The King. Tiffany Reisz

rubbed his forehead, felt the weariness in his bones. He needed a better reason for getting out of bed in the morning.

      Kingsley walked four blocks and found a pay phone.

      “It’s me,” Kingsley said when Søren answered. He spoke in French. No need for names.

      “What’s the verdict?” Søren asked.

      “She’ll get community service. Good enough?”

      He heard a pause on the other end, and Kingsley lived and died in that pause. Just like old times.

      “Thank you,” Søren said. “That is more than I’d dared to hope for.”

      “Let me ask you something. If I hadn’t been able to help your little girl, what would you have done? What was Plan B?”

      “I think she and my mother would get along quite well.”

      Kingsley shook his head and laughed to himself. “I’m glad I could save you from the necessity of kidnapping a minor and transporting her across international borders.”

      “Kidnapping is such a strong word. I prefer the term rescuing.”

      “You really love her.”

      “You will, too.”

      “What’s so special about this girl you’re willing to commit felonies on her behalf?”

      “Truth?”

      “Truth,” Kingsley said.

      “She reminds me of you.”

      “That’s why you love her?” Kingsley asked, hoping the answer was “yes” but knowing it wasn’t.

      “That’s why I’m trying to help her.”

      Kingsley heard the pointed note in Søren’s words.

      “I don’t need help,” Kingsley said.

      “Are you certain of that?”

      “Yes,” Kingsley said, and hung up the phone.

      As he walked away, he had a fleeting thought.

      What was the penance for lying to a priest?

       7

      April

      “HIT ME,” KINGSLEY said as he tapped the table.

      “I’m not going to hit you,” Søren said.

      “You have to do what I say. And I say hit me.”

      Søren glared at him. Kingsley glared back.

      “You have an ace and an eight,” Søren said.

      “Which means I have nine or nineteen. I’m calling it nine. Hit me.”

      “You want another card because you want to say ‘hit me’ to me as many times as possible tonight.”

      “I’m not disagreeing with that.” Kingsley tapped the table again. “Hit me.”

      Søren gave Kingsley another card—a second ace. Now he had twenty or ten, depending on how he wanted to play it. He and Søren weren’t playing blackjack for money, so he didn’t care much if he won or not. In fact, he didn’t care at all. But he couldn’t deny the fact he was enjoying himself. Kingsley needed time to stop and stop completely. He hadn’t felt this... He couldn’t even find the right word. He hadn’t felt this something in years. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to lose it, and he’d found it the instant Søren had stepped through his front door.

      “Kingsley?”

      “I’m thinking.”

      “You have twenty. You should stand.”

      “I’m not going to take the strategy advice of my enemy.”

      “I’m the dealer, not the enemy.”

      “When did you start playing blackjack anyway?” Kingsley demanded as he perused his cards again. One more ace and he’d have blackjack. “Do they teach this in seminary?”

      “Cards were an extracurricular activity. An entire household full of men who aren’t allowed to have sex? We find other hobbies.”

      “So, blackjack?”

      “Among other things.”

      Kingsley gave him a searching look.

      “Care to tell me what these other hobbies of yours are?” Kingsley asked.

      “They’re on a need-to-know basis. You don’t need to know,” Søren said, fanning the cards in front of him.

      “I need to know everything,” Kingsley said. “If I’m going to keep you from getting excommunicated or going to prison for seducing and/or kidnapping a teenage girl—”

      “Seduce her? I haven’t even seen her for a full month.”

      Kingsley cocked an eyebrow at Søren.

      “She quit church?”

      Søren cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter.

      “She’s grounded.”

      Kingsley dropped his head on to the table.

      “Why didn’t I defect to Russia when I had the chance?” Kingsley sighed.

      “Are you going to make a decision about your cards, or are we going to be here all night?”

      “We’re going to be here all night.” Kingsley sat up again. Søren shook his head in disgust. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the one with a girlfriend young enough to be grounded.”

      Exhaling with exasperation, Søren swept up his cards and Kingsley’s. With his agile pianist’s fingers, he shuffled the cards one-handed. Kingsley watched the display of casual grace and dexterity with envy and longing. Once, those skillful hands had owned every inch of his body. He’d never wanted to be a deck of cards so much in his life.

      “Let’s try this again, shall we?” Søren dealt the cards.

      “King?” came a woman’s voice behind Kingsley. Without looking back, he raised his hand and beckoned her into the dining room. A beautiful young woman in a forties-style skirt and blouse stood next to his chair and waited.

      He wrapped an arm around her hips and dragged her down to his lap.

      “You’re interrupting,” he said to her. “Can’t you see how busy I am?”

      “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” she glanced down at the table and back into Kingsley’s eyes “—card game?”

      Kingsley pointed at Søren.

      “Blaise, I would like you to meet my oldest and dearest friend...” He paused and looked at Søren when he realized he didn’t know if he was allowed to tell anyone Søren’s name. Out in the world Søren had gone by the name his father had given him—Marcus Stearns. Even now he was Father Marcus Stearns, SJ, according to church records. Søren was the name his mother had given him, and few called him that.

      “Who the hell are you again?” Kingsley asked.

      Søren stretched out his hand and took Blaise’s.

      “Søren. Kingsley and I went to school together.”

      “I’m Blaise,” she said, and gave Søren her brightest smile and the most unapologetic bedroom eyes Kingsley had ever seen. So unfair. Why did Søren always turn every head in the room? Kingsley looked at Søren who today wore normal clothes. Normal? Black slacks, a fitted black long-sleeve T-shirt. They’d be normal clothes on anyone but Søren.