The Token 7: Thorn (A Token Novel) (8 page)

Thorn

“'Kay, are we just a couple of fools, or what?” Kiki asks over the blaring music.

Maybe.
I look at where Shepard just exited then where Simone had stood behind me.

The mystery shrouding Simone deepens, and I can't have this shit. My emotional rocker is in tough shape. Even I have to admit that.

My mom just died.

Bio-dad needs to be found. He has to atone. Period.

I've got some girl I'm crazy for mixed up in something bad—I can smell it. She’s also a martial arts expert.

But she wants to be an exotic dancer.

Maybe “wants” isn’t the right word.

Maybe
has to
works better. I think of Faren briefly, about how she was hiding in plain sight.

“I don't know what's going on exactly,” I yell over the din. Giving up, I turn.
I gotta get outta here, find Simone.

If I'm honest with myself, which usually isn't a challenge, I'll just admit she's got me in knots of worry. Shepard is bad news.

Bad for her. I'd stake my life on it, and

I just might have to.

Kiki jogs after me, her heels like spikes of noise between the beat of the music.

“Thorn! Wait up...”

I only think of Simone, consumed with her safety.

She catches up to me striding out toward the exit. “Hold up, fucker!”

I turn, and Kiki literally bounces into the wall of my chest. I grab her as she falls backward.

“Gah!” she wails. “Don't just go off half-cocked! Use the
big
head, pal.”

Half-cocked.
Yeah.

I drop my hands, and she rubs her arms where I held her.

The sunlight hits me as I move through the employee exit at the back. She slowly walks through.

It slams shut, and I glance back at the smooth door.

Exit only, it's smooth where a handle would be. We can't have dickholes sneaking in through the back. That was my idea. Cut the security bullshit in half.

It doesn't allow someone in without a code. My mind circles around Sinclair and Shepard.

Kiki looks at me. “Okay.” She blows a curl out of her face, and it promptly pops back into place. “Simone has some bad ass French a-hole after her.”

This I know. I twirl my hand to keep her talking.

I want to get to Simone, like, yesterday.

I scan the parking lot and see Simone’s vintage VW bug is missing.

“Thorn... is he, is he French like you?” Kiki asks.

I remember his voice, his accent.

“No, not like me. Different countries. He's city, Paris. Haiti is another world.” A world of mixed cultures, ethnicity, Creole peoples, and voodoo.

No, it's not like Paris; not like France.

Just the same language, yet—not.

Hard to explain that all to Kik.

“Oh,” she says in a small voice. “I think Simone is running, and trouble has found her.”

I level a look at Kiki. “I agree.”

“What're you going to do?”

I laugh bitterly. “Why is this my issue?”

Kiki grins. “So you went blazing out of the Black Rose to catch some fresh air? You searched the parking lot for her car ‘cause you give less than a shit? Right—don't blow me, Thorn.”

Right. I can't fucking believe this.

I peg my hands on my hips, chin down, eyes on the ground. I'm so mad I could scream. The seconds slide by while Kiki waits for a response I don't want to give. “I fucking dig her, 'kay? Happy?” I growl.

The silence pounds me like the heat of the sun above us.

“That's why I asked you to take care of her. She's the ying to your yang.”

I lift my head. “What kind of psycho-babble is that?”

Kiki lifts a shoulder, pushing her hoop with it. “The kind that's true, dude.”

I storm off, pacing the open asphalt between the cars. “Fuck!” I kick a tire that's close and plow through the rows of parked cars.

I can't go after her.

Too. Fucking. Vulnerable.

Too much of a fucking pussy move.

I lift my head, and Kiki's watching, her eyes solemn. She says, “Just go after her. That fucker's bad news. Isn't your cop gut telling you that?”

I kick a rock, and it hits the building like a missile, popping a chunk out of the corner trim like a loose tooth.

Hell no, it's not telling me.
It's shouting it.

I hate how goddamned smart she is. I stare at Kiki, daring her to say more.

'Cuz she's Kiki, she does. “Just go.”

I throw my hands down like pistons at my sides.

“God!” I bellow, hands clenching into fists, the cords of my neck like ropes strung taut.

He
doesn't listen.

It's time to listen to myself.

I don't look at Kiki. I pull my keys out of my pocket and stride to my Porsche.

I break every law getting to Simone's shitty addy.

Not wanting to.

Praying I'm not too late.

*

I cuff the steering wheel for immobility, tweak the alarm on, and shut the door. The cherry I leave on the roof.

Let the dredges take my cop's light. It serves as identifier and warning in one red orb.

I sprint to her apartment entrance.

I look in either direction. Humanity’s indifference meets me at all sides.

The latch had been compromised. The metal tongue that engages the striker has been covered with tape.

Fuck me.

I tear the door open, run and leap over the short flight of steps to her apartment, landing on the balls of my feet at the base of the stairwell. I grunt softly at the impact.

