The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(97)

Behind the three rowdy boys sat a girl in black combat boots, a ratty denim skirt and a black low-cut shirt. She ran her fingers through her mass of wavy black hair and stretched luxuriously in her seat with the decadent unapologetic laziness of a cat that’d been forced out of bed too early. Had to be her, right? All the other girls looked like girls. This girl looked like a woman. She had a woman’s curves, a woman’s confidence and a woman’s utter boredom with the boys who surrounded her. She wore gobs of black eyeliner, which gave her eyes a smoky, seductive look, and Kingsley couldn’t stop staring at her.

He’d already mentally put the girl in his bed and made her come five times before he discerned that an argument had broken out in the room. One of the boys, a tall skinny punk in a Terminator 2 T-shirt, was telling the seminarian that there was no reason for him to listen to a man who was never going to get married, have kids and wasn’t even a real priest yet. What did he know about God’s plan for his life or anyone else’s? And the girl, that strange seductive girl with the creamy skin, was politely telling the Terminator to shut the f*ck up and sit the f*ck down. The Terminator ignored Combat Boots in favor of standing to give a high five to a boy two seats over.

That was a mistake.

Combat Boots gracefully raised her foot, hooked an ankle around the leg of the chair and swept it to the side as the Terminator went to sit down again.

With his chair gone, the boy hit the f loor and landed on his back. He coughed as if the impact had knocked the wind right out of his lungs. Everyone gasped in shock, everyone but Combat Boots. She stretched out her legs and rested her feet on the center of the boy’s chest. She leaned forward and smiled down at the now defeated Terminator.

“God’s plan for your life is for you to shut the f*ck up.” Hers was a throaty voice thick as honey and drugging as wine. Sitting back, Combat Boots pointed at the stunned young seminarian and crossed her legs. She made certain to bounce her feet a time or two on the boy’s chest. “You have our attention now.”

If he’d landed a little harder, the boy might have cracked his skull on the hard f loor. This possibility didn’t seem to bother Combat Boots in the least. She gave the boy on the f loor a smile entirely devoid of apology or remorse.

“You little sociopath,” Kingsley said under his breath. Not even S?ren was so blithe about inf licting pain as this girl. “Fuck me until I forget I’m French.”

There was no way, none, not a chance in heaven, hell or the purgatory they were living in right now that girl was a submissive. S?ren had fallen in love with a baby domme who had a sadistic streak in her as wide as her smile. This girl would have men at her feet all her life by her will or theirs and whether they liked it or not.

Most of them would like it.

He walked—fast—away from her. If S?ren were smart, he’d do the same. But no one in love was ever very smart.

Kingsley made it to the field before S?ren did, but when S?ren arrived, Kingsley couldn’t stop smiling.

“What are you laughing at?” S?ren asked as they ran laps around the field to warm up.

“I don’t think you want to know…”

Even in the heat with the sun beating down on them, Kingsley couldn’t suppress his grin.

“I think I do. In fact, I’m certain I do.”

“If you must know, I’m starting to believe in God,” Kingsley said.

“What brought this on?”

“I foresee a miracle occurring in the future.”

“Which is?”

“You,” Kingsley said as the team gathered on the sideline. “Being humbled.”

“And what makes you say that?” S?ren asked, sounding both imperious and skeptical.

Kingsley only smiled on and said three words.

“I met Eleanor.”





29


August “TELL ME TO CLOSE MY EYES AND THINK OF EN gland,” Kingsley said to Sam when she walked into the office holding a Styrofoam bowl in her hand.

“I’ve been to England. Great country, nice people. I tried to get Princess Di in bed.” She sat on his desk in front of him and took a bite of whatever it was in the bowl.

“How did that work out for you?” he asked.

“My attempted seduction involved me staring longingly at Buckingham Palace until a man in a funny hat politely told me to move along. Do I want to know why you’re closing your eyes and thinking of England?” she asked, taking another bite from her bowl.

“I think I have to seduce Lucy Fuller.”

Sam screwed up her face in disgust.

“Oh, God, don’t do that,” she said. “There has to be a better way. I have to go puke up my ice cream now.” She set the bowl on his desk in disgust.

“If I f*ck her and get it on tape, I can use it as leverage to get Fuller to sell me his building.”

“She’s horrible, King.”

“I know. She’s got a new book coming out about how to turn your gay children straight. Forced fasting and prayer vigils. And if that doesn’t work—exorcism.”

“I don’t think your dick is going to solve this problem,” Sam said.

“Why not? It solves all my other problems.”

“Can’t you trick Fuller into committing a crime and get it on tape?”