The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(56)

“Vitale is my tailor, and you’re getting fitted for a new wardrobe. You want to be a kingly king, right? Not just a king?”

“Right.”

“Then you need a better wardrobe. Trust me on this. Vitale is a genius. Message number two—Officer Cooper said Irina’s out on bail, and he gave me her phone number.”

“Good. She’s our new dominatrix in training. Call her and tell her she can move in this weekend. She’s staying with us until her divorce is finalized.”

“Is she nice?”

“She tried to poison her husband.”

“Nice. Message number three—Luka says she’ll be by tonight at nine.”

“And who the hell is Luka?”

“Old friend of mine,” Sam said. “Incredibly sexy. Her dad’s Jamaican and her mom’s Canadian. Weirdest accent ever. And she’s a pain-slut.”

“And I’m meeting her because…?”

“I think she could be our pro-sub. She’s never done it for money before, but she said she was up for a meeting.”

“A meeting or a beating?”

“That’s between you two. And now, I’m out of here. Good night, King Kingsley. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She salaamed at him on her way out of his bedroom.

“Sam?”

She paused in the doorway and turned around.

“The meeting with Luka—you take it. If she’s good, offer her the job.”

“You don’t want to meet her? Beat her? All that jizz?”

“I’ll let you take this one. Meet her. Talk to her. If you think she’s right for the job, hire her.”

Kingsley did want to meet her and probably beat her, too. He’d also probably f*ck her, and he’d promised S?ren and Dr. Sutton he’d be a good boy for two weeks.

“Sure,” Sam said with a shrug. “You busy tonight?”

“Very busy,” he said. “I’ll leave Luka to your good judgment.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Nice to be trusted. I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. Anything else?”

“No. Yes. I forgot. One more message. A woman named Phoebe called. She said nine o’clock tomorrow. Which I assume means someone named Phoebe wants you to f*ck her tomorrow night. Am I wrong?”

“You’re not wrong.”

“Should I call her back?”

Phoebe Dixon. He hadn’t seen her or f*cked her in months. He assumed her husband had hinted that her extracurricular activities were no longer to be tolerated. Maybe Mister Dixon was out of town.

Out of town sounded like a very good idea right now.

“I’ll handle it,” Kingsley said. “Toss the message.”

“You got it.” She crumbled up the message and tossed it into his trash can on her way out of his door.

“Sam?”

“What?” she asked, her hand on the doorknob.

“You didn’t show me your scars,” he reminded her.

She smiled, but the smile looked both forced and faked. “I don’t show anybody my scars.”

Sam walked out of his bedroom without another word. Kingsley stood alone by his closet and tried to focus on getting dressed. But the message from Phoebe Dixon couldn’t be ignored. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think of a good enough excuse to get out of seeing her again. She only wanted him for one thing, and he was under orders from a doctor and a priest not to give that one thing to anyone for two weeks. Not that he was going to tell Phoebe or anyone else that. Telling her the truth wasn’t an option. Telling her no wasn’t an option. And pissing her off wasn’t an option.

But if he was out of town…

Kingsley strode from his bedroom and found Sam in his office.

“Three things,” he said. “First, call Phoebe. Tell her I’m out of town.”

“Check.”

“Second. There’s a number in my desk for a man named The Barber—”

“Are you getting a hair cut? Please, say no. I love the long hair.”

“He’s not a barber. It’s his nickname. He’s a Mafia numbers guy. He combs through files,” Kingsley said, wiggling his fingers like a comb at work.

“If he combs through the files, why don’t they call him The Comb?”

“Have you met anyone in the mob? They aren’t known for being brain trusts.”

“Fine. I’ll call The Barber. What do I ask him?”

“Tell him to dig through the Fullers’ finances—church and personal.”

“Can do. Anything else?”

“Third. I need you to book a f light for me.”

“Where are you going?”

I’m not the teacher. Magdalena is. She could have you flipping quarters in midair with a single-tail in two weeks.

“Rome.”





18


June

TODAY KINGSLEY FELT WHAT HE WOULD CLASSIFY AS a “new” pain.



And considering how much and how many types of pain he’d experienced in his life, this was saying something.

He lay naked on his side, a warm white blanket pulled up to his hip. Soothing music played in the background. And a masseuse named Anita talked to him as she kneaded the tough scar tissue in his chest. She worked against the grain, she explained, breaking up the tightness, opening up the tissue, forcing blood into the inert cells. Not even in the hospital had he experienced this level of raw pain. Unshed tears scalded his eyes, and his fingers held on to a pillow with a death grip.