The King

by Tiffany Reisz

  girls. But a few were their age, in their twenties and thirties. One girl with a swinging ponytail wearing short shorts and knee socks jogged past them and waved at Søren.

  “What are you doing to me?” Kingsley asked.

  “Congratulations, Kingsley. You’re the new striker on our intermural church league team.”

  “Were you this weird back in high school?” Kingsley asked. “Or is this a side effect of prolonged celibacy?”

  “You can’t say no. We’ve already ordered your T-shirt.”

  “Definitely weirder since high school.”

  “The wisest thing my confessor ever told me was that I could be a priest and have fun.”

  “Church league soccer is your definition of fun?”

  “It is when you win. But First Presbyterian slaughtered us last week. We lost four to one.”

  “Aren’t Presbyterians Calvinists?” Kingsley asked. Søren hated Calvinism.

  “Now you know why I need you to help me destroy them.”

  “If I help you destroy the Presbyterians, what do I get in return?”

  “My gratitude?”

  Kingsley stayed silent.

  “My eternal gratitude?” Søren upped his offer.

  Kingsley still said nothing.

  “A night with Eleanor once she’s old enough?”

  Kingsley narrowed his eyes at Søren and stroked his chin while considering the offer.

  “You and her both? My bedroom?”

  Søren paused.

  “If you’re clean,” Søren finally said, “and if you behave, don’t get yourself killed between now and then, and if she’s amenable to the idea.”

  “Agreed,” Kingsley said.

  “Then it’s a deal.”

  Kingsley took the soccer ball out of Søren’s hands.

  “First Presbyterian will never know what hit them,” Kingsley said. Side by side they ran on to the field, and in short order, Kingsley had taken command of the team. The team assumed, rightly, that being European, Kingsley could play better than they could, and they willingly followed his direction. The younger players especially were in awe. For a perfect two hours Kingsley didn’t think once of his impending test results, not once about Robert Dixon’s tape, not once about taking out Fuller’s church.

  And not once did he think of Søren as anything other than an annoyingly good player on his team.

  When practice ended, they walked back to the church sweaty and tired. But it was a good sweaty, a good tired.

  “Admit it, you had fun,” Søren said. “Fun that didn’t involve sex, drugs, or blackmailing and/or bribing a district attorney.”

  “I don’t bribe DAs for fun. That was a favor to you.”

  “And I appreciate it. So does Eleanor, even if she doesn’t know what you did on her behalf.”

  “She’ll make it up to me someday,” Kingsley said, attempting to goad Søren and succeeding.

  “I said if she’s amendable to the idea. She might not be.”

  “You can’t even say that with a straight face.”

  “I admit it’s unlikely.”

  “You know,” Kingsley said, taking his keys out of his pocket. “I would have joined the team without you giving me a night with your girl.”

  Søren smiled and turned away, heading to his church. In French he called back.

  “I would have given you a night with her without you joining the team.”

  Kingsley laughed. Maybe there was hope for that priest yet.

  19

  “DO YOU WANT A STRAIGHT PIN THROUGH YOUR future children?”

  “No.” Kingsley sighed.

  “Then, young man, I’d suggest you hold still.”

  “I am holding still,” Kingsley said, rolling his eyes. First Magdalena, and then Signore Vitale. Kingsley decided he had more than fulfilled his quota for suffering the abuses of irascible Italians for the century.

  “Hold more still,” the little white-haired man at his feet said.

  “King,” Sam said, tapping her foot in annoyance. “Hold the fuck still.”

  “When I have a man on his feet in front of me, it’s usually considered an insult if I hold still,” Kingsley said.

  “Don’t f latter yourself. You aren’t my type.” The tailor, Signore Vitale, looked up from the f loor.

  “Are you straight?” Kingsley asked. He was everyone’s type. Except Sam’s.

  “No, but you are French.”

  “Italians…” Kingsley shook his head. “Look, I’m no fan of Napoleon, either. But it was a hundred-and-ninety years ago.”

  “Italians have long memories.”

  Kingsley forced himself to stop moving, stop breathing, stop thinking.

