The Token 7: Thorn (A Token Novel)

by Eros, Marata

  “I—no.” I exhale in an angry rush. “I just didn't want her to leave.” I scrub my head in an angry swipe, wincing at the knot I put there.

  So worth it to clock Grady. “Simone bit me and pulled her freak out...”

  Kiki gets in close and I stand there, waiting for a lecture. “I can't give you her number.”

  I grip her shoulders, looking deeply into her eyes. “Listen—Kik, I know I fucked up.”

  “You got that...”

  I give a rough exhale. “I wanna make it right.”

  She shakes her head. “I don't know Thorn, you're a hard man.”

  Hard man. I digest her words.

  I don't know what she sees on my face, but she's quick to add, “A good guy. You're one of the good guys. You saved Faren. You save girls like me... and Faren. But this girl? She needs...” Kiki looks down, hiding her face from me.

  I tip her chin up with a finger. “What? What's so goddamned special about Simone Balland?”

  Kiki's eyebrow pops. “What—how did you say her last name?”

  I say it again.

  “God... it sounds exotic when you say it like that.”

  I bristle. “It's French.”

  “Ooh la la... and oui oui!” she says in a horrible French accent.

  She notes my sour expression. “What? Thorn!” She laughs and points at me. “Don't tell me you speak French?”

  Her disbelief kinda pisses me off.

  I don't answer. I just walk to the door. I'm frustrated and can't seem to redeem myself from the ego splat I took.

  From a lap dancer.

  A very hot, hard-fighting chick with a French name and a body like Venus.

  I decide she makes my dick hurt as I flinch when my tongue runs over the bite she gave me.

  “What are you smiling about?” Kiki asks, running after me as I swing the door open.

  “Les possibilités,” I reply.

  “What did you say?” she asks, her eyes narrowing at me.

  I don't translate the French.

  I leave Kiki in a huff. I have something to think about besides looking for the man who's my real father.

  *

  “God, Ty, no. I'm not going to help you find some chick you're jonesin' to tap. No.”

  “Tag, don't be an ass. Look at my mouth, pal.” I spread my palms wide as his hazels laser in on the wound.

  Detective Lance Tagger, fearless partner of lots o’ crime busts with yours truly, folds his arms.

  “You let a chick beat you down while some guy did a baby move to your gonads?”

  I grunt. “Yeah, you got me. Dumb move.”

  “Elementary move, Watson. Cover the nutsack. Don't leave the family jewels hanging like a bull’s-eye.”

  I sigh and lower my chin, digging for patience. Which I suck at.

  Tag studies my face with a perma-smirk slapped on his. Asshole. “Is she really that much of a distraction?”

  “It's not just that, Tag... I messed up. I was late. Kiki asked—”

  His eyebrow rises. “I thought she wasn't doing poles? Grad school or something?”

  I nod, not really listening. “Yeah.” I wave his question away. “I guess Kiki was leaving that day and ran into Simone...”

  “Simone?” Tag's lovin' this shit: the bitten lip, the hot girl who kicked my ass. Yeah, this is right up his fuck-with-Thorn alley.

  Play nice, Thorn. “Yeah, man, Simone.”

  “God, okay. I'll look her up.” Tag rolls his eyes at me. “Don't fuck it up. The department finds out I'm lifting a name from the system, it'll be my wiener on a stick.”

  I nod. He plops down in his computer chair, and his fingers fly over the keys. I lean over his shoulder, one hand gripping the side of the desk.

  “Hey, Simon,” a beat cop greets me from across the room, and I lift my chin.

  “Surname?” Tagger asks.

  I tell him.

  “What? Say it normally.”

  “That is normal.”

  He gives me a sidelong glance. “Oh. Is—is it foreign?”

  I nod.

  He turns back to the screen. “Spelling.”

  I spell it out.

  “Oh—the D is silent. Here she is. Simone Angeline Balland. Age: 23. Five feet seven, one hundred thirty-five pounds. Race: mixed.”

