The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(53)

“Bubble bath?”

“I’m not a girl,” Kingsley said.

“Okay, I’m keeping my eyes covered, then,” she said. “Which is not going to work, because I have messages to read to you.”

“Turn your back and read them to me,” Kingsley said. “Or look. I don’t care.”

Sam peeked over the top of her hand.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded. “You’re wearing glasses.”

“I’m farsighted. I can hit a target at five hundred yards, but words six inches in front of my face are blurry.”

“You’re reading in the bathtub. Are you sure you’re not a girl?”

Kingsley glanced down into the water.

“Fairly sure,” he said.

“What are you reading?”

Kingsley closed the book and showed Sam the cover.

Designed to Serve: A Guide to Becoming The Wife God Wants You To Be by Lucy Fuller.

“You’re reading a Christian marriage guide?” Sam asked, wide-eyed with horror. Real horror, not amused horror. “Why?”

“I want to save my marriage,” Kingsley said, turning a page.

“You’re not married.”

“Someday my prince will come.” He turned a page. “Preferably on my back.”

“Do you really think you’re going to find any dirt on the Fullers in a Christian marriage guide? I mean, in our world being vanilla is a sin, but not to them.”

“I want to know more about Fuller’s family life. Lucy Fuller has written five of these f*cking Christian self-help books. Christian dating, Christian marriage, Christian sex, Christian parenthood, Christian cooking. Do fundamentalist Christians eat different food than we heathens do?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t get the book on Christian sex.”

“It didn’t have any pictures,” he said. “She’s cute, no?”

He f lipped the book over to show Sam the author photo on the back. Lucy Fuller was ten years younger then her reverend husband. She was thirty-five years old, had fake blond hair, a bright smile, gleaming teeth and dead eyes, which was exactly how he expected a televangelist’s wife to look.

“She’s a helluva lot better-looking than her husband.”

“You are a harsh critic,” Kingsley said, tsk-tsking at her. “You should read this. It’s full of good advice. She says if I want to make my husband happy, I have to dress modestly.”

“You were wearing a very modest corset and heels the night we met.”

“Chapter three tells me I have to be attuned to my husband’s needs and anticipate them before he has to ask. Do you think she’s talking about blow jobs? I hope she’s talking about blow jobs.”

“I doubt James Fuller has ever gotten a blow job in his life.”

“Chapter Seven,” Kingsley said, f lipping through the book. “The importance of waiting until marriage for sex. You’re right. This book is bullshit.” He closed the book and tossed it on the f loor.

“Total bullshit,” Sam said.

Kingsley narrowed his eyes at her.

“You know this church well, don’t you?” Kingsley asked.

“We have history,” she said. “Nothing exciting. Just unpleasant.”

“Tell me,” he said, looking at her expectantly. “Please?”

Sam crossed her arms over her chest and looked away into the corner of the room.

“I grew up in a fundamentalist church. My parents called me their ‘tomboy.’ That’s the way fundies make lesbians disappear. ‘Just a tomboy…she’ll grow out of it.’ Mom made it her personal mission to make a lady out of me. Makeup. Pretty long hair. Dresses. Girl stuff. Her lessons didn’t take. It was humiliating,” she said, and he heard the anguish in her voice. “I don’t like talking about it. Sorry.”

“I understand. There are things I don’t like to talk about, either. But sometimes I have to.”

“I know,” Sam said, and she gave him a forced smile. “I told you they run reorienting camps. My parents sent me to one of those camps.”

“I see,” Kingsley said, fighting a wave of rage that someone had done that to his Sam. “I assume it didn’t take?”

“No. It didn’t take. And it was the worst month of my life. And I’ve had some bad months.”

“Did you hear anything about the Fullers that we can use?”

“Not that I know of. Some of the kids there hated him. Some didn’t know him from Adam. Some thought he was their personal Jesus. I wish I knew more. I want to see that church go down in f lames as much as you do.”

“I’ll find something on him. There’s always something. Towel?”

Sam grabbed a towel and tossed it to him.

“Turn around,” he said. “I’m getting out.”

“Oh, now you’re getting modest?” Sam asked, glaring at him.

“Chapter two,” Kingsley said. “Only my husband is allowed to see me naked.”

“Fine. I’m not looking at you,” she said. “I’m looking at my clipboard.”

“Why aren’t you looking at me?”

“You’re a dude and you’re my boss. I don’t want to see you naked.”