  “Better,” Signore Vitale said. “Much better. Soon we’ll have you looking like a new you.”

  “I thought the old me looked good.”

  “You dress like a gay hobo,” Signore Vitale said.

  “That’s not true,” Sam said, coming to Kingsley’s defense.

  “Merci,” Kingsley said.

  “He dresses like a bisexual hobo.”

  Kingsley glared at her.

  “For the record, I consider myself pansexual.”

  “Does that mean you like to fuck cookware?”

  “It means I like to fuck everything.”

  “Typical francese.” Vitale sighed.

  “Am I paying for these insults to my heritage?” Kingsley asked.

  “Yes,” Vitale said. “Five percent surcharge for French clients.”

  “Make it two-and-a-half percent. I’m only half French.”

  In his twenty-eight years, Kingsley had had many a man kneeling before him at crotch level. Signore Vitale would win the award for the oldest and least appealing of all the men who’d ended up in this position. He tried not to look down as Vitale made the most minor of adjustments on his trousers, pinning the fabric and marking it with chalk.

  “Good. You’re finished.” Vitale clapped his hands once and, with Sam’s help, rose off the f loor. “You can take those off.”

  With a sigh of relief Kingsley walked behind the changing screen where he’d left his regular clothes. He should never have let Sam talk him into getting a new wardrobe. She had taken over his entire life in a month. Sam had gotten all his files in order. She’d hired a housekeeper—a woman who’d once worked at a pornography studio and was thus unfazed by anything that happened under Kingsley’s roof. And after one session with Anita, the pain in his chest had lessened considerably.

  Kingsley pulled off the jacket but paused when he noticed something on the wall. He walked to it, stared at it, studied it…

  “King, what it is?” Sam asked, standing at his side.

  He pointed to the cross on the wall. A small pretty thing, six inches tall, six inches wide. He hadn’t noticed it at first because the golden color blended into the green-and-gold wallpaper.

  “It’s a Huguenot Cross,” Kingsley said. “See? The top is a Maltese cross—the four points are the four Gospels, the eight ends are the eight Beatitudes. The dove at the bottom, he’s the Holy Spirit.”

  “Don’t touch that,” Signore Vitale said as he came back into the fitting room. “That was my grandmother’s.”

  “Your grandmother was descended from the Huguenots?”

  “She was, yes,” Vitale said, seemingly taken aback by the question. “I told you we have long memories. What of it?”

  “My father’s family is descended from them, too. Supposedly we hid out in Italy for three generations before returning to France.”

  Vitale craned his neck and studied Kingsley through his small rounded spectacles.

  “You have Italian blood in you,” Vitale said. “I can see it now.”

  “My grandmother was from Amalfi.”

  “That’s where my family is from.”

  “Beautiful city,” Kingsley said.

  Vitale looked Kingsley up and down and for the first time seemed to see him.

  “Why do yo
u want a new wardrobe, monsieur?” Vitale asked. Monsieur, he’d said. Not “young man.”

  “My name is King. I want to live up to my name.”

  “He needs something special,” Sam said. “Something regal. Something royal.”

  Vitale narrowed his eyes and looked Kingsley up and down again.

  “My family f led to England when Mussolini took power. I was two years old,” Vitale said. “We moved back after the war ended. But while in England my father apprenticed at Benson & Clegg. Do you know it?”

  “I’ve heard of it, of course.”

  “My father once measured King George VI for a suit. Now, he was a king who knew how to dress like a man. A real man. Wait here…”

  Vitale disappeared again. Sam and Kingsley looked at each other. When Vitale returned he had a book in his hand—large, leather-bound, stuffed with yellowed papers.

  “You see this?” Vitale opened the book. “This was my father’s. All the patterns, the measurements, the finished product.” He turned the pages and there he was—King George VI in all his royal glory. “He was a military man. Navy first. Then air force. A pilot. Are you a military man?”

  “French Foreign Legion,” Kingsley said.

  “What rank?”

  “Captain,” Kingsley said.

  “You were a captain in the French Foreign Legion?” Sam asked, obviously f labbergasted.

