The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(15)

S?ren nodded. It looked as if he had something else to say. Whatever it was, he decided against saying it.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” S?ren said. “I’ve been up all night, and it looks like you have, too. We’ll talk more after we’ve both had some sleep.”

“Good.” Kingsley was so relieved to hear he’d see S?ren tomorrow, he was almost ashamed of himself. He could have cried from relief. “I have a car. It can take you home.”

“It’s fine. I have a way back.”

“Please, don’t tell me you’re taking public transportation. I can handle the vow of celibacy better than that.”

S?ren laughed—a joyful new morning laugh. Joyful? He hadn’t expected joy. S?ren was happy in his new life? That was good. Kingsley wanted him happy. At least one of them was happy. Better than nothing.

“I promise, no public transportation.”

Kingsley followed S?ren out on to the sidewalk. From the two-foot gap between his town house and the house next to him, S?ren wheeled out a black motorcycle—a Ducati.

Kingsley whistled.

“If this is standard-issue transportation for Jesuits, no wonder you joined.”

“It’s a bribe, actually,” S?ren said, pulling on a leather jacket and zipping it up. He slipped his white collar out of his shirt and pocketed it. Just like that, S?ren ceased looking like a priest and became himself again in Kingsley’s eyes.

“Priests take bribes?”

“We have a long history of it. Ever heard of indulgences?”

“My entire life is an indulgence.”

“I’m starting to see that,” S?ren said, looking the town house up and down. “But this bribe was my father’s doing. He assumed—wrongly—that I’d drop out of seminary so I could keep it. Jesuits hold all property in common. If I accepted the bike and stayed in seminary, I’d have to give it up to the order. They often sell large expensive gifts and use the money for more important things—like food and books.”

“What happened?”

“I told my superior at the province. He told me to take the bike, become a priest and let my father go to hell. That’s the sort of spiritual counsel I can live with.”

“Your father must hate you.”

“Almost as much as I hate him.”

S?ren started the engine. Before he could drive off, Kingsley stepped in front of the bike.

“Don’t forget the favor. Don’t leave me again,” Kingsley said.

“Again? You seem to be forgetting something,” S?ren said.

“What?”

S?ren looked him deep in the eyes. And in those gray depths Kingsley caught a glimpse of something. Fury—old, cold, but still burning.

“Eleven years ago, I didn’t leave you,” S?ren said. “You left me first.”

And with that, S?ren put on his helmet, revved up his bike and rode off into the street.

Funny. Kingsley had forgotten that.

He had left S?ren first.





6


THE THINGS KINGSLEY DID FOR LOVE. Kingsley took a breath, walked up the steps into the Eastside Rif le and Pistol Range. He was on time, but Robert Dixon was already there. Dixon caught Kingsley’s eye, nodded at him, then raised his pistol and shot six bullets into the target. Kingsley stood safely behind him and watched. Dixon could shoot. Kingsley had to give him that. Six bullets, six hits. He’d peppered an erratic circle around the target’s heart.

Dixon, aged forty and looking every day of it, took off his earmuffs.

“Your turn,” Dixon said to Kingsley. “Impress me, and I’ll hear you out.”

With another sigh, Kingsley put on his earmuffs and safety glasses, aimed his 9mm and shot six rounds into a fresh target. Two in the head between the eyes, two in the heart and two in the groin just to make Dixon think twice.

Kingsley pulled off the earmuffs, turned around and faced Dixon.

“Where’d you learn to shoot like that?” Dixon asked.

“French Foreign Legion.”

“I thought all the French military knew how to do was surrender.”

“You’d be curtsying to the Queen of England if it wasn’t for the French.”

“What do you want? A thank-you note?”

“Just a favor. We’ll call it even between France and America then.”

Dixon looked him up and down. “Let’s go talk. Keep your hands off your gun.”

“Your idea to meet at a shooting range,” Kingsley reminded him.

“I shoot better than anyone I know.”

“Not anymore.”

“I’m pretending I don’t know you,” Dixon said. Kingsley didn’t blame him for that.

They left the shooting lanes and found a quiet corner near the lockers. Dixon pulled on his jacket, stuffed his hands in his pockets and waited.

“I need your help,” Kingsley said.

“You’re f*cking my wife, and you come to ask for a favor. I almost admire that.”

“I wouldn’t have to f*ck your wife if you weren’t too busy f*cking your wife’s sister.”

Dixon’s eyes widened. Kingsley smiled.

“Go on,” Dixon said. “What do you need my help with?”