  “What mix?” I know so little about my own roots that I want to know hers. And maybe curiosity killed the damn cat.

  “She's French, Ty. Dual citizenship.”

  Now I'm intrigued. As if I wasn't before. I snort, and Tag gives me a look.

  She didn't have a trace of an accent. Of course, neither do I. Welcome to America, where no one is what they seem.

  “No shit, bright one,” I answer.

  His lips thin. “Like you?”

  I shake my head, gazing at her photo.

  It's not a great one, like all driver license pics. Full, kiss-me lips, long kinky jet-black curls, pale skin with a spray of freckles over the bridge of a refined nose, and wide-spaced, slightly almond eyes.

  Brilliant green.

  They appear to see me, to follow me. Not the Thorn I show people, but the dude I hide.

  Simone Balland looks as if she can see my secrets. I don't know if I like that.

  Maybe it doesn't matter.

  I tap her addy into the contact list on my cell. She can't know I'm a cop. I'm still undercover, just not operational. But I've got to make this right.

  It would be so wrong to just show up at her door.

  I go anyway.

  4

  Simone

  I take one of the many alternate routes to my small apartment in the seediest part of Seattle.

  I needed that damn job so bad.

  But I don't need a man like Thorn sniffing around like a second hole in my head. I'm lucky I got out of there when I did.

  My brows pull together. Kiki had said Thorn was better than Grady and I should meet with him. Well, I'd been forced to show my hand. I can defend myself, a skill I don’t want others to know I have. When fighting a man that much bigger, the element of surprise is important. In the case of Thorn, it’s critical. And I'll never get a second chance with him.

  He's aware.

  I ignore the homeless, whose eyes rest on my striding figure in glazed focus. I'm not complacent. The drunk have pinpoints of hyperawareness that aren’t to be discounted. I'm not going to be on the receiving end of their attention. I avoid eye contact and make a beeline for my apartment building.

  Streetlights deposit pools of light intermittently as I walk, some burnt out, some still hold a bulb that flickers. The sporadic light lands on me like a strobe.

  I hold my keys like a weapon, though the real one is a six-inch long rod of solid stainless steel that serves as a key fob. It's heavy and effective.

  I look right then left, inserting the apartment key into the main entrance and opening it wide. I step into the heavily shadowed vestibule. Initially, what made the apartment building attractive was the anonymity, a double entrance... and it’s cheap.

  I make a novice mistake I haven't made since I left France the second time.

  I move forward without visually sweeping corners.

  He moves in behind me, grabbing my wrist. I spin, bringing the karate weapon down hard on his hand. He grunts, grabs the steel rod, and chucks it against the wall. It stabs the plaster, sticking out like a broken bone.

  I hear it fall and clatter down the stairs to my basement-level apartment. Mine is the only apartment with two entrances.

  Two locks.

  If I can get inside.

  The assailant grabs both of my arms at my elbows, pinning me to his body.

  Tall.

  Size: Big.

  I give myself time for a deep breath—centering.

  I whip my head back, hitting his chin.

  He howls and releases me.

  I duck low, coming in for the crotch with my knuckles poised for a precision strike.

  He takes me by sur
prise, meeting me at knee level in a mirror of my crouch.

  Thorn.

  I hesitate.

  He moves in. “Stop! Fuck... it's me!”

  “I know!” I shout without stopping. My training takes me forward in unconscious follow-through.

  Then he's pinning me to the wall, my wrists above my head. I move my knee into central position.

  I don't know what the fuck is going on.

  The side of his hip comes between my legs, immobilizing my body. I blew my opportunity by thinking, the kiss of death in hand to hand.

  I know better. I squirm, trying to break his hold on my wrists.

  No good. He's got a two-handed hold.

  I glare into his dark face.

  His chest is heaving, his eye tight with the damage I meted. “I won't hurt you.”

  “Clearly!” I yell.

  He slams me against the wall, my knotted hands behind my head as it bounces off them.