  “You’re surprised?” he asked, amused by her wide-mouthed shock. He chucked her under the chin.

  “I’m not,” Vitale said. “He’s got the good posture. A soldier’s posture. So did King George.”

  He f lipped a page in the book to a picture of a man, handsome, midthirties, in an officer’s uniform and knee-high boots.

  “Nice,” Sam said. “You should dress like that, King.” “I was never in the Royal Air Force.”

  “I meant the boots.”

  “Hessian boots,” Vitale said. “Excellent for riding.”

  Sam took the book from Vitale and f lipped carefully through the pages.

  “Damn, check out these suits,” Sam said, eyeing the pages of pictures and patterns. “Morning jackets, frock coats, doublebreasted overcoats, breeches, boots, military jackets… Those are my favorite. All those brass buttons. You’d be the sexiest man in the city in suits like these, King.”

  “Sexy? Nonsense,” Vitale said, scoffing. “Sexy is for beer commercials. A king should be arresting, powerful. Everyone should notice when he walks in a room.”

  “You dress like that,” Sam said, pointing at a picture of the king in a long military coat, “and even I’ll want to sleep with you.”

  She smiled at him with shining eyes. Kingsley turned to Vitale.

  “I’ll take them,” Kingsley said.

  “Take what?” Vitale asked.

  Kingsley shut the book and put it in Vitale’s hands.

  “All of them.”

  “All of them?” Vitale repeated.

  “And one for her, too,” he said, nodding toward Sam. “Whatever she wants.”

  “Those are five-thousand dollar suits, King,” Sam said in wide-eyed shock.

  “Pick whatever you want,” he said, slapping her on the back. “Daddy’s buying.”

  The fitting ended, and Kingsley put in an order for twelve new suits in various vintage and royal styles including Regency, Victorian and Edwardian. Sam insisted on the Regency. She blamed her childhood love of romance novels for her breeches fetish.

  “Can I have your old shirt?” Sam asked as she gathered up his clothes. “You know, after you get all your new shirts.”

  “That is not a good idea.”

  “It’s really nice,” she said. “I love Brooks Brothers. That shit lasts forever. This would be perfect to sleep in.”

  She held out the shirt he’d worn to the fitting, a white button-down, and pulled it on over her vest.

  “Sam, don’t.” Kingsley walked over to where she stood by the mirror.

  “You’re that attached to this shirt?” she asked, smiling at him. “You have two dozen new ones being made for you.”

  “It’s not the shirt, it’s the principle of the shirt.”

  “Your shirts have principles?” She buttoned the three middle buttons.

  “You don’t know anything about men, so let me fill you in on a little secret,” he said, standing in front of her. “When a woman wears one of our shirts, one we’ve worn, one we’ve lived in, it’s as if she’s saying ‘He is mine.’”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “It’s very good under the right conditions. But you wearing my shirt and sleeping in it and keeping it is the female equivalent of me coming on your back. It’s like marking your territory. Do you consider me your property?”

  Sam met his eyes, and he saw surprise in them.

  “No,” she said. “Of course not. You’re my employer, Captain.” She saluted him.

  Kingsley raised his hands and unbuttoned the shirt.

  “I know you aren’t attracted to me,” he said as he slid the shirt off her arms and pulled it back on. “But I am attracted to you, and I’m doing my best to not think of you like that. You wearing my shirt isn’t helping me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t… I honestly didn’t even think about that.”

  “It’s fine. No harm done.”

  Kingsley glanced up at the clock in the fitting room and sighed.

  “Are you okay?” Sam asked.

  “I have to go,” he said. “I’m running late.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “How can you be late to nowhere?”

  “Sam, please. I’m not in the mood right now.”

  “King? What’s going on?” she asked and gave him a concerned look. “Talk to me.”

  Kingsley paused and weighed the costs and benefits of telling Sam. If he didn’t tell her, she’d continue to worry without knowing the reason. If he did tell her, she’d have a reason to worry. Either way, she was going to worry. Might as well get it out.

  “I have an appointment,” he said. “I had some tests done, and I’m getting the results back.”

  “Tests? What kind of tests?”