The King. Tiffany Reisz
had played Ravel for him the day they met and many days after. Ravel, the greatest of all French composers. And now his heart turned to Beethoven—the greatest of all the Germans.
“I would play Ravel for you,” Søren said, his voice stiff and formal. “If that’s what it took.”
Kingsley’s eyes flew open.
“I’m not going to make you fuck me just so I’ll help your Virgin Queen. That’s her game, not mine.”
“Is there a price for your assistance?”
“You gave me a fortune. I’m richer than God, and you think you owe me something?”
“Don’t I?”
“A favor,” Kingsley said. “One favor.”
“Anything. Name it.”
Kingsley stood up, walked across the room and stood only inches from Søren.
“All I ask of you,” Kingsley began, “all I beg of you...don’t leave me again. Please. Eleven years. I thought I’d never see you again.”
Søren grasped Kingsley by the back of the neck and pulled him into an embrace—not an embrace of lovers but, instead, of lost brothers, soldiers from enemy armies reunited at the end of a long, devastating war that no one had won.
“I thought I would die without ever seeing you again,” Kingsley said, and his eyes burned with tears. “Every day I thought that.”
“Thought or hoped?”
“Feared,” Kingsley said, clutching Søren’s forearms. “My greatest fear.”
Kingsley closed his eyes, and if he kept his eyes closed he wouldn’t have to see that white collar around Søren’s neck. If he kept his eyes closed he could pretend it was eleven years ago and they were alone in the hermitage together. Søren would beat him and take him to bed, and after he’d finished, Kingsley would throw his arm over Søren’s stomach, rest his head on Søren’s chest and fall asleep. When he woke up Søren would still be there. Søren would always be there.
“I promise you this,” Søren whispered, “I will never turn my back on you. I will never leave you. I will never forsake you. As long as it’s in my power, I will be your friend, and I will be here for you whenever you need me.”
“You paid for this house. It’s your home even more than mine. Make it your home.”
“I will if that’s what you want.”
“More than anything.” He opened his eyes and looked up at Søren. “No one loves me. And I don’t love anyone here. No one trusts me and I don’t trust anyone. I need you.”
“You trust me? After what I did to you?”
“I trust you. Because of what you did to me.”
Søren took a deep breath. Kingsley felt his chest rise and fall.
Kingsley sensed Søren’s reluctance to pull away, but pull away he did.
“I’ll help your girl,” Kingsley said. “I know people. I’ll make sure she doesn’t go away.”
“Don’t hate her. You’ll want to hate her, and we both know why. But try to keep your heart open.”
“How long have you been back in the United States?” Kingsley asked.
Søren seemed taken aback by the question.
“A few months,” he said.
“You’ve been to the city before?”
“Yes.”
“But you never came to see me.”
Søren didn’t say anything. Kingsley hated him for that silence.
“You weren’t planning on seeing me ever again, were you?” Kingsley asked.
“I thought about seeing you again,” Søren said. “I wasn’t sure if I should. For the obvious reasons.”
“Your little girl got herself in trouble, and that’s what it took to bring you back to me? How can I hate her?”
Søren nodded. It looked as if he had something else to say. Whatever it was, he decided against saying it.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Søren said. “I’ve been up all night, and it looks like you have, too. We’ll talk more after we’ve both had some sleep.”
“Good.” Kingsley was so relieved to hear he’d see Søren tomorrow, he was almost ashamed of himself. He could have cried from relief. “I have a car. It can take you home.”
“It’s fine. I have a way back.”
“Please, don’t tell me you’re taking public transportation. I can handle the vow of celibacy better than that.”
Søren laughed—a joyful new morning laugh. Joyful? He hadn’t expected joy. Søren was happy in his new life? That was good. Kingsley wanted him happy. At least one of them was happy. Better than nothing.
“I promise, no public transportation.”
Kingsley followed Søren out on to the sidewalk. From the two-foot gap between his town house and the house next to him, Søren wheeled out a black motorcycle—a Ducati.
Kingsley whistled.
“If this is standard-issue transportation for Jesuits, no wonder you joined.”
“It’s a bribe, actually,” Søren said, pulling on a leather jacket and zipping it up. He slipped his white collar out of his shirt and pocketed it. Just like that, Søren ceased looking like a priest and became himself again in Kingsley’s eyes.
“Priests take bribes?”
“We have a long history of it. Ever heard of indulgences?”
“My entire life is an indulgence.”
“I’m starting to see that,” Søren said, looking the town house up and down. “But this bribe was my father’s doing. He assumed—wrongly—that I’d drop out of seminary so I could keep it. Jesuits hold all property in common. If I accepted the bike and stayed in seminary, I’d have to give it up to the order. They often sell large expensive gifts and use the money for more important things—like food and books.”
“What happened?”
“I told my superior at the province. He told me to take the bike, become a priest and let my father go to hell. That’s the sort of spiritual counsel I can live with.”
“Your father must hate you.”
“Almost as much as I hate him.”
Søren started the engine. Before he could drive off, Kingsley stepped in front of the bike.
“Don’t forget the favor. Don’t leave me again,” Kingsley said.
“Again? You seem to be forgetting something,” Søren said.
“What?”
Søren looked him deep in the eyes. And in those gray depths Kingsley caught a glimpse of something. Fury—old, cold, but still burning.
“Eleven years ago, I didn’t leave you,” Søren said. “You left me first.”
And with that, Søren put on his helmet, revved up his bike and rode off into the street.
Funny. Kingsley had forgotten that.
He had left Søren first.
THE THINGS KINGSLEY did for love.
Kingsley