  “Stop,” he growls.

  I'm so frustrated, tears of anger course down my cheeks. I want to lash out, but I'm helpless. I don't want to revisit those feelings that bring instant anguish.

  My eyes move to the wound on his mouth. Sutures stick up in clear spikes.

  Good.

  His lips flatten into a grim line before his eyes flinch from the tenderness.

  “If I let you go are you going to chop my nuts off?”

  “Maybe.”

  He gives a harsh exhale. “I came by to explain some shit to you, and you go all Rambo on my ass.”

  I nod, but I want to slam my head into his again. “That's what I always do when men I don't know charge me from behind.”

  Thorn gets a sheepish expression. It looks out of place on his face. “I didn't think you'd talk to me if I called or texted. Hell, I didn't think you'd talk to me if I stopped by.”

  I think about it. “True.”

  His eyebrows rise. His face is filled with strong features: square jaw, straight nose, the bones are stark and unforgiving. A masculine face.

  “See? Ya left me no choice,” he says.

  And... I had so many. “Let me go.”

  “Are you gonna go batshit?”

  I think about it and can't help my lips quirking. “Maybe.”

  His lips twitch. He drops my wrists and backs away—fast.

  I rub where he held them.

  “So?” I ask, my heartbeat returning to normal.

  Thorn’s eyes move from my feet to my face, and I scowl.

  All men look at me like that, hence the strip club job. Grady had promised me I could work off the books; Kiki hadn’t been sure. She said the owner did things to the letter of the law. Some rich guy who married her friend.

  A princess story.

  I didn't know those really existed. Fairy tales are bullshit.

  “Can we... do we have to talk through shit in the hallway?” he says.

  I look around the small vestibule. Stairs lead to the upper floor. A second door leading to my apartment.

  I lift a shoulder.

  Kiki said Thorn is okay. He didn't beat me up but I've given him some marks. I take in the bruise on his chin that is colorless for the moment but swelling fast.

  My fingers touch the knot on the back of my head.

  “I guess.”

  I retrieve my keys and unlock the second door.

  I descend six steps, and the wall faces me, my door to the left.

  I turn to tell Thorn to close the outer door, but he already is. He locks it by flipping the deadbolt.

  The stairwell plunges into complete darkness.

  My breathing comes fast.

  I smack the wall, trying for the light switch.

  Panic descends... I can't stand dark places.

  My small noises while I suck in breaths are all I hear.

  I forget that Thorn exists.

  I rustle the keys, trying to jam them inside the keyhole so I can get some light.

  I need to see.

  “Are you okay?” Thorn says by my ear and I scream.

  Instead of reacting, he scoops up my fallen keys and shoulders into the foot of space not big enough for two people. He finds the knob and slides the key into the slot.

  The door opens, but I still can't see. I'm hyperventilating.

  “Hey, Simone,” Thorn says, pulling me through the door.

  A low light from the entry table greets me, but I'm deep into a full-blown panic attack.

  My palms slap the wall, and I slide down it as my vision closes in a black tunnel.

  “No, ya don't.” Thorn easily lifts me by the armpits and sets me on a chair beside the table.

  A gentle hand wraps around my nape and puts my head between my knees. His thumb strokes the bones of my spine.

  “Control your breathing. Thorn's here.”

  His thumb strokes, and I concentrate on the sensation, following the slow swirl of his touch on my skin.

  I take a breath, and darkness presses against me like soft black wings.

  One more inhale.

  Exhale.

  Light breaks through, the murk of unconsciousness receding like a wave on the shore.

  Then thoughts and awareness crash in.

  Embarrassment.

  I lift my head and his hand is gone.

  We look in each other’s eyes. I don't cry. This has been the most fucked up night since I got to America.

  Legally got here.

  Thorn's dark eyes search mine. “What the fuck was that about?”

  I shake my head, each breath better than the last. “I don't owe you an explanation.”

