King's Pleasure. Adrianne Byrd

if you’ve come to me for an exorcism, that leads me to believe that you’re seeing or hearing some sort of, shall we say, disturbing spirits?”

      Quentin looped the phrase through his head a couple of times, but he was still uncomfortable with it. “Now, does your definition of spirits mean that the person or persons are…”

      “…Dead,” Father Dickerson supplied as more lines creased his forehead.

      “Well, see, that’s still my gray issue.”

      “Come again?”

      “Well, the entity that I’m dealing with hasn’t exactly died.”

      Father Dickerson continued to stare at Quentin.

      “She—”

      “It’s a woman?”

      “Yes. Actually, she’s my sister-in-law, Alyssa.”

      “Your living sister-in-law?”

      “As far as I know.” Quentin shrugged. “I mean, I haven’t talked to her in a few months, but I’m sure someone in the family would’ve contacted me if something had happened to her. Then again, who knows? I’m not exactly on the best of terms with my family.”

      Father Dickerson snatched off his black-rimmed glasses and proceeded to rub his eyelids. “Let me try this again,” he said. “You want an exorcist to get rid of a spirit that isn’t really a spirit but a recurring vision of a woman who is very much alive? Do I have that right?” he said in disbelief.

      “Well, it’s more than just a vision. She talks to me and tries to give me advice—most of the time when I’m not asking for it. She’s made me look crazy in front of some of my dates. Her specialty is popping up right after I— Well just because you wear that collar doesn’t mean you don’t know what goes on between a man and a woman. Am I right?”

      When the joke fell flat, Quentin couldn’t cough long or hard enough to clear whatever the hell it was that was stuck in his throat.

      “Son, this is probably the first time in my thirty-one years at this parish that I’ve ever said this to someone who has come to me for guidance. I would love to help you, but what you need—neither I nor the church can really help you with. I think that you need to see someone in the mental-health field—maybe someone in a white coat, with the authority to prescribe medication or who can admit you to someplace safe.”

      “I’m not crazy,” Quentin declared defensively. “At least my shrink doesn’t think I’m crazy.”

      Relief flooded Father Dickerson’s face. “Ah, so you are seeing someone.” He reached over and picked up the phone. “Is there a number or…?”

      “What about the exorcism?”

      “Son, I can’t exorcise a spirit that doesn’t exist. It is metaphysically impossible for someone who is alive to haunt you. Clearly you are seeing and hearing things that just aren’t there. I’m sorry. I’m sure that’s not the answer you wanted to hear, but that’s the cold, hard truth.”

      Quentin shook his head. “Well, can’t you just sprinkle some holy water around? I mean, what’s it going to hurt?”

      “Mr. Hinton, are you even Catholic?”

      “Is that a prerequisite?”

      With a deep sigh, Father Dickerson pushed his glasses back onto his face. “Good day, Mr. Hinton.”

      “But—”

      “I said, ‘good day.’”

      “Unbelievable.” Quentin rose to his feet, barely managing to refrain from giving him a piece of his mind, which is what he really wanted to dish to the insensitive priest. “I guess I’ll just see myself out.”

      He turned toward the door and stopped short when he spotted a bored Alyssa, still beautiful in the wedding gown she wore when she’d married his brother, Sterling, utterly breaking his heart. She was leaning against the wall with her arms folded and a smug look plastered on her face.

      “I told you this was a waste of time,” she said.

      “Oh, shut up,” he snapped as he resumed his charge toward the door.

      “Excuse me?” Father Dickerson said.

      “I wasn’t talking to you.” Quentin snatched open the door, but decided to leave the priest with just one bit of parting advice. “If I were you, I’d sprinkle some holy water up this office, because whatever you’ve been doing is clearly not working.” He stormed out, with his fake apparition following close behind him.

      “Does this mean that we’re going back to Dr. Turner now?” Alyssa asked.

      “It’s either that or the loony bin.”

      “Good. Because I think you’re on the verge of a breakthrough.”

      “God, I hope so.”

      “Aah, Quentin. You’re back,” said Dr. Turner, greeting him in her downtown Atlanta office with a smile. “I wondered whether I’d ever see you again. It’s been a couple of months.”

      “Yeah, I’ve been a little busy….”

      “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s not that unusual for patients to disappear from time to time, especially when they’re anxious for results.”

      Alyssa laughed. “She really does have you pegged.”

      “Would you like to come in and sit down?” She stepped back and moved away from the door so that the next move was his.

      Quentin’s gaze shifted to the black leather chaise in the center of the room, and unbelievably he felt a strange sensation, like he was finally home. “Just like old times,” he said, strolling into the office.

      Dr. Julianne Turner’s thick, luscious coral-tinted lips spread into a breathtaking smile as she closed the door behind him.

      Being a connoisseur of women, as he’d proudly proclaimed, Quentin immediately noticed that the good doctor’s perfume had changed. It was no longer soft and floral, but more fruity and woodsy. That wasn’t all he noticed in his short jaunt across the room to the chaise. Her clothes were different. Gone were the knee-length skirts that let her legs play peek-a-boo when she sat down. Now they were proudly showcased in a black number that hit her thigh a good five inches above her knees. Not only that, the tailored cut of the shorter dress led his eyes to her rounded hips and ass.

      “What’s going on?” he suddenly asked.

      “Sorry?” She leaned back so that she could look up to his tall frame.

      That’s when he noticed the extra burst of color in her redbone complexion and that unmistakable twinkle in her eyes that let him know what time it was. “What’s his name?”

      “What’s whose name?” She blinked, but the smile never left her face.

      Quentin flashed his secret weapon—his dimples. “The name of the brother that put that huge, Kool-Aid grin on your face,” he said. When she opened her mouth to respond, Q held up a finger to cut her off. “And please, don’t insult my intelligence and tell me there isn’t a guy. You have that glow that women have when they’re with child or after a night of unbridled—”

      “Quentin!” Alyssa snapped.

      Dr. Turner finally blanched. “Mr. Hinton!”

      “Quentin,” he corrected as his smile wrapped around his face like a rubber band.

      “It’s been a while since you’ve been to my office, so maybe I need to remind you that these visits are for your benefit. I’m not the topic of conversation here. I would appreciate it if you would keep your sly comments and wolfish gaze to yourself. Do I make myself clear?”

      “Wolfish?”

      “I