The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(114)

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 M?bius. 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 causalities. 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 S?ren’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,” S?ren said, “which means it’s still been eleven

years.”

“Is it a saint’s day or a feast day?”