The Token 7: Thorn (A Token Novel) (2 page)

Shane's chubby baby fist bats around as the drizzle falls. No matter how many times Faren tries to cover his little head, he jerks the hood off to reveal carrot-colored hair.

Mick moves closer to his family, securing the umbrella over his wife and son's heads.

I watch the three of them dispassionately. It's not as if I don't dig Mick.

He's always had my back; he has it now.

Their kid's cute. Faren is perfect for McKenna, like I knew she'd be.

I hold on to my indifference like a restless life raft. I’m afraid of capsizing into the ocean of my emotions, memories.

Mick meets my eyes from across my mom's coffin. He gives a miniscule lift of his chin, and I mirror him. Faren's eyes, so light a gray they almost blend with the stormy sky, look at me with empathy. I look away from her knowing gaze. 

That girl has seen some rough shit in her time. Her fucked up stepdad nearly killed her mom, putting her in a four-year coma. He had some twisted agenda to go after Faren, but she took care of him
.
In the end, it was Bunce's demented spawn who placed blame on Faren she didn't own.

We'd barely made it in time to save her.

I repress a shudder thinking about where Mick would be now without Faren. She balances out his crap.

Or without Shane. Almost on cue, the baby begins to cry as they lower my mom's body into an unforgiving earth.

As if Mick shares some telepathic bond with my morbid thoughts, his long arm curls around Faren's shoulders, pressing her into his side as she tries to quiet Shane.

I jam my hands in my pockets, checking out the fake astro turf used to hide the raw earth that, like discarded coffee grounds, will cover the expensive coffin.

I feel Kiki behind me. She tries hard to reach out. I think I'm her project.

But Thorn doesn't want to be fixed.

I push her away, but she's a gnat on my ass. The scary thing is, I don't think she's into me. I think Kiki senses something is wrong, and she wants to help. That's way more of a sphincter-pucker than if she just wanted to bang.

I can't accept pity or charity, or any of that happy crap. I have to figure my shit out for myself.

The preacher drones on to the few of us who are here. I raise my head and see a thick knot of cops, and it puts that lump in my throat front and center.

I can't swallow past it.

I don't try.

I hear the pulleys but don't look. It's the only time I can't be brave, a reminder of what I can't fix. It's too final.

Lance Tagger keeps his eyes on mine. Such a good actor during the sting where we took down Dmitri Bunce. A good friend. He knows I'm hurting. Instead of doing the same solemn shit everyone else does, he scratches his nose with his middle finger, a little Mona Lisa smile ghosting his lips.

I smile. It's so goddamned inappropriate I can't help myself.

No one is gonna give me back my mama. I can't love her for leaving me, but I
can
love her... for loving me.

Kiki sees the interchange and frowns at Tag. It makes me grin wider.

At my mom's funeral I decide it's better to focus on my asshat partner than the sadness that threatens to engulf me.

I survive another day.

*

“Kiki—fuck me,” I say, wanting to slam my palm into the steering wheel.

“Okay.” She tightens her jaw, crossing her arms. Her hoops swing as she moves her head. “Don't accept any sympathy. Be da man.”

The wheel creaks under my stranglehold as I smoothly turn into the garage at the Millennium Tower. The new hood.

Can't take the old hood out of me though. Sometimes, no matter how much schooling I've been through, how many years as an undercover detective, I still feel like that small boy who feared the night. I don’t have to speculate as to why anymore. Dillinger dredged the shit up like a found shipwreck. That uneasy feeling now has an anchor in reality.

She catches me off guard, changing the subject to one I'm okay with: work.

“You seen that new girl?”

My eyebrow rises as we wait for the security arm to plow upward and allow our entrance into the dungeon of the Tower.

The car rolls underneath as it lifts and I peer into the murk of the underground parking, locate Kiki’s stall, and pass it by. Mick owns five; I'll park in one of his.

“No,” I say, only half-listening.

Still thinking about my mom. Has beens. Should've beens. I hated the nagging bullshit.

I hate that I couldn't save her. Jesus God, I hate that most.

I park and kill the engine.

