The King

by Tiffany Reisz

  “We have to stop,” Søren said, all amusement gone from his eyes. “We’re here.”

  Kingsley scrambled on to the seat and pulled his T-shirt and jacket back on. He ran his hand through his hair and straightened his clothes.

  “What are you going to do?” Kingsley noticed the tight set to Søren’s mouth, the hard line of his jaw.

  “Pray that God gives me the words,” he said. “I hope she’s here.”

  “Didn’t Elizabeth say the new wife should be home?”

  “I didn’t mean the new wife. I meant my sister—the baby. Claire.”

  “You said she was three, oui? She’s not a baby, she’s a preschooler.”

  “When did you become an expert on childhood development?”

  “I didn’t, but even I know the difference between a baby and a preschooler.” Kingsley scoffed, and Søren narrowed his eyes at him. Maybe he would get a beating today after all.

  “How did your sister find out about the new wife?”

  “Her mother hired someone to watch my father’s activities. Elizabeth keeps me informed. We knew he’d gotten remarried. We didn’t know until recently he’d had another child.”

  “Why would he keep that a secret?”

  “Because he knows Elizabeth and I would do something like this.”

  The car turned a corner on to a long, tree-lined stretch of road, and a grand English manor came into view.

  “That’s it?” Kingsley asked.

  Søren stared blankly out the window before inclining his head.

  “That’s a castle,” Kingsley said. “You grew up in a castle.”

  “It’s a house.”

  “It’s a big fucking house.” Grand, breathtaking, magnificent and imposing. Not unlike Søren.

  “I hate it.”

  Kingsley sighed. Søren had told him about life in that house.

  “I don’t blame you, mon ami.”

  The car drove down the long stretch of driveway. Kingsley sensed Søren tensing as they neared the house.

  “What can I do?” Kingsley asked. “To help you, I mean.”

  “Stay in the car. If I need you to vouch for my identity, I’ll come for you.”

  The car stopped in the bottom of the U of the driveway. The driver got out and opened the door for Søren. A blast of frigid air slapped Kingsley in the face. It would snow soon. Kingsley hoped it would snow. Then he and Søren would have to get a hotel room—maybe stay in it for days…

  “Hey,” Kingsley said, and Søren turned around. “Can I meet your sister?”

  “Claire’s not even three years old. If you want to f lirt with my sister, we’ll have to visit Elizabeth.”

  “I wasn’t going to f lirt,” Kingsley said, stung that Søren apparently thought sex was his only interest in life. It was his biggest interest, of course, but not his only one. “I like kids.”

  Søren narrowed his eyes at him and pointed at the seat of the car.

  “Wait,” Søren said, as if Kingsley himself were the preschooler here.

  The driver got back in the car. Kingsley got out and stood in the frigid late-autumn wind. Søren’s long coat whipped around his legs as he walked to the house. His head was high and his eyes stony, but for all that, he looked like a condemned man walking to his own execution.

  He rang the doorbell and the door opened. A woman stood on the threshold. Søren’s father would be in his fifties by now, but this woman looked barely thirty. Young and beautiful, dark-haired and shapely. What did they call these women? Trophy wives? He’d heard that somewhere. A young woman marrying a much older man for his money. Would she even care that her husband had raped his other daughter? Or would she consider that a risk worth taking for the chance to live in such opulence?

  Whoever she was, whatever her name, she seemed willing to listen to Søren. She didn’t invite him in, but she didn’t slam the door in his face, either. Who would slam the door in such a face? It would be like spitting on Michelangelo’s David.

  A smaller face appeared in the doorway. A little girl with her hair in curls and something in her hand—a stuffed toy? She gazed up at her mother, and the woman put her hand on top of the little girl’s head. Kingsley didn’t know what possessed him to disobey Søren’s order, but without thinking he walked to the house and stood behind Søren on the porch.

  “Oh, this is my friend Kingsley,” Søren said to the woman. “I brought him to affirm I am who I say I am. I know what I’m telling you is—”

  “I knew who you were the moment I saw you,” she said, her voice shaking. “You’re just like him.”

  Kingsley sensed Søren recoiling inwardly at the comparison.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I mean…you look like him. That’s all. I can see you’re his son. I’m Annabelle.” She gave Kingsley a faltering smile.

  “And this is Claire, my sister,” Søren said, nodding at the little girl who looked up at the three people arrayed on the porch, her eyes great with innocent curiosity.

  “She’s a little shy at first,” Annabelle said. “But once she starts talking, you can’t get her to shut up.”

  “Sounds like you, Kingsley,” Søren said. “Kingsley?”

  Kingsley ignored him and knelt on the ground.

  “I like your unicorn,” he said, tapping the purple beast she clutched on the tip of its horn. “What’s her name?”

  “Claire.”

  “That’s your name.”

  “I named her after me,” Claire said in a small, proud voice.

  “I should… I’ll go pack our bags now,” Annabelle said. She picked the girl up into her arms. “Would you like to hold your sister while I pack?”

