The King. Tiffany Reisz

here would argue with me if I said he was gay. But you try to leave. I can only assume you won’t argue with me because it’s true.”

      The blond sat in silence and didn’t meet Kingsley’s eyes. A beautiful boy, Kingsley would have noticed him even if he weren’t blond. A strong jaw, strong nose, angular face, high enough cheekbones to give him an air of sophistication and yet, he had wary eyes, watching eyes, eyes that never rested for long, as if he were forever looking over his shoulder. His hair was the pale variety of blond, the Nordic variety. Kingsley’s favorite. He wore clothes designed to blend in with a crowd—faded jeans, white shirt, black jacket. But he’d failed in his attempt. Kingsley had noticed him at once.

      “No, they don’t know,” the boy said. “I’m in town with my dad on a business trip. He’s out with clients tonight. I’m... I walked around Greenwich Village last night. I met this guy outside a club. He told me some rumors about this place.”

      “Believe them,” Kingsley said.

      “You don’t know what rumors I heard.”

      “Doesn’t matter.” Kingsley took another sip of the bourbon. “All of them are true.”

      “So the guy who owns this place—”

      “What about him?”

      “They say he’s in with the mafia?”

      “It’s a strip club.” Kingsley rolled his eyes. “Every club in town cleans money for the mob whether they want to or not. It’s all cash here. It’s part of the deal. What else have you heard?”

      “That the owner of the club—”

      “Yes?”

      “He used to kill people for a living.”

      “Also true. But if it makes you feel any better, I did it for the government. Never recreationally.”

      The boy’s eyes widened hugely.

      “You own this place?”

      “Haven’t you ever gotten bored and bought a strip club?”

      “No...”

      “In my defense,” Kingsley said, “it was on sale.”

      The boy narrowed his eyes at Kingsley. “You really own this place?”

      “I do. Why don’t you believe me?”

      “You have to be rich to own a club. No offense, but you don’t look rich.”

      Kingsley glanced down at his clothes. He, too, had dressed to blend in tonight—black pants, black shoes, gray shirt and black leather jacket. Nothing out of the ordinary. No one dressed up to go hunting.

      “Rich people don’t look rich. When you have enough money, you don’t have to impress anyone.”

      “And you seem kind of young.”

      “I’m twenty-eight. I should seem ancient to you. Twenty-eight was ancient to me when I was nineteen.”

      “I’m twenty-one, remember,” the blond said. “And you aren’t ancient.”

      “What am I?” Kingsley raised his chin and gazed down at the boy.

      “You’re the most... I mean, you’re...”

      “Spit it out. Use your words.”

      “Gorgeous.”

      Kingsley raised an eyebrow. He didn’t mind the flattery or the adulation, but he’d wanted the boy the second he’d walked into the club. Time to move things along.

      “What else have you heard?”

      The boy glanced around. He dropped his voice.

      “I heard that there’s another room—”

      “It’s more than one room.”

      The boy sat back. He ran a nervous hand through his hair. Kingsley envied his fingers.

      “So it’s true? You all do kink here? And...other stuff?”

      “You know why this club is called the Möbius?” Kingsley asked.

      “No. Weird name.”

      “A Möbius strip is an optical illusion. It looks like it has two sides, but it has only one.”

      Kingsley picked the napkin off the table. Embossed on the white paper was a small ribbon, oval-shaped. His patrons likely thought it was an elegant rendition of a vagina. The image conveniently worked on two levels.

      “I don’t understand,” the blond said.

      “Do you want to understand?”

      “It’s why I’m here.”

      “Then follow me. I’ll be your tour guide through hell.”

      Kingsley grabbed the bottle off the table, and the boy followed him to a quiet corner of the club. To the right of the bar was a door bearing an employees only sign. Kingsley pushed through. The blond hesitated, but Kingsley grasped him by the wrist and pulled him.

      “I told you I own this place. Do you think you’re going to get into trouble?” Kingsley asked.

      “Yeah,” the blond said.

      “If you’re with me, you’re already in trouble.”

      They walked down a short hall to another door. Kingsley paused to pull out his keys.

      “I should go,” the blond said. “I—”

      Without even looking at him, Kingsley shoved the boy back against the wall and held him there with one hand.

      He found the key but didn’t put it in the lock. Instead, he dangled it in front of the boy’s face. In the brighter light of the hallway Kingsley could see the blond had light brown eyes. Not the steel-gray color he’d hoped for, but still he would do.

      “This key opens a door to a hidden part of this club,” Kingsley said. “The part of the club you came to see. Doors are symbols, you know. Thresholds to cross, choices to be made. It’s not often that a real door stands between you and a different life. Don’t waste this chance. You go back that way, and you stay in your old world. You open that door, and you enter a new one.”

      The boy eyed the silver key dangling from Kingsley’s middle finger.

      “If you were me...” the blond said.

      “I was you,” Kingsley said.

      “What did you choose?”

      Kingsley didn’t answer at first. There had been no door for him, no key.

      “I ran through the door. And I never looked back.”

      Sweat beaded on the boy’s smooth young forehead. Kingsley held him still and hard against the wall and under his hand he could feel the boy’s heart battering against his chest.

      The boy reached up and grabbed the key. With fumbling fingers, he shoved it in the lock, turned the knob and pushed through the door. This time, Kingsley followed him.

      Behind the door, the world changed color. Out front, the lights were black. Here they were blue. Out in the club, a pantomime of sex played out on and around the stage. Girls gave lap dances, feigned interest and faked smiles. Here, behind the door, men groped in the dark, coupled frantically, secretly. Nothing was feigned. No one pretended to fuck back here. They fucked.

      “Jesus,” the boy whispered as they passed a man bent over a chair, another man behind him, inside him, fucking him without shame or restraint.

      “If you’re looking for Jesus, you won’t find him down here,” Kingsley said, stepping in front of the blond to guide him through the hall.

      “Is this a bathhouse?” the boy asked.

      “You