The ticking as it cools is the only sound in the car.

“Thanks for the ride, Thorn.” Kiki’s hand lands on the door handle, popping it.

“Wait,” I say, remembering her comment I didn't respond to.

She turns, one stiletto dangling out the door.

“What girl?”

She shakes her head. All the black she's wearing blends with my interior, and all I can make out is one scarlet pump. A spot of blood against a sea of ebony.

I swallow hard at the uneasy visual. Maybe too many crime scenes. Or just dealing with my mom's death.

Fuck.
I drag my hand over my skull.

“Never mind,” Kiki says, flapping her hand in dismissal. “The fill-in guy's going to get her for lap audition.” Her eyes meet mine. “I mean, I know you gotta do face time there to keep the undercover going. God knows it was hard to keep it under wraps with the media blitz following Bunce's murder.”

Yeah, the media hounds want to know which cop did in the perp. It's sensational news. Billionaire's pregnant fiancée almost killed by her stepfather's biological son.

Can't make that shit up.

I scrub my face and lean my forehead on the steering wheel, inhaling deeply. My chest tightens, hurting.

Normal.

I'll go to the gym and work it out. Work out that grief to right where it needs to be: nowhere. 

Kiki's hand lands on my shoulder.

The pain in my chest notches up.

“You okay?” she asks.

I turn toward her, ready to lash out. Her eyes stop me.

She fucking cares.

God
damn.

“
Yeah,” I answer. Gruff. I look away.

“
Who's the girl?” I ask the steering wheel, diverting. Always diverting.

Kiki's quiet long enough that I roll my face against the rough texture of the steering cover and look at her.

“Simone.”

I lift a shoulder.
Why are we talking about some chick the day I put my mom in the ground?

“Yeah?”
So?

“I don't know. She—I don't know. I can't... I think she should audition with you.”

I jerk back my head. “What? No, I don't need to do that biz no more.”

Kiki nods, her hands knotting in her lap.

Not a typical Kiki reaction.

I stare at her profile, feeling the tick in my jaw. “What's going on? Tell Thorn.”

She gives me a small smile. “I think that guy's a creep.”

Grady, my floor manager?
“Yeah,” I say slowly, “we're in the stripping business. Lots of dudes have to be creepy to manage it.”

Her face turns. The low light catches it, and a spider web of illumination cascades over her expression. She looks piercing and deep, impenetrable.

“Besides, you're about out, right?”

I don’t know why exactly—I don’t get this feeling much—but I don’t like Kiki doing the poles. I don't judge, but I've seen a lot of girls come through the club. Most are various degrees of broken.

Faren had been different.

Kiki is too, but I don't know why.

I'm a fan of listening to my gut. I'm one of the few men who still do. I'm plugged into my primal nature.

Maybe too much, but it's helped in the undercover work. Being a cop is one part logic and two parts instinct.

“Yeah,” she replies softly, “about out.”

I sit in silence for a few seconds, deciding. “'Kay, I'll check her out.”

Kiki exhales.

It sounds like relief.

*

I check in at the precinct. All is on target. The media's beginning to back off. They don't have a clue, so I can continue my face time at the Black Rose. Bunce Junior’s murder is now only a blip on my undercover screen. I'll be back on the force in a month.

Mick wants me to give a kick-start to his six east coast clubs. It's perfect timing; I should jump at the chance. Hell, the money's awesome. Between my six-figure cop salary and Mick's generosity, I'm living large.

My life is a steam engine. I power along, working out, hanging out with the buds. On my free time, I spar with a few other dudes who have what I need. I bang chicks who are willing to give me all the free pussy I can stand.

Hell, life's a banquet.

So why do I feel like I'm starving?

The sameness rolls on like a river without borders, without texture.

My life is smooth, satisfying.

That pain in my chest tightens and I head to the gym. Time to put the introspective crap on a shelf.

I get a text from Mick.

Mick:
got the jet reserved for you. Just say the word and you can skip town, get those clubs whipped into shape. Might do you good to get away.

What with your mom biting it on the heels of you being on administrative leave
, Mick doesn't say.

I smirk at my thoughts.