I have my gun in my palm before I've thought to do it.

The door to Simone's apartment covers broken remnants of the contents of her apartment like a boogie board on top of an ocean.

I don't surf it, but move between the islands of broken glass and tossed drawer contents.

Someone's been searching. None too subtle either.

I wind my fingers around the grip of my weapon. The gun comes up, rounding each corner before me. I sweep the piece in my path.

Silence greets me.

I'm on intimate terms with the quality of silence, and this one has people in it. I don't know how I understand it, but it’s one of the aptitudes that allowed me to survive my childhood and nail perps by intuitive leaps of logic.

I employ that now.

I move into a shadowed hallway, gun first.

I slide my arm down the hallway, dipping a sliver of my face into the hall like a crescent moon.

Nothing.

Not a breeze, movement, shift or hint of anything.

There are people here.

I move into the center of the hall, a bigger target there isn't.

So does Simone.

I almost raise my gun, but her figure is all aligned in the curves of a woman. I recognize female instantly.

I shove the gun into the back waistband of my pants.

Simone watches me with shocky eyes. I move toward her slowly, feeling as though she'll spook.

I ask her if she's all right, and she mouths yes when her eyes say no. Eyes can speak if you look hard enough.

My gaze shifts to an open doorway to my right, flicking back to hers.

She tracks my movements.

Glass and harsh light greet me in the bathroom next to me.

A body is on the floor.

Caucasian male, early thirties, two hundred... six feet tall. The assessment is automatic.

I sink to a crouch and check the pulse at his carotid artery.

Steady, but out cold.

I stand.

Simone is just standing there.

Early shock.

I scan her body for wounds. There's a red mark at her sternum in the deep vee of her leotard. Solid hit.

Rage surfaces inside me at the thought of anyone touching her in violence.

A second thought hits me. Someone already has, and not just today.

Simone is no stranger to violence.

My eyes slide from the fresh wound to her hand. She's holding that small metal baton. I blink at the solid stainless rod. It's shaped like a dowel, maybe half a foot in length, half inch in diameter.

It's coated with blood.

My gaze lands on the perp at her feet.

He's gone.

He's got the look. There's something about a body without life. It doesn't look asleep; it lacks animation.

Our eyes meet. She seems to sway. Her eyes talk what her mouth can't.

Simone looks at me with need.

I realize I need her more.

I hold out my hand to her. It's the bravest thing I've ever done. The body between separates us in death.

Our lives stand at either side, but strangely parallel. I wish I'd seen it earlier.

But Thorn is a master at denial.

My palm floats in the air, disembodied and adrift.

The seconds tick past. It's forever. A lifetime.

My chest grows heavy with shame. Her rejection is more than my fragile little secret set of emotions can stand.

I didn't realize I had any left.

I'm naked before Simone.

I'm naked without her.

Her hand sliding into mine is like cool water, and that knot of pain releases and becomes warm.

I pull her over the corpse and into my arms.

I want to cry for the first time since I was that eight-year-old boy watching my natural father beat my drugged mother.

Then Simone does, and I don't have to.

She cries for us both.

“
Thorn's here,” I say softly, holding her against me and folding all that kinky black hair into my fist as though it's a rope that tethers us.

It's so soft in my hand.

Simone

I'm so full of shame I think it leaks onto Thorn.

I can't stop holding his hand.

He
hasn't let go of me since he pulled me out of that shithole.

Thorn scooped up my duffel bag and dragged me out of my bedroom.

When I hesitated over the glass on the kitchen floor, he tucked me under his arm like a football and carried me as if I weighed nothing.

I held onto his arm as he did, and closed my eyes, pressing my head into his side. He set me down carefully and, without a word, hauled me up the stairs of my apartment.

He slings the duffel one-handed into the tiny trunk of his red sports car and goes to his side.

I still can’t let him go.

“Hey, baby,” he says in French.

I cry harder.

“Okay, okay. Come 'ere.”

Football again.

When we get to his side, he folds me into his car. I scoot across the seat. He looks at our linked hands and shuts the door with his left. Depressing the clutch, he shifts with my hand tied with his.

Somehow, we get to Kiki’s in one piece.

*

A chain rattles then the door tears open. The air from the velocity of the door swinging causes Kiki’s hair to lift.

“What on God's green earth?” She takes in the disaster of our clothes, our faces.

“Kik,” Thorn prompts.

She does a little jump. “No problem, guys, come right in. Kiki takes all comers, ne’er do wells, stray cats...”

“Kiki, shut up.” He sounds tired.

Kiki whacks Thorn on the back of the head. “No. Be nice or leave.”

Thorn turns on a dime, looming over Kiki, and I think they'll come to blows.

Kiki drives her finger into his chest. “I'm sorry that you’re glued to Simone and pissed about it.”

My stomach drops at her words.

“And that some French dude is sniffing around your girl.”

