trinity of emotions— anger, pain, grief. But again, no one had tried to hurt him on purpose. S?ren had married Marie-Laure so the three of them could be rich and could be free. And Marie-Laure had died in her own grief, her own hurt, her own pain. She wasn’t trying to hurt him by dying. Surely not.

But Sam…she had betrayed him with wide eyes and a cold heart. It had been no accident, no act of God, no act of fate. She’d aimed a gun at his heart and fired.

And the hole was still there.

Kingsley wrenched his gaze from the too-tempting bottles of alcohol and looked around. Holly was sitting on the edge of the stage with her ankles around the neck of an elderly businessman. Cassandra was draped across the laps of five happy frat boys. Eden was holding the hand of a nervous groom-tobe and led him to the back room for a private show.

He walked away from the bar and strolled around the club. For the past five weeks he’d been coming to the M?bius almost every night, making his rounds, chatting with the girls, drinking nothing and leaving after half an hour. No one asked him why he made this nightly pilgrimage. He was the owner, so he could do whatever he wanted. But he knew why he did it, and that was bad enough.

Michelle strolled past him and paused long enough to kiss him on the cheek. He wouldn’t have minded her company, but she was heading to the stage. Her turn to make her rent for the night.

Waste of time. Kingsley glanced around the club once more. He needed to stop coming here, needed to get on with his life, needed to stop living in the past.

Kingsley decided to leave and find something else to do. He hopped off his bar stool and turned to the door. He came face-to-face with a young man. He wore black jeans, a white shirt untucked and scuffed boots. He looked two parts scared and one part thrilled. But now all Kingsley noticed was his hair. His blond hair.

“Justin?”

“Wow,” he said. “I can’t believe you remembered my name.”

Kingsley crooked his finger at Justin and stepped into a quiet corner of the club.

“What are you doing here?” Kingsley asked in a low voice.