My finger hovers, hesitating about committing to the truth and my feelings. An exhale explodes out of me as I tap out a reply.

Me:
not yet, man. Still working through my shit.

Mick:
I hear you. I've got good temp people in place. You say the word when you want to escape, do something different.

Word,
my mind answers.

Me:
Gonna lie low for now, figure it out.

Mick:
'Kay. You know where I am man.

Before I can respond a second message pings.

Mick:
Where I've always been.

I don't respond. I pull up outside the gym, jump out of my car, and hurl myself up the concrete steps. Time to beat my body into submission.

Too bad my mind is so uncooperative.

It never shuts off.

Simone

“Balland? What kind of a fucked up name is that?” Tyler Grady asks.

I cast my eyes to the floor, rubbing my hands together nervously. I stuff my anger. “It's French.”

I'm switching out one bad gig for another, but the last place was a quasi-escort service. Translation—eventual whore. This place isn't much better, but it has a good rep for a strip joint.

“So should I call you Frenchie?”

God,
this guy
.

I shake my head. I need the work. I need to fly under the radar.

I clamp down on my words. I'm only allowed to be caustic inside my head. “Simone's fine.”

“Okaaaayy,” he exaggerates the word. “Simone Bal-land.”

He butchers the pronunciation and I roll my lip into my teeth to keep from correcting him.

His bulging muscles and hard face motivate me as much as the job. Fear is a powerful preventative to what I call Smart Ass Syndrome.

“Got something to say, Frenchie?” His unkind eyes take off the skimpy dress he's asked me to wear.

Kiki told me he's a temp, a fill-in for the regular guy. What was his name? Super hero something... Tor? Thor? I don't know.

How'd he get right in front of me?
I stumble back, and he laughs.

“You can call me Grady, Frenchie...” A speculative look comes over his face, and he cocks his head. “Do you do things with that tongue... French things?”

He looms over me and snaps his hand around my wrist. I feel the cool metal of my sterling bangles, thin as a willow wisp, slide between our locked flesh.

“It's Simone, Grady.” I can't stop the clench of my jaw, the grittiness of the words as they escape my teeth.

He laughs and jerks me closer. “You're gonna do a dance on my lap and like it.”

I'm going to like nothing he offers.

I force myself to relax against him when what I really want to do is bite off his nose.

I embrace the old violence and it allows me to escape the horror I'll have to endure.

As I have before.

Grady seems to sense my acceptance and leads me to the chair behind the desk. My eyes lock on the Black Rose insignia inscribed on a stack of business cards. We all know what happened to the billionaire owner's sister and what the Rose stands for.

He falls into the chair, bringing me with him.

I straddle him like a champ.

“Move your whore ass. Show me what you're made of.”

I clench my eyes shut and imagine a beautiful man.

A man who lives to please, whose every breath holds the wish of me in it. I bring him to the surface of my mind, all rough edges and raw love.

He wants to adore every inch of my body.

My perfect man doesn't care that I'm damaged, that I'm smart, that I don't have blond hair and blue eyes, that I’m not built like a model.

Or that my goddamned last name has a silent D.

Grady's hands are on my breasts. I scream inside for mercy.

For safety.

Release.

The door bursts open behind us, cracking the wall and I turn.

Unbelievable.

I suddenly feel like the meat in a sandwich of testosterone.

In the doorway is a huge man, skin like succulent milk chocolate, eyes like black candy, and so many muscles they seem animated as he stands still, as if he's always in motion.

Tats carve ebony ribbons from the bottom of his skull in a tribal pathway down his arms that peek from beneath a screaming red tee.

“Simone?” His voice is harsh, bold... expectant.

I blink at him.

I'm so blown away that, while Grady's hands hold my tits, I automatically answer, “Yes?”

“Simone Balland?” he repeats, quieter this time.

I nod, not daring to get off Grady's lap but dying to.

He said my last name exactly right.

“Get off him.”

I struggle off, and Grady's eyes narrow.

He twists my nipple as I go. I must make a small noise because the man moves from the door to around the desk in two strides.

It must be fifteen feet, but he's in front of us instantly.

