The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(94)

“Glad you could make it, Mr. Edge,” came a voice from the doorway. Kingsley looked up from the book and smiled.

“Your wife is quite the writer,” Kingsley said, dropping the book back on to the desk. “I didn’t think women in your denomination were allowed to speak in church.”

“We’re a nondenominational congregation. We let our women speak and teach.”

“Too bad,” Kingsley said. “If my wife were spouting bullshit like this, I wouldn’t let her talk, either. Let me know if you need to borrow a ball gag.”

Fuller gave Kingsley a hard smile.

“I’m impressed you decided to show your face.” Reverend Fuller stepped into his office. Kingsley hadn’t met him or seen him yet, but he looked exactly like his photographs—gray hair slicked back, oily smile and carrying twenty pounds too many for his six-foot frame.

“You said you wanted to talk man to man,” Kingsley said. He dropped the book back on to Fuller’s desk and walked around to the other side. “So talk.”

Kingsley didn’t bother sitting. He wasn’t going to be here long. But Fuller sat behind his desk and smiled his greasy smile at him.

“So…” Fuller began, “the infamous Kingsley Edge in person. Nice outfit.”

“The T-shirt was free.”

“Not your typical Saturday, is it? Playing church-league soccer?”

“I’m the ringer,” Kingsley said. “A certain priest I know made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“Yes, your brother-in-law’s a priest. I guess celibacy doesn’t run in families.”

“Well, it wouldn’t, would it?”

“Seems odd that he comes and goes so freely from your house, doesn’t it?” Fuller’s tone was casual, uncomfortably so.

“Odd? I wouldn’t say that,” Kingsley said with a casual air. “He’s the only family I have. He likes to check in on me.”

“He’s a priest. And you’re…not.”

“Jesus was the Son of God, and he spent time with prostitutes. Something about not judging, not throwing stones. You know the verses, I’m sure.”

“Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said even the devil could quote the Bible?”

“It was, and he was right,” Kingsley said. “I imagine the devil could even quote the Bible from a pulpit.”

“Are you calling me the devil?” Fuller asked, his jaw tightening as his smile widened.

“After looking at that book, I’d say your wife is the more likely candidate.”

Fuller raised his hand.

“We’re not discussing my wife. We’re talking man to man, remember?”

“About what exactly?”

“About women,” Fuller said. “This is our fight, and we should fight like gentlemen. I know you want my building. I want you to go away forever. Let’s keep our eyes on each other and leave the ladies out of this.”

“Ladies, but not sixteen-year-old girls?”

“That was ten years ago. You’re going to dig all that up?”

Kingsley arched his eyebrow at him.

“I was referring to the girl on that tape you had sent to me and my brother-in-law.”

Fuller shifted in his seat. “Of course. Her. Your teenage lover. Thought she was fifteen.”

“She had a birthday. You know I’ve never met her, right? Are you planning on having me arrested for f*cking a minor I’ve never met? Lying and bragging aren’t illegal, last I heard. If they were every man I know would be in jail.”

“No,” Fuller said with some haste. “We’re being men, you and I. We’ve agreed to leave the women and girls out of our dispute. Haven’t we?”

“As you wish,” Kingsley said. “But now I’m wondering, who were you referring to?”

“I’m sure you know by now of the girl who committed suicide at our camp. A tragic circumstance, but we were cleared of any wrongdoing.”

“Money has a way of clearing things up, doesn’t it?”

Fuller leaned forward, clasped his hands and gazed intently at Kingsley.

“Tell me something, Mr. Edge. What is it that you want from me?”

“I want your building. I want The Renaissance.”

“You know I’m not selling to you, and yet you persist in pursuing this matter long after it’s been closed. So, either you don’t understand English well enough to know what no means. Or you want something else from me.”

“My English is perfect,” Kingsley said. “So it must be the other—I do want something else. I want you to keep your church out of my city, and I want you to stop torturing gay teenagers.”

“That’s therapy, not torture.”

“Electrodes on the genitals? I’ve actually been tortured and they didn’t even do that to me.”

“I’m not a doctor or a therapist. I leave our licensed professionals to carry out their work. These therapies are tough, yes. But they work. And if you think you’re going to stop us from helping these poor sick kids, you’re as in need of therapy as they are.”

“Can we compromise?” Kingsley asked. “I’ll let you have the building for your church, and you shut the camps down?”