  “I…” Søren began and stopped. Kingsley had never dreamed he would hear Søren stammer in nervousness. “I’ve never been around small children. I’m afraid I’ll hurt her.”

  “I’ll take her,” Kingsley said, and Annabelle passed Claire to him. She wriggled around in his arms until she found a comfortable spot.

  “Come in, please. Both of you.”

  Søren and Annabelle disappeared up the stairs to talk more and pack some things while Kingsley played with Claire. Anything he did made her giggle, especially when he spoke English to her and French to her unicorn. She also liked it when he bounced her unicorn on top of her head. She snatched it from his hand and attacked him with it. He played dead, which sent her into a giggle fit.

  Claire acted as a tour guide for Kingsley. She pointed at everything that could possibly be of interest to him—the fireplace, the logs, the chairs, the picture of her papa. Kingsley peered at the photograph—a black-and-white eight-by-ten of a regal-looking man in a British Army officer’s uniform. Søren looked so much like the man in the photograph that Kingsley couldn’t look away at first. Same strong jaw and nose, same intense eyes, same noble and aristocratic bearing. And yet for all the similarities, Kingsley knew in his soul that this man and Søren could not have been more different. The father had done a lifetime of damage to his eldest daughter, and here was the son trying to stop it from happening to the youngest.

  Not ten minutes later, Søren and Claire’s mother were loading suitcases into her car. He heard her saying something about going to her parents, and Søren replied with one word—attorney. No matter what she did, where she went, her first phone call needed to be to a lawyer.

  When it was time to go, Claire wouldn’t let anyone but Kingsley put her coat and shoes on her. Søren watched him while he tied her tiny laces and zipped her into her coat. He had to tell her five times to stop wiggling her fingers, so he could get her mittens on her hands. But finally she was dressed and warm, and he swooped her into his arms and carried her out to the car, Søren and Annabelle behind them.

  Annabelle held the door open for them, and Kingsley buckled Claire into her seat. He made sure she had her blanket and her unicorn tucked in with her before tapping the end of her nose in a goodbye.

  “Thank you,” Annabelle said. Her face had a ghostly pallor
. She seemed on the verge of tears, or worse—getting sick all over the place. He couldn’t blame her. If someone showed up at his doorstep and said someone he loved was a childmolesting rapist, he might have trouble keeping his breakfast down, as well. She gave Søren a phone number—Kingsley guessed it was her parents where she would f lee now with her daughter. Søren promised to keep in touch, and he asked her to write him at school and tell him about his sister. Annabelle pledged that she would and then swore to him with all her heart that she would make sure his father never knew he’d come to see her.

  “He wanted a son and was beyond disappointed that I had a girl. He’s been—” Annabelle stopped and looked panicstricken.

  “Are you pregnant?” Søren asked, not the question a teenage boy would ever—should ever—ask a married woman in her thirties. But he asked it with authority, and bowing to his authority she answered it.

  “No,” she said. “I lied and told him I wasn’t on birth control anymore. I’m not ready for another one. But he’s dying for a son.”

  “I’m a bastard he legitimized,” Søren said. “He’d prefer the real thing.”

  “I won’t give him another child.”

  “He’ll want to know why you’re leaving him. Please, keep Elizabeth’s name out of it. If you have to name someone, name me.”

  “No,” Kingsley said, in a panic. “Don’t do that.”

  “Kingsley, this is not—”

  “It is my concern,” Kingsley said, already knowing what Søren would say before he said it. “You told me your father broke your arm when you were eleven. I don’t want him to hurt you.”

  “I won’t tell him,” Annabelle pledged. “I won’t put you in danger. I owe you…everything.”

  “Keep my sister safe. That’s all I ask.”

  She rose up on her toes and kissed Søren on the cheek.

  “You’re always welcome to visit your sister,” she said. “Always. You, too,” she said to Kingsley. “I think Claire’s in love with you.”

  “Then he’s never seeing her again,” Søren said. “I’m her older brother. She’s never allowed to fall in love. Especially with him.”

  “Ignore him. She can call me Uncle Kingsley,” he said.

  Annabelle laughed—a scared, brittle sound. She put her hand on Søren’s chest over his heart. “Thank you,” she whispered before getting into the car and driving away.

  “How much trouble am I in for getting out of the car without permission?” Kingsley asked.

  “None,” Søren said, and Kingsley was wildly disappointed. “Let’s go. We can make it back to school by tonight.”

  Kingsley followed him back to the car. The driver opened the door for them. When they were alone again, Kingsley said, “Or…”

  “Or what?” Søren demanded.

  “Or we could find a hotel and fuck in a real bed for once.”

  “We’re not on a date. And here I was wondering where the real Kingsley had gone.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked as the driver opened the car door for them. He slipped inside and Søren followed. They were on the road again before Søren answered.

  “When you were with Claire—I wasn’t sure you were the same Kingsley I know and barely tolerate.”

  “Why? Because I like kids?”