“Get the fuck outta here, Grady.” His thumb jerks over his shoulder at the door.

The potential for violence is tangible, a scent in the air.

Grady laces his hands behind his head, leaning back in the swivel chair.

I jerk down my nude-colored dress, and Grady leers at me, his eyes tracking my movements.

I lift my chin, and Grady looks at me as though he wants to knock me down for that small defiant gesture.

I'm embarrassed by the interruption, and so grateful it feels painful.

“Listen, Thorn, I’m just having a little fun. Don't be a cock-block.”

Thorn,
that's his name.

Thorn grabs a handful of Grady's shirt and jerks him up to nose level. “Don't fuck with me, Grady. I told you I was doing the lap with this dancer, not you. You. Fill. In. Got me?”

I scramble out of the way. I'm not sure Grady does get it. I'm pretty sure I don't want to be in the path of the delivery.

Grady leans in, and Thorn holds his position. The two men are matched in size, but Thorn has a presence, a swirling energy of anger and violence.

I back away. Thorn’s the type of man I avoid. Grady's a low-life; him, I can handle. If I take a dose of his filth, men like Grady think they’ve won the battle.

All the time, it's me who has won the war.

A sheet of paper wouldn't fit between their chests.

“I said hold her. I was running behind. I said I'd be here, you dig?” Thorn clarified.

I back up until something solid stops me. I plaster myself against the wall.

Grady's hard eyes slim down on Thorn. “What's so special about this crack?” He tosses an angry palm in my direction.

“Not that I have to answer to you, but it's a favor.”

Grady nods, not giving an inch, but things don't seem as if they'll come to blows. “It's that mouthy snatch, Kiki.”

I gasp. Thorn tenses before he snaps his head forward into a cracking blow against Grady's.

Grady staggers back, landing on the arm rest of the chair and spearing himself in the ass. He bellows, grabs his cheeks, and pitches forward from the rolling chair's momentum.

I slap my hand over my mouth to stifle a suicidal urge to laugh. I slide along the wall toward the door.

Where smart women go when things get fucking stupid.

“Don't go anywhere,” Thorn says, not looking at me.

He probably won't kick my ass since he’s doing it to Grady.

Still, I give the door an almost lustful glance.

“I think we're all fucking clear now, right, Grady?”

Grady's eyebrow drips blood, and he nods. Thorn's shoulders drop a little, some of the tension from the encounter leaving him.

Grady rears up like a clever bull in a sneaky charge and aims to drill his fist through Thorn's crotch.

I gasp for the second time.

It's a glancing blow but it brings Thorn to his knees. A cheap shot.

Grady looks at me and grins.

I sprint for the door, and he jumps around Thorn, coming after me.

Grady's hand lands on my wrist and I know how to break his grip. I've always known.

I twist savagely to the right and break the dominant grip of his right hand. He's so surprised, he hesitates.

I slam the flat of my palm into the wound on his head. Using the heel of my pump, I jab his instep in a fast strike of precision and leverage, not strength.

Grady howls, and his fist comes. I see it for miles and duck, driving my elbow into his solar plexus. He leaks as if he's full of gas before he lands on his muscular ass.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

I whirl around, and Thorn is there. I'm in self-defense mode to the
n
th degree, and I move in tight to take down a guy who outweighs me by a hundred pounds and has eight inches on me.

“Whoa, easy,” Thorn says as if I'm a horse.

Well, this filly is escaping the stable.

I move around him, and he doesn't touch me. He sticks his foot out in a classic judo move, and I'm so flustered I miss it until I’m tripping over it. I throw my hands out for balance, and he grabs my forearms and spreads them, jerking both hands behind my body and pulling me in tight.

“Holy fuckballs, that's the hottest thing I've ever seen,” Thorn says. “Screw the lap dance. You're hired.”

Grady moans from the floor, and Thorn's face dips like he might kiss me.

I bite his lip as though my teeth will meet.

Thorn screams like a wounded animal and releases me. I jerk open the door, leave the two bleeding men behind me, and race out of the Black Rose with my dignity intact.

And no job.