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 child-molesting 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 flee 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 panic-stricken.
“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 floorboard. 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.
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 child-molesting 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 flee 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 panic-stricken.
“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 floorboard. 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.
