The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(46)

“What kind of dirt?”

“Any dirt will do as long as it sticks. Do you know anything incriminating about the church?”

“Um…well, they’re very fundamentalist. They believe women should submit to their husbands.”

“That’s terrible. What if the husband’s the submissive?”

“Kingsley, be serious. A lot of the men in the church beat their wives because of that mind-set.”

“I believe it, but as horrible as that is, that’s dirt on the church, not the Fullers. We need to find out if Fuller is beating his wife. Or cheating on her. Or laundering money. Or anything. But whatever it is, it has to be something he is directly involved in. We don’t need a bullet. We need a bomb.”

Sam sighed and ran her hands through her hair. Her warm hazel eyes shone with deep intelligence, and he’d been impressed by how quickly she’d learned names in his house.

“A bomb? That’s not going to be easy. The Fullers have been around forever,” she said. “I think Reverend Fuller inherited the ministry from his father.”

“Bizarre.”

“What is?”

“Inheriting a church from your father. My only experience with religion is with the Catholic church. Priests have sons sometimes, but they don’t go around handing the keys of the church over to them.”

“I don’t know much about Catholics. I’m pretty comfortably agnostic. What are you?”

“I’m French,” Kingsley said.

“I’m asking about your religion.”

“That is my religion. And f*cking with Fuller is my new religion,” Kingsley said.

“Are you sure about this? I want to f*ck with Fuller, too, but he’s powerful. More powerful than you are.”

“That hurts.”

“You said you have a DA and his wife in your pocket. Fuller has the governor in his. And the mayor.”

“I don’t care who his friends are. I don’t care how big his church is. I’m not going to let him turn this city into his playground, Sam. This is my city,” Kingsley said. The thought of some Bible-thumping preacher bringing his message of hate to New York turned Kingsley’s stomach. He could imagine what Fuller would have to say about him and S?ren and what had passed between them back at school. Kingsley knew in his soul—if he had one—that nothing he and S?ren did had been a sin. Fuller and his kind could go f*ck themselves.

“So what do you want me to do?” Sam asked.

“Get me everything you can on Fuller and his church.”

“King, I’ve looked through everything there is on him already. I haven’t found anything. He’s an ass, don’t get me wrong. Pompous and preachy and completely bigoted. But that puts him in line with every other televangelist preacher out there. No rumors of adultery, no rumors of wife-beating, no rumors of kid-f*cking.”

“There’s something. There has to be something.”

“What if there isn’t?”

Kingsley stood up and came around the desk.

“I’m going to tell you something, and you’re going to keep it between you and me. It won’t always be a secret, but for now it is.”

“What?” she asked.

“At the hotel, I told you I knew a world-class sadist who could cut a lit cigarette in half with the tip of a bullwhip. What I didn’t tell you is that he’s also a Catholic priest. Look in my eyes, Sam.”

She looked into his eyes as ordered.

“There is always something,” Kingsley said.

“Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I’ll look again. What are you going to do?”

“Nothing you need to know about,” he said.

“No hints?”

“It starts with an A,” Kingsley said.

“Assignation? Audition? Ass…sex? They all start with A.”

“I’m going to audition someone for an ass-sex assignation. I’ll see you later,” he said, standing up straight. The scar tissue on his chest was painfully tight today.

“Are you okay?”

“Of course I am.”

“I saw you wince. Are you in pain?”

“Don’t start worrying about me.” He shook his finger at her. “Once you start that habit, you’ll never stop.”

“That worrisome, are you?”

Kingsley raised his hands and ticked off numbers on his fingers as he spoke.

“One. My parents died in a train crash when I was fourteen. Two. My sister committed suicide when I was seventeen shortly after marrying the man I was in love with. Three. I used to kill people for a living for a secret organization inside the French government. Four. I have pissed off dangerous men with long memories. Five. My closest friend is a Catholic priest, the aforementioned sadist, who is in love with a girl in his congregation whose father has a rap sheet as long as your leg and some very nasty mob connections. And that, Sam, is only the beginning of the list of reasons you might want to worry about me.”

“Six. You’re in pain.”

“I have an old injury that’s healing slowly. It’s nothing to worry about. I’m nothing to worry about. So, don’t worry.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I hate doctors.”