The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(52)

Kingsley changed clothes and made it to the North Meadow of Central Park by 3:05 p.m.

He stood there by the grass feeling foolish. Here he was, notorious club owner and underground figure, standing in Central Park in a white T-shirt and black-and-red running pants. He had work to do, professionals to hire, bigoted televangelists to blackmail, a Russian husband-poisoner to get out of jail. He was building a kingdom. He didn’t have time for—

Balls.

A soccer ball sailed toward Kingsley’s head. He grabbed it out of the air before it made impact.

“Keeps your balls out of my face,” Kingsley said as S?ren jogged over to him. He wore black track pants, a black T-shirt and sunglasses. Even in casual attire he still looked like a f*cking priest.

“You almost ended up with a black eye,” S?ren said. “Pay more attention.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Kingsley looked down at the ball in his hand.

“I thought you’d want some retribution for the day I scored on you in school.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Kingsley said.

“You can’t have sex for two weeks. That has to give you at least a spare ten minutes a day,” S?ren said.

“Ten minutes? Ten? You know I can last longer than ten minutes.”

“Do I? I seem to recall having to punish you a few times—”

“I was sixteen. And I’m leaving. Sam needs me to help her with the files.”

Kingsley turned around, intending to head back to the street.

“Coward,” S?ren said.

“What did you call me?” Kingsley turned back around.

“You heard me. Are you intimidated because I’m taller than you are? Or is it because I’ve been living in Italy where the best football players in the world live?”

“France. The best football players in the world are in France.”

“I heard Denmark had a better team this year.” S?ren dropped the ball and juggled it with a few deft kicks on his foot.

“My high school team could have beat Denmark this year.”

S?ren kicked the ball three feet in the air. Kingsley caught it.

“You’re trying to get me to play with you. It won’t work,” he said.

“Why not? Scared I’ll beat you?”

“You forget, I like it when you beat me. But you’re very arrogant and proud of yourself,” Kingsley said. “And I’m fully capable of destroying you right now, and I’m not sure you’ll ever recover from the blow to your massive blond ego.”

“We seem to have acquired an audience,” S?ren said, glancing around. Kingsley noticed at least a dozen young women in shorts and barely-there T-shirts had gathered round, trying to look inconspicuous and failing miserably.

“He’s a Catholic priest,” Kingsley yelled at them. The girls booed.

“He’s not.” S?ren called out to them.

The girls cheered.

“I can’t have sex for two weeks,” Kingsley reminded him.

“You know you can spend time with someone you’re attracted to without having sex with them.”

“You really have lost your mind.”

“Try it. I dare you.”

“Drop the f*cking ball,” Kingsley said.

“That’s our goal.” S?ren pointed at two trees that stood three feet apart forty meters away.

“That might be your goal,” Kingsley said. “But my goal is to do something I’ve wanted to do all my life.”

“And that is?” S?ren dropped the ball between them. Before S?ren moved an inch, Kingsley turned and, with all his strength and the muscle memory formed from playing thousands of hours of soccer as a teenager, kicked the ball in a high perfect arc toward the two trees. The ball passed down the middle of them with the precision of a whip tip through the center of a business card.

Goal.

He turned to S?ren and smiled.

“Beat the shit out of you.”





17


NOT THAT ANYONE HAD EVER ASKED, BUT IF THEY had, Kingsley would have told them he bought the town house because he fell in love with the bathtub. Grand in size, porcelain with gold accents and claw-foot, it was a bathtub built for a king. He could live in it. If he kept playing football with S?ren he would have to live in it. He needed the heat and the water to loosen up his chest where the scar tissue was healing too tightly. He arched his back to the point of pain and let the water seep into his scars. He tried to take a deep breath, but the scar restricted his movements.

Yet for all the agony, it couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. He’d done it. He’d scored on S?ren ten times to his six today. Not quite the rout he was hoping for, but defeating S?ren, even in a game of Central Park soccer, was exactly what the doctor ordered. Unfortunately, the exertion had resulted in tonight’s renewed aches and pains. But it was worth it. For the bragging rights alone, it was worth it.

While soaking his sore muscles, he put on his glasses, picked up a book he’d bought yesterday and opened to page one. A few minutes later he heard a knock on the bathroom door.

“Come in,” Kingsley said.

Sam opened the door with a hand over her eyes. “Number one or number two?” she asked from the doorway.

“Number…I don’t know. I’m taking a bath.”