The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(65)

Kingsley glanced down at the shapeless dress she wore.

Sam in her suits looked more womanly than this girl in her

house dress.

“I agree. I try to get her to take off her pants, but I haven’t

made any progress yet.”

“Shameful. She should take her pants off for you. I mean,

she should wear dresses. All women should wear dresses or

skirts. That’s what I mean.”

“Skirts do make it easier for me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell me more about the camps. I might be able to trick

her into going to a camp.”

“Well,” the young woman began. “There are a few of them,

and they run for twenty-eight days. There are three sessions

every summer. We have camps in Texas, Colorado, Ohio and

Pennsylvania.”

“None closer than that?”

“There was one upstate,” she said, lowering her voice as if

imparting a secret. “But it closed down ten years ago.” “Upstate New York would have been perfect. Why did it

close?”

The young woman raised her empty hands. “I heard…” Kingsley leaned in close, very close, as close as this poor

plain virgin girl had probably ever been to a man. “What did you hear?” he asked, putting his mouth at her

ear and letting his breath tickle her neck.

“I heard a camper died there,” she whispered. “Suicide. It

wasn’t Reverend Fuller’s fault at all. The investigation cleared

him and the church of any wrongdoing. You see, suicide is

nobody’s fault but the person who commits it. But still, they

shut the camp down.”

“That’s too bad.”

“But there’s still Pennsylvania. Do you think your friend

would like to go to camp in western Pennsylvania?” “I think she would like it as much as I would like it.” Kingsley would rather have his testicles soldered to his eyeballs than

go to a sexual reorienting camp in western Pennsylvania. “Oh, good.” Chastity smiled broadly. “Then wait here. I’ll

get you some brochures.”

She walked off, and Kingsley pondered the possibility of

seducing her. Fucking a girl named Chastity—how poetic. It

would probably be good for her, give her a taste for what the

world had to offer outside the walls of her church. Then again,

why set her up for a lifetime of unreasonable expectations? Chastity returned with a sheaf of brochures and a hardcover book.

“I brought this for you,” Chastity said. “Miraculous Womanhood by Lucy Fuller. Wonderful book. Changed my life.

Maybe it’ll help your friend.”

“You can keep it,” Kingsley said. “I’ve already read this

one.”

Out on the street he found another taxi, and once inside he f lipped through the brochures the girl had given him. One detailed the work of the ministry. Reverend Fuller’s church focused on personal sin and accountability. Kingsley took that to mean the church didn’t actually do anything to improve the world. Lots of programs for people to quit adultery, quit drinking, quit smoking even, and programs for girls who were pregnant out of wedlock. He assumed they talked them out of abortions, had them give up their babies for adoption and then promptly forgot the mothers existed. He didn’t see anything about soup kitchens or homeless shelters. S?ren would

likely have something to say about that.

He should call S?ren. He spoke over a dozen languages.

Maybe one of them was fundamentalist Christian. Back at the town house, he found Sam making phone calls

with his red book of names open in front of her.

“We will need vast quantities of alcohol,” Sam said into the

phone. “The good shit.”

Kingsley snapped his fingers to get her attention. “Who’s

coming tonight?”

She held up one finger.

“One person is coming?”

She pointed at him. Of course he was coming tonight.

Several times.

“You should come, too,” he mouthed. She held up a sheet

of names, confirmations for the party. In red she’d circled the

names of half a dozen women. He raised his eyebrow at her

in a question.

“Targets,” she whispered.

Kingsley laughed, and Sam handed him the list of names.

It would be a packed house tonight. Good. For the first time

in a long time he felt like celebrating. On his way out the

door he heard Sam snapping her fingers. She put a hand over

the receiver.

“Your priest called. You’re supposed to call him back,” she

said before returning to her own phone call. As he walked

out of the room he heard her on the phone with the caterer. “We’re having an ‘I Don’t Have AIDS’ party tonight, and

we need food for a hundred people. Caviar? Good call.” In his bedroom he found that Signore Vitale had a suit and

some shirts delivered. Sam had put them on his bed with a note

that said, “Wear the suit and even I might consider spreading

for you. I won’t do it, but I might consider doing it.” She had