  Thorn sits back on his haunches. “Well, how about I stick around until I get one?” His voice is stubborn, his eyes resolute and unmoving.

  He's bad news. Violent, egotistical and aggressive.

  I like him.

  Too much.

  5

  Thorn

  I feel like the biggest dick in the world. Simone obviously has issues, and I should be checking that shit.

  But her beauty distracts me. It's not the trashy-ho variety I usually love and leave—it’s something more.

  She’s still wearing the outfit that she came to the Black Rose in.

  My eyes move to her slender ankles, trapped in impossibly narrow straps.

  I think of holding those ankles wide as I drive into her.

  I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the vision like water drops off a shaking dog.

  They stick like glue.

  Helpless against my lust, my eyes drive up her body like a freight train. Elegant wrists dangle between knees where her head just was.

  I still feel the burn on my fingertips from where I touched the back of her neck.

  My second head is doing all the thinking, standing at attention.

  Her breasts are an offering of creamy café au lait between a halter-type system bungee-ing her delectable jugs. I close my eyes, calming my breathing.

  My lower forearm hurts where her keychain hammered me. I know from my police work and sparring with guys that she's trained.

  I open my eyes and hers are on me.

  Hopefully she doesn't notice the tent I've just sprouted in my pants.

  “Karate?” I ask casually. It's the last thing on my mind.

  “Yeah.”

  She doesn't elaborate. Women are usually hot to yammer on about trivial shit. No conveyance of info, just a dump of words for dudes to trudge through to find the bottom line.

  But not Simone. She doesn't say why she held her own against me upstairs or why the darkness sent her into a spiral of panic.

  I hear Kiki in my mind, telling me to take it easy on Simone, to take care of her. With the exception of the panic attack, she seems to do just fine taking care of herself.

  I hold out my palm. After a moment's hesitation, she slips her hand into mine, and I jerk her none-too-gently to her feet. She sorta stumbles into me, and I press her up against me.

  The hard-on that had gone away springs bac
k to life between us.

  I often think how much it sucks to be a man. Can't hide dick.

  Literally.

  Simone says nothing, but reaches between us and squeezes my pole.

  I suck in a sharp breath. “Fuck me.”

  She strangles my cock and the pain rides that line of pleasure. My eyes snap to hers.

  “No,” she whispers and increases the pressure.

  I open my mouth to tell her to chill out on the grip, and she releases me.

  “You're here to fuck me?” Simone asks.

  I've never had a woman talk to me like that in my life.

  Thorn does the doing. The fucking. The talking.

  I'm here to find out what's what, but instead I say, “Yeah.”

  Simone shows no surprise. She turns away from me and walks down the hall.

  I want to kick my own ass for blurting the truth. I need to find out why someone like her is doing what she's doing. How come she can kick a guy's ass? Those are only the top-end questions.

  She almost had me back there. If she was a guy, I'd be out cold in a sleazy apartment entrance. Sheer size and muscle mass were my only saving graces.

  I follow her, watching the graceful sway of her hips and kinky, jet-black hair.

  It touches where I know the dimples at the small of her back lie.

  My prick throbs.

  She flicks on lights in her kitchen. They're under cabinet, so they chase away shadows but don't really illuminate.

  I move toward her, out of my mind with want. I should be the cop here, question her about being French and wanting to work off the books.

  I should stay neutral for all kinds of reasons.

  Instead I reach for her. She grabs my hand, sucking my finger in a long, wet pull, and a drop of precum wets through my underwear.

  I gasp, my other hand cupping her ass through her thin dress.

  “I”—pull, suck—“was”—lick—“supposed”—smack—“to try out with you.”

  She drops my finger, and I knead her ass cheek. I want to dive a finger in her honeypot so bad, I can feel it.

  But I'm no rapist. Simone needs to give me a green light, and right now, I don't have it.

  I have a woman in the literal palm of my hand. We were physically violent twenty minutes ago, then she morphed into having a panic attack before she squeezed my dick so hard I thought she'd kill it.