The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(44)

by the creepiest church in America.”

“I told you I’d get you into trouble,” he said. “I’m keeping my promise.”

“You know we could get arrested for this,” Sam said. “I have a DA’s wife in my pocket,” Kingsley said. He

reached out and f lipped a wall switch. Surprisingly the lights

worked. The church must have had the power turned back

on already. Overhead a dusty chandelier cast dingy hexagons

of light onto the seedy carpet. “And the DA, too.” “You must have big pockets.”

Kingsley turned and faced Sam.

“What do I need to know about you?” he asked. Sam stuffed her hands in her pockets. “There’s not much

to know about me.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Samantha Jean Fleming. I’m twenty-six. I’m a lesbian.” “You don’t say.”

“Shut up,” she said, laughing. “You have no room to talk,

Dr. Frank-N-Furter.”

Kingsley f lipped another light switch.

“What else?”

“Nothing much else.”

Kingsley gazed at her.

He touched her chin, tilting it up to meet his eyes. “Can I trust you?” he asked.

“I hope so. And if you’re against Fuller’s church, I’m on

your side. I don’t know if that answers your question or not.” “It’s a good answer. On my side is where I need you.” “After what you did for me tonight at the club, I’m yours,”

she said. “Just not in a sexual way. Every other way.” “So, what do you think of the place?” Kingsley asked. “It’s definitely a wreck,” Sam said as they wandered down

the hall. “The newspaper said the church got a deal on it because the city was about to condemn the place. But you can

tell it was beautiful once.”

“I like that it’s not beautiful anymore. I like that it’s been

hurt.”

“It’s kind of big for a BDSM club. Most kink clubs I know

are little shitholes.”

“Well, my club will be a big shithole.”

They entered what had been the lobby of the hotel and

found moth-eaten furniture, fading Persian rugs, layers of

grime on a curved bar—grime and grim everywhere they

looked. Once, the decor had been blue and red and gold, but

now everything had faded to a dull gray. Kingsley opened a

set of double doors, and Sam peered over his shoulder. “It looks like an old concert hall.” Sam pointed up at the

ceiling. “Or a dining hall. Hard to tell.”

She and Kingsley walked through the dining room, step

ping over broken chairs, breathing in dust-filled air. “Is that an elevator?” Kingsley asked.

“Looks like it.” Sam pointed upward. “There’s some kind

of landing up there. I guess the bigwigs got to eat their dinner looking down on the little wigs.”

Kingsley stood in the middle of the grand hall and turned

slowly in a circle.

“Let’s see the rest,” he said. Together he and Sam wandered

for an hour through the now-defunct Renaissance. A madman must have designed the building. The layout made very

little sense. One hallway of guest rooms was hidden behind

the dining room. There were secret doors all over the place

that led to other hallways. Guests must have gotten lost all the

time trying to find their way back to their rooms. No wonder

it had gone out of business.

“I think M.C. Escher must have been the architect on this

place,” Sam said.

“I hate to think what Fuller would do to a building this

unique.”

“He’ll probably turn it into a church like his other churches—

a big ugly warehouse with beige carpet.”

“This place…it’s been through many transformations.”

Kingsley stood in one of the larger suites. “Many incarnations. Now it doesn’t know what it is anymore. It only knows

that it’s been abandoned. I know how it feels.”

He reached out and laid his hand on an ornately carved

door frame like a doctor feeling for a heartbeat. “This place

is perfect,” Kingsley said. “Everything I dreamed of.” “You have weird dreams.”

“These suites are what I need for our pros.”

“Pros? Like hookers?”

“No hookers. I’m not a pimp. I mean professionals. Profes

sional dominants.”

“Dominatrixes?”

“One or two. The best in the city.”

“Mistress Felicia? You want this club to be special, you

want her.”

“Isn’t she still in prison?” he asked. Last he’d heard the notorious Mistress Felicia was still locked away in Danbury for

ignoring a subpoena to testify in a high-profile divorce case. “She got out last month. She says she’s retiring, but she

might come out of retirement for you,” Sam said with a wink. “I’m not a submissive,” Kingsley said.

“I mean for the club. She’s the best in the city. You should