The Token 3 (New Adult Dark Romance)

by Eros, Marata

  My eyes meet his, my teeth setting together in a pre-grind.

  Mick sees my expression over Tagger's shoulder and frowns. “Okay, you've seen her. Now you can go.” Tagger must know he walked in on something, and it’s even more obvious that Mick's pissed about it.

  Tagger turns to Mick, his eyes roving over shoulders hardened through grueling work outs. My eyes follow Tagger's and it doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out he’s jealous. About what? Neither confirms knowing the other, but I don’t think it’s just about male posturing.

  Tagger breaks his stare with Mick and moves to where I stand, trapped between the coffee table and couch. His watery green eyes move down me like they did Mick, and his lips flatten into a grim line.

  He gets to my naked toes, and I blush when he sees my torn panties as the crotch flirts at him from underneath the lip of the couch.

  I want to crawl in with my discarded underwear.

  Instead, I stand there and stare at him as he puts the pieces of our evening together.

  I don't know what he sees in my face, but it makes him turn to Mick.

  “Tell me this girl isn't one of your playthings, McKenna. Not her.”

  I frown. Okay, definitely knows Mick. I'm spot-on with my earlier assumption.

  Mick's chin jerks back, and he folds his powerful arms over his bare chest. His eyes narrow on Tagger. “Listen, Jake, I've got you.”

  My eyes widen, moving between the two.

  I move away from them, wondering what’s going on and hoping I'm not going to find out.

  “You're pissed because of who I am,” Mick says.

  Tagger moves into Mick's grill and his jaw flexes. “I'm lit up because she doesn't know who you really are, how we suffer over your sleazy bullshit. What's happened.”

  Oh no.

  “Does she know?”

  Mick shoots this out-of-line cop a warning look.

  I'm pretty sure I know what Tagger's going to say. If he does, I’ll have to play a role or it'll come off weird. I don't want to.

  Not now.

  His timing is criminal.

  “What... what should I know?” I ask.

  Mick looks into my eyes as Tagger drops the news like a bomb.

  “Prince Charming here owns the hottest strip clubs on the west coast.”

  My eyes slide away to stall while I gather my will, my expression. My words.

  I work at one of his clubs. I work at Thorn's illicit club that Mick doesn't know about. I remember picking up that sweaty pole money at his feet like it was yesterday.

  It won't be my repulsion that drives me away, but my own guilt. I keep my head down and slide by the men.

  “Faren,” Mick says, and I can still feel that sensation of his mouth on me.

  I won't stay here because I can't hide what I'm doing forever.

  I slip my clogs on and grab my purse off the couch by the front door.

  “You simpering dick,” Mick says to Tagger.

  I feel a hand wrap my elbow and turn me around.

  My eyes move to Tagger's. I don’t like his hand on me one bit.

  “I can get you out of here, Miss Mitchell.”

  We stare at each other. “I can get myself out, Officer.”

  He smiles, and it feels off. He’s completely fine with wrecking my evening with Mick because he has some kind of ax he wants to keep grinding. Is his hard-on for Mick so important that my supposed need for protection plays second fiddle?

  I jerk my elbow out of his hand, and his smile widens.

  Uneasy, I watch Tagger move to the couch. I studiously avoid Mick's eyes, but I can't ignore his presence.

  His existence consumes me like lava. It spreads over me, and I can't breathe through the suffocating warmth.

  “Get out of my house, Tagger,” Mick says. I feel his contained anger, frustration and remorse in his bitter tone.

  Tagger scoops something off the floor with his stylus. “Don't you mean where you bring your clients?”

  I look at my panties hanging off the end of that slim instrument.

  Clients?

  My eyelids tingle as my eyes fill with tears.

  Is this some kind of fuckpad? How many girls have been on that couch? I don't know which to feel more hurt by, his lie by omission or his revolving door of meaningless flings that Tagger seems to be so intimately aware of.

  Tagger strolls toward us. I give hurt eyes to Mick before I can stop and back away from them both.

  Mick’s jaw looks like granite. “I said Get. The. Fuck. Out.” His eyes roll over my panties in angry possession.

  “Evidence, McKenna,” Tagger says in a satisfied tone, holding up the panties.

  This guy's like a Jekyll and Hyde. My money's on Hyde.

  “What?” Mick asks, clenching his teeth.

  “I obviously interrupted an assault in progress...”

  “What?” I echo. My voice sounds as though it's been torn from my throat in breathy pieces. Mick didn’t rape me.

  If anything, in some twisted way-- I'm the user. But Tagger doesn't intuit that.

  Mick snatches the panties from Tagger. “I've never forced any woman in my life. You know that.”

  Why is Mick defending his honor?

  “That past of yours though.” Tagger wags a finger like it's a good bit of comedy, though we stand around like shell-shocked survivors. “It wouldn't take anything for someone to snap after what you've been through... do the wrong thing here.” He spreads his hands inoffensively.

  They glare at each other, the atmosphere thickening.

  “She's coming with me, McKenna. I'm getting Miss Mitchell's statement, and she can't make one with you standing over her after an alleged assault.”

  “I don't need to make a statement.” I back up farther, my butt pressing against the cold metal of the doorknob.

  “You're making one, Miss Mitchell.”

  What the hell