The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(99)

This was hell.

Standing in the midst of two dozen people holding signs, marching and shouting, was the devil himself, Reverend Fuller, grasping a bullhorn and echoing their “Abortion is murder” chant. A bullhorn? Sam was right. This was a man who did not deserve to get f*cked by him or anyone else. Seemed a veritable crime that S?ren was supposed to be celibate, and yet this man could breed with impunity.

Kingsley stood in the shadows of an alley and watched as Fuller worked the crowd, shaking hands, thanking the protesters for their dedication and inviting them to his church. Nearby a man with a camera recorded everything—Fuller with the bullhorn, the handshakes, the stomping feet and the waving signs.

During all the glad-handing, a small car pulled into the clinic parking lot, a young patient inside. Kingsley wished he’d come armed. If any of these *s tried anything with that poor girl in the car, he would shoot them.

Perhaps it was for the best he’d left the gun at home.

Before the woman could leave her car, a man emerged from the clinic carrying a blanket. He looked about Kingsley’s age—twenty-eight or twenty-nine—and had short dark hair and a heavily muscled build. Square-jawed, solid and handsome, even a few of the female protestors gave him appreciative glances. He walked swiftly to the car, unfolding the blanket as he went. August in Brooklyn. Why did he need the blanket? The woman got out of her car, and Kingsley discovered the answer. The blanket wasn’t to keep her warm, Kingsley discovered, but to keep her identity hidden from the protestors and the man with the video camera. The clinic escort held the blanket open and stayed at her left side, imposing himself between her and the protestors as he led her into the clinic. The volume of the shouts increased as did the level of venom in the insults. The theoretical “Abortion is murder” became “You’re a murderer.” For all they knew, the woman was there for free birth control, but that didn’t stop the abusive commentary.

Kingsley waited and watched until Fuller left the protestors and got into a waiting black Lincoln Town Car that pulled up to whisk him away back to his church or his golf game. Once Fuller had gone, a strange thing happened. The cameraman packed up his equipment and the protestors wandered away. Fuller had staged a protest for the cameras to show his congregation and his television audience at home that he was already doing God’s work in New York City.

Kingsley stopped one of the protestors, a girl in her twenties.

“You look familiar,” Kingsley said to her. “Have I seen you in anything?”

“I did a couple local commercials,” she said. “One for a mattress company.”

“Was this extra work?” Kingsley asked.

The girl shrugged. “Fund-raising video, they said. Gotta make a living, right? That preacher guy’s such a douche bag. Good thing he pays well.”

“Right,” Kingsley said and let the girl go.

But the clinic escort, he’d been interesting. Kingsley decided to wait and talk to him.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. But his patience was rewarded when the man emerged from the clinic alone.

“I hope they pay you well for what you do,” Kingsley said as the man walked past him.

The man didn’t turn around. Instead, he walked backward until he stood in front of Kingsley.

“Volunteer,” the man said. “Got a problem with that, mate?”

“You’re Australian. I didn’t expect that. Mon ami.” He added the “mon ami” in retaliation for the “mate.”

“Yeah, and what the f*ck are you?”

“French? American? Bisexual? Rich? Kinky? Pick one. Or all of them.”

The man lifted his chin and cocked an eyebrow at Kingsley. The Aussie was sizing him up. The man was taller than him and had more overall muscle mass. But Kingsley was a trained killer and didn’t sense anything threatening in the Aussie’s posture.

“Australian,” the man said. “Straight. Not rich. Not sure about kinky. It’s only kinky the first time, right?”

“I had a feeling I would like you. What’s your name?”

“Lachlan. Lockie, my friends call me. Not saying we’re friends.”

“I wouldn’t dare presume.” Kingsley nodded his head in polite and feigned submission. “I was impressed earlier. It must not be easy, doing what you do.”

“I don’t do it because it’s easy. I do it because it needs doing. I saw you earlier. You weren’t protesting and you don’t look pregnant. What do you want?”

“You,” Kingsley said. “Not in a sexual way. You wouldn’t by any chance be interested in a job, would you?”

“I have a job.”

“A different job, then. I’m starting a club. Opens in November. I need someone to work as a bouncer of sorts.”

“Of sorts? What the hell does that mean?”

“I’ll have professional submissives in the club. They’ll need a watcher when they’re with a client. It would be a far more pleasant form of escort duty.”

“I do important work here.”

“You can still work here. The hours won’t conf lict, I promise.”

Kingsley took out a silver case and passed his business card to the man.

“Kingsley Edge. Edge Enterprises,” the man read aloud. “This is for real?”