Kingsley exhaled heavily. “Maybe. I think I’ve gotten on his bad side again.”
“What did you do?” Her tone was teasing.
“I told him something he didn’t want to hear.”
“That’ll do it. But I don’t think he’s mad at you at all.”
“Are you sure?”
“He’s been playing Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ over and over again like some kind of Phantom of the Rectory. It’s very adorable, not that I told him that. I think he’s pining for you. I know he’s not pining for me. He can’t get rid of me.”
Kingsley tried not to smile, though it was hard. Kingsley thought he was the one who did all the pining in their relationship.
“Perhaps he’s just in the mood to play Vivaldi,” he said.
Kingsley had written a report on Vivaldi back at their old school. Vivaldi, the “Red Priest” who taught music to orphan girls, turning many of them into violin virtuosos.
“He also just bought you another Christmas present,” Nora said. “It’s sitting on his piano with your name on it.”
“He did? What is it?”
“No clue. He’s being secretive about it. Then again, I’m being secretive, too.” She brought the tips of her fingers together and wiggled them rapidly, like a mad scientist fiendishly delighted by the potion she was brewing.
He leaned close to her. “What secret are you keeping?” he whispered.
“If I tell you,” she said, “it won’t be a secret.”
A soft buzzing interrupted them, a phone vibrating. Nora took her phone out of her bustier where she’d nestled it between her ample breasts. Lucky phone.
“I better go,” she said. “I’m spanking the mayor’s nephew in ten. This one I’m actually looking forward to. He’s cute as a button when you put him in stockings, garters, and a Laura Ashley dress.”
She kissed Kingsley on the cheek, but before she could pull away, he took her by the wrist. “Before you go, I was thinking…”
She waited, eyes wide, and he saw the real woman underneath the outrageous make-up—the blood-red lips and Cleopatra eyes. Nora. His friend. One of the very few people he trusted with his life.
“When the baby comes, I was going to take some time off to help Juliette,” he said. “But someone has to watch over the clubs, you know. I was wondering—”
“Not me.”
That surprised him. He thought she’d jump at the chance to rule his empire. “Not you?”
“I… This is going to sound embarrassing and entirely out of character, so please just forget I’ve said it after I’ve said it. Okay?”
“Okay…”
“Most nights, all I want is to be with Søren,” she said. “Not even for sex or kink. Just with him. It’s a good thing I’ve scared him off asking me to marry him. If he asked me to elope to San Pedro tomorrow, I might do it.”
She was serious.
“And if you tell him that,” she added, “I will kill you.”
She was serious about that, too.
“Is it that bad?” he asked.
“Or good? I don’t know. I just know I’ve turned down twenty clients this past month. I’m down to ten sessions a week. My therapist says that’s normal, that it takes six months at least to get your bearings back after a life-altering incident. Unfortunately, the bills don’t wait for you to get your shit together.”
Søren had said Nora was struggling, that she was “fragile.” And perhaps she was. But she wasn’t fragile like a wine glass, Kingsley saw, but fragile like an egg. There was something inside her about to break out. No wonder Søren was scared. Was he scared for her or of her?
“You know I will help you if you need it,” Kingsley said.
“If it comes to begging you for money, I’ll start stealing cars again.” Her phone buzzed. “I better run. Places to go. People to beat.”
Her old joke, except this time she didn’t smile when she said it. She kissed him one more time and turned to walk away.
Then she stopped and spun on her heel, turning like a music box ballerina. It was good to see that even if she’d lost her bloodlust, she hadn’t lost her grace.
“I know who could run the place while you’re on paternity leave.”
Chapter Fifteen
It took a second for Kingsley to recognize the young man who answered the door. Shaggy dark hair, wide silver-blue eyes that somehow managed to look both innocent and intelligent at the same time. He wore baggy khakis on his thin frame and a navy-blue t-shirt with yorke written across the front. Yorke College.
“Michael,” Kingsley said. “You cut your hair.”
“Ah, yeah,” he said and ran a hand over his head as if still getting used to his shorter hair. “For Christmas. I was trying to look older since we were visiting Griff’s family. Did it work?”
“You do look older. But why aren’t you at school?” It was a Tuesday evening, and not a holiday as far as Kingsley knew.
“The furnace in my dorm died. The temperature dropped to forty indoors, so they sent us all home. Or, not home, you know, but—”
“Here.”
Michael blushed becomingly. He really was a pretty boy. No wonder Griffin had fallen so hard for him so fast.
“If that’s our Mexican,” Griffin’s voice carried all the way from down the hall, “the money’s on the side table.”
“I’m French, not Mexican,” Kingsley called back before Michael could reply.
Griffin suddenly stuck his head into the short hallway of their apartment. “King, holy fuck.”
Griffin ran to the door and slid the last few yards on his socks, coming to a stop only by grabbing the door frame. Kingsley took a self-preserving step back just in case.
“King.”
“Griffin.”
“I swear to God, we’re getting Mexican food for dinner. We weren’t planning a racist threesome.”
“I assumed.”
“God, I haven’t seen you in forever, man. Get in here. Hug me ’til it hurts.”
Kingsley sighed. Griffin was…Griffin. As usual. The hug was brief but painful, just the way Griffin liked it.
Before Kingsley knew it, he was sitting in a black club chair with a cup of a very good coffee in his hand. Griffin took a seat on the sofa, with Michael at his feet, shoulders between his knees. Outside, fresh snow was falling, and the sky had turned a strange smoky gray. The apartment was warm but not quite Kingsley’s style. Exposed brick walls. Sleek, symmetrical black leather furniture. Funky cow-print rugs. A playful home, but definitely on the young side. Or maybe Kingsley was just getting to be on the old side.
Griffin grilled him about his “babymoon” while Michael listened quietly and politely, only occasionally offering his own questions or comments. Every time Michael did speak up, Griffin would gently squeeze his shoulder or tug his hair as if to reward him for talking. He was a shy kid, Kingsley knew, and Griffin seemed to be helping him out of his shell. He did have a way of making people comfortable, making them feel safe to be themselves. This would stand him in good stead if he took the job Kingsley came to offer.