His girl.
A flutter of excitement develops where churning was.

“But! That doesn't”—poke—“give ya the right”—stab—“to treat Kiki like shit!”

Thorn looks at our laced hands, and I let him go.

He grabs me and shoves my body against his.

I hide my smile against the flat planes of his chest.

Thorn sighs, absently stroking my hair. “I'm sorry, Kik. It's been a day.”

Kiki vigorously nods. “Yeah, first Chet then that weirdo Shepard...”

Thorn puts a finger under my chin. “We gotta talk.”

I knew this would come.

I shake my head, taking a deep breath. “Anything I say will put you in jeopardy.”

Kiki rolls her eyes. “Jesus, ya assholes, I kinda want to know what the hell you're saying.”

I feel my face grow hot.

“I'm sorry. I just... When I get stressed out, English doesn't come first.”

“What did you say?” Kiki asks.

I glance at Thorn then at her. “I don't want to be responsible for your life.”

“
Moi
?” Kiki asks. Thorn and I cringe. She makes a face at our expressions. “Piss off, elitists.”

I watch the fine wheels of her mind turn. Her eyes flick to Thorn, then gravitate to mine. “You mean my death?”

I nod.

“Well—fuck me.”

“Yes,” I agree.

“I need to get my drunk on to deal with these revelations,” Kiki says, moving into the kitchen.

Clanking and muttering, including the occasional colorful word, reaches us.

Thorn's lips twitch.

“She's quite a character,” I observe.

“Loyal as hell,” he adds.

The way he says it makes me give him a sidelong glance.

“Like you?”

He turns toward me. His palm goes to his chest as though he thinks I've asked the wrong person.

I put my hand over his. His heart beats beneath our hands.

I nod. “Like you.”

He stares at me for a second, his hard eyes edged with softness.

“Don't tell no one about Thorn.”

I shake my head. “Never.”

The secret of his
still waters running deep
is safe with me. I would never bring a drought to that.

Thorn guards his goodness so well it would take someone seasoned to see it.

For what I have to say, he'll need it.

*

Kiki slurps the last of her drink, a
Sex on the Driveway,
and stands. She totters on her heels. “I'm getting another. Any takers?”

“Ya don't need another one, Kik,” Thorn says in a dry tone.

I have to agree, but since I'm a guest in her house, I stay silent.

Her eyes laser on Thorn.

“Just sayin',” he says.

“Yeah…?” Her eyebrows pop. “Don't.”

Thorn's hands dangle between his knees. A muscular leg like a tree trunk presses against mine as we sit on her couch.

“Fine!” Kiki throws up her hands then looks at me. “Spill.”

I take a deep breath. Thorn lays his hand on my thigh then lifts it.

Go ahead,
his gesture says.

“I don't want you to die,” I begin.

They stare at me. Kiki's eyes are round, and Thorn's are thoughtful.

She gives a little laugh. “Girl, Kiki doesn't want to die either.”

I nod quickly, blinking often. I wring my raw hands. I’ve washed them three times, scrubbed off what I've done.

But my soul remembers:
them or me.

“
La foule Français.”
My voice is barely above a whisper.

Kiki taps her chin with a nail tip. “Frenchie?”

I glance at my clenching hands and nod. “Yes. Shepard.”

I lift my chin.

“I am their mule.”

Thorn gives me a sharp look. I feel he might withdraw from me.

My bravery balances along a tight wire.

“What—a donkey?” Kiki asks, and Thorn hangs his head.

I meet Kiki's eyes. “No, I smuggle drugs to foreign countries and provide... comfort for gentlemen of the trade.”

Comfort
comes out something like
criminal.

I let it stand. My remorse hangs in the air like the smell of rain before it falls.

“So…” Kiki's eyes train on me with compassion. “You know I love ya, right?”

I understand the American vernacular well enough to know she means she holds great affection for me.

I nod.

“So you put smack in your sweet spot, and then after it's delivered, you screw the men.”

I close my eyes for a long second. That's not a perfect translation, but it’s close enough.

I own it, though I am a prisoner. Was.

“Yes.”

“How?” Thorn clips. His word is like a painful slap.

I struggle not to become defensive.

“The mechanics of it, or why I would do it?”

Kiki looks from me to Thorn.

“Holy shit… both, Simone,” he exclaims.

I search his face. I find many emotions there, including the one I hope for: faith.

Thorn has faith there's a good reason for what I've done. That he can put it somewhere in his mind that makes sense.

I start at the beginning. “My grandmother is Nigerian.”

“
I knew you were a sista!” Kiki says, palm up.

I've never felt less like high-fiving, but I slap her hand anyway.

Thorn's eyes move over my features. I know that a little bit of my ancestry peeks out around the edges, but generally, people aren’t sharp enough to guess it. They merely lump everyone of color into the same dim category: black.

I am Simone.

Actually, I’m Juliette Marcel, and I consider myself French.