The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(63)

Dr. Sutton entered with a file in her hand.

“No speeches. No preliminaries,” Kingsley said before Dr. Sutton could say a word. “Tell me right now—good or bad.” “Kingsley…” Dr. Sutton took a seat, and Sam clutched his

hand even tighter. It was bad. He knew it was bad. Was he going to die?

What did he have?

Had he given it to anyone else?

He was never going to have children. He was never going

to do anything ever again.

Would S?ren miss him after he was gone?

Would anyone miss him at all?

Dr. Sutton smiled.

“Good,” she said.

Kingsley’s shoulders slumped, and he breathed out two solid

weeks’ worth of terror. Had he ever felt so relieved? So happy?

So grateful?

Sam took his face in her hands and kissed him on both

cheeks. When he looked at her, he saw tears in her eyes. Dr. Sutton gave him the lecture on sexual health and responsibility to end all lectures, scheduled him for follow-up

testing in six months and then six months after that. Half an

hour later he and Sam, still holding hands, left the office. The

sun was shining. The birds were singing. The street people

weren’t pissing on the sidewalk anywhere near his shoes. A

perfect day.

“I’ll admit, I got a little worried when you said you’ve had

sex with half of Europe,” she said. “I’d settle for half of Chelsea. Or all of Chelsea if she’s cute.”

“You disapprove?”

“I’m impressed.”

“You might not want me, but other people do.” “I think you’re very pretty,” Sam said, and patted him on

the arm.

“Thank you. Now tell me I have a good personality.” “Oh, get over it. You can have every other woman in the

city.”

“You’re right, I can,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “I can

f*ck again.”

“You couldn’t f*ck before?”

“I had to wait until I got my results back.”

“Is that why you went to Rome for two weeks?” “Among other reasons.”

“What did you do in Rome?”

“Learned the art of sadism from a notorious Roman madam.” “Please, tell me you have vacation slides.”

The car pulled up to the curb, but Kingsley stopped Sam

from getting in.

“I want you to do something for me,” Kingsley said. “Anything for you,” she said.

“You take the Rolls and go back to the house. Call everyone in my red book and invite them over tonight. Then go

buy a week’s worth of condoms.”

“I’ve never bought condoms before. What’s a week’s

worth?”

“I don’t know. A hundred? Wait. We’re having a party. Better make it a thousand.”

“What else?”

“Get big ones,” he said. “Since I’m—”

Sam stuck her fingers in her ears.

“La la la,” she sang. “Not listening…”

He pulled her hands from her ears.

“Call for food. Call for alcohol. We’re having a party.” “What kind of party?” she asked.

Kingsley grinned.

“Gotcha,” Sam said. “That kind of party.”

Sam took her marching orders and marched. He was glad

she hadn’t asked him where he was going. Since she hadn’t

made any progress digging for dirt on Reverend Fuller, he

decided to take matters into his own hands.

He hailed a cab and gave the driver an address in Queens.

He’d learned from Sam that Fuller had a small satellite office

in the city. They’d move into their larger quarters once The

Renaissance was remodeled.

The driver let him out at the end of the block and Kingsley

quickly found the WTL offices. They were housed in a threestory brick building wedged between a school and a run-down

apartment complex. Kingsley entered it warily feeling like a

soldier encroaching on enemy ground. In fact, everywhere

he looked he saw signs and posters warning of the dangers of

sin, the inevitability of judgment.

Are you ready to meet your Maker?

The way is narrow.

All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Flee from the wrath to come.

He studied another poorly designed poster that depicted

human beings stretching their arms toward heaven in supplication even as their lower bodies burned up in a fire. “Cheerful,” Kingsley said to himself.

He caught sight of another poster—an aborted fetus lying

on a bloodied blanket—with the words I formed you in the womb

underneath in a melodramatic font. A grotesque image, it did

nothing to change his opinion about abortion and did everything to make him want to lose his lunch on the church carpeting. Did people truly find comfort or enlightenment in a

place like this?

He’d found comfort and acceptance back at St. Ignatius

Academy, the Catholic school where he’d met S?ren. He

wasn’t Catholic, never had been, but the Jesuits at the school