The King. Tiffany Reisz
him.
Kingsley turned around and looked at him. A square of light from the window lay across the boy’s face like a white mask.
“I’ve only been with a guy once. It wasn’t like this. I didn’t even come. If my parents knew I was gay, they’d kick me out. I just... I wanted you to know those three things.”
“Anything else?” Kingsley asked, keeping his face composed, his voice devoid of emotion.
“You’re beautiful,” Justin said. “I feel stupid for saying that to another guy, but I can’t find another word. And what you did to me was everything I’ve always wanted. So...thank you.”
“You’re thanking me?”
“They teach us manners in Texas.”
Kingsley could taste the boy on his lips. Walk away. He knew he should walk away.
He pulled out his wallet and, from it, took a slim silver card with black ink.
“My name is Kingsley Edge. Not entirely, but it’s what I answer to. I’m French. That’s the accent you hear. And if your family kicks you out—and you’re right, they might—come back to this city and find me. I can help you. I’m not saying I will help you. But I can if I’m in the mood.”
Justin took the card and held it in his fist.
“Why did you pick me tonight? Only gay guy in the club?”
“There were three if I counted correctly.”
“Then why me?”
“You’re blond,” Kingsley answered truthfully. Justin gave a little laugh.
“You must really love blonds, then.”
“No.” Kingsley smiled tiredly. “I hate them.”
Without another word or a kiss goodbye, Kingsley left the room, left the hall, left the club and walked into the rainy streets of Manhattan. He should have called for his driver to come for him and take him home. But after so much sadism, a little masochism would do him good. The rain had turned the night near freezing, and Kingsley dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets burrowing for warmth. He walked fast, lengthening his strides as the late-winter rain soaked him to the skin. After two miles he arrived home to his town house. He paused outside and looked up. After six months living here, he still couldn’t believe he owned a Manhattan palace. Three stories—four if one counted the pool in the basement—black-and-white facade, wrought-iron balconies, a glass conservatory on the roof and luxurious bedroom after bedroom after bedroom...
Any one of his bedrooms would do him right now. He wanted to be warm and naked and drunk this very second. He ran up the stairs, opened the door and shut it behind him. He didn’t lock it. He never locked the door. Someone was always in the house, always coming or going. And people only locked their doors to keep the barbarians at the gate. He was the barbarian. Why would he keep himself out?
As soon as he entered the house, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it on the floor. Someone would take care of it. Someone always did. He heard music coming from within the house. Blaise, he guessed. She’d taken to staying here most nights, even the nights he didn’t fuck her. She seemed the sort to like piano music—or at least to pretend she liked it.
He trudged up the steps but paused before he reached the first landing. The music...it didn’t sound as if it came from a stereo or a radio. No, it sounded close, and live. Alive.
“Fuck.” Kingsley stormed back down the stairs. He had one rule in his house and one rule only. No one touches the grand piano in the music room. No one. It was to be looked at and never touched, never played, never even acknowledged. Whoever dared touch his piano would be thrown into the street and forbidden from ever crossing the threshold of his house again. The person who defied Kingsley’s one law would curse the day he’d ever learned to play the fucking piano.
Kingsley threw open the door to the music room.
He stopped.
He stared.
He did not breathe.
It couldn’t be...
But it was.
The room was dark, but Kingsley could see who played his grand piano. And even if he couldn’t see, he would still know it was him. Only one man he’d ever known could play so skillfully without sheet music, without even seeing the keys. A sliver of streetlight penetrated the room and cast a circle of light around the pianist’s hair.
His blond hair.
Søren.
Frozen in place, Kingsley could do nothing but stand and listen and watch and wait and wonder. Why? How?
The music—Beethoven, Kingsley believed it was—set the room afire, and the sound moved like smoke over the floor, up the walls and across the ceiling. Kingsley breathed it in like incense.
The piece ended. The final note rose like a burning ember before falling to the floor and fading into ash.
Shock had stolen Kingsley’s courage, but now it returned to him. He couldn’t get to the man fast enough. He rushed forward as the pianist closed the fallboard and stood. Over ten years had passed since Kingsley had seen him, had looked on him with his own eyes. Kingsley had almost given up hope he would ever see him again. They’d caused each other too much pain, and someone had paid the highest price for their secrets. But that was all in the past. It would be better now between them. No hiding. No lies. Kingsley would give him his heart and his body and his soul, and this time he’d ask for nothing in return.
But as the pianist rose, Kingsley noticed something different about him. He looked the same, only older now. How long since they’d last stood face-to-face, eye-to-eye? He would be twenty-nine years old, wouldn’t he? God, they were grown men now. When had that happened? If it was possible, he was even more handsome than Kingsley remembered, and taller, too. How was it possible he was taller? His clothes, however, were far more severe. He wore all black.
All black but for one spot of white.
A square of white.
A square of white at his throat.
The pianist smiled at him, a smile of amusement with only the barest hint of apology. And not the least bit of shame.
Fuck.
Kingsley stared, incredulous. He took a small step back.
No...not that. Anything but that. Whatever hope had been in Kingsley’s heart a second earlier shattered and died like the last stray note of a symphony.
The old love, the old desire coursed through his veins and into his heart, and there was no stopping it.
He met the blond pianist’s eyes—the priest’s eyes—and released the breath he’d forgotten he’d been holding.
“Mon Dieu...”
My God.
FOR A SILENT eternity they only looked at each other.
Finally Kingsley raised his hand.
“Wait here,” he said and turned around. He turned back around again. “S’il vous plait.”
Søren said nothing. Even if Søren wanted to speak, Kingsley left before he could say a word.
Kingsley strode from the music room and shut the door behind him.
As soon as he stood alone in the hallway, Kingsley pushed a hand into his stomach. A wave of dizziness passed over him. He fought it off, ran upstairs to his bedroom and changed from his rain-soaked clothes into dry ones. He grabbed soap, a towel. He scrubbed at his face, rinsed the taste of Justin out of his mouth, toweled the rain from his hair and slicked his