  “You were good with her.”

  “Kids are fun,” he said. What else was there to say? “I never considered you would like children.”

  “Well…I do. So what?”

  “Nothing,” Søren said, laughing to himself. “Nothing at all.”

  “I know you see me as some kind of pervert,” Kingsley said. “But believe or not, I am a human being. Yes, I like kids. I might want kids someday. I don’t have much of a family anymore. If I want a family I’ll have to make my own. Sometimes I have thoughts that don’t have anything to do with sex. I’m not just your toy, you know. I have feelings and—”

  His impassioned “I have feelings” speech ended abruptly when Søren grabbed him hard by the back of the hair and brought his mouth down in a brutal kiss. Kingsley almost pulled away so he could finish his tirade before realizing he wanted the kiss so much more than the fight.

  Kingsley returned the kiss with equal and greater passion. Søren yanked Kingsley’s jacket off him and threw it on the f loorboard. Kingsley pulled his own shirt off and rolled on to his back on the bench seat. He’d remember the sensation of leather on his bare back all his life.

  “Have you ever had sex in the back of a Rolls Royce?” Kingsley asked, trying not to rip Søren’s shirt in his rush to unbutton it. He needed Søren’s skin on his skin right now.

  “No,” Søren said. “But ask me that question again in an hour.”

  Before Kingsley could respond to that, Søren grabbed his wrists, pinned them over Kingsley’s head and kissed him again—deeper, slower, but no less punitive. Kingsley groaned, and Søren slapped a hand over his mouth.

  “Quiet,” Søren said into Kingsley’s ear. “We aren’t alone, and I’ll gag you until you choke if I have to. Understand?”

  Kingsley nodded against Søren’s hand. A curtain and partition separated them from the driver. He couldn’t see them, but if they were loud enough, he could hear them. He’d disobeyed Søren’s orders to stay in the car, he’d yelled at him and talked back. He was going to get it this time.

  Good.

  Søren kissed him again. Kingsley kept his sounds of pleasure to a minimum even when Søren reached between their bodies, unzipped Kingsley’s pants, and stroked him hard. Every muscle in Kingsley’s stomach tightened. He sucked in his breath sharply from the shock of pleasure. It took every bit of self-control not to moan audibly.

  “You like this?” Søren asked.

  “God, yes, so much,” Kingsley said, lifting his hips against Søren’s hand. He spoke in French and English. He was about to lose control of more than his language skills if Søren didn’t stop touching him like that.

  “I think you like it too much.” Søren rose up on his knees and looked down at Kingsley.

  “I don’t. I really don’t. I like it exactly as much as you want me to.”

  “You’re pathetic when you’re turned on.”

  “I am so pathetic right now.”

  “Kneel on the f loor,” Søren ordered and Kingsley obeyed. He faced away from Søren and rested his arms on the bench seat opposite Søren. It was good to be here, good to be on his knees for Søren. It had been too long since Søren had hurt him. When he thought about it, it made no sense to him that he felt the free-est and the strongest when on his knees and being hurt. But it didn’t matter what he thought or how much sense it made. They didn’t have to justify what they did to anyone but themselves. They lost sleep over what they did, but not to their consciences.

  When they lost sleep it was only because they found something better to do.

  Kingsley heard movement behind him—the sound of leather and metal. Søren had removed his belt and Kingsley braced himself for a hit. But instead Søren wrapped it around Kingsley’s neck. He froze as the belt pressed against his throat. Carefully, as if the belt were a leash, Søren pulled Kingsley to him until he sat up, ramrod straight, his bare back against Søren’s knees.

  “I’ve wanted to do this to you for a long time,” Søren said, bending to whisper the words in Kingsley’s ear. “If only to shut you up.”

  And he pulled the belt tighter. Kingsley inhaled sharply but couldn’t breathe out, not yet.

  “You like this?” Søren’s hands wound around the leather strap. Kingsley would have said yes if he could have. “Prove it.”

  With shaking hands, Kingsley stroked himself while Søren watched from above and behind him. He couldn’t remember a time it felt this good to touch himself. His head swam. He felt light and euphoric. His cock was brutally hard and intensely sensitive. Even with the belt around his neck he still managed a voiceless moan.

  As he grew closer to coming and closer to unconsciousness, he had a f lash of perfect
clarity. Here he was in a Rolls Royce about to have an orgasm while the man he loved with all his heart and all his soul and all his body held Kingsley’s very life in his hands. And it was as it should be, Søren holding the power of life and death. Kingsley’s parents had named him after kings, but it was Søren who should rule the entire world. Søren was Kingsley’s king. Søren needed a kingdom of his own. Kingsley could give it to him, build it for him. A world of danger, of secrets, of sex, of pain. He didn’t know how or when, but he would do it someday, give Søren a kingdom of his own.

  “Come,” Søren ordered into Kingsley’s ear. Kingsley released hard, so hard he saw light and stars and the sun at night, and if he didn’t stop coming he would die of the never-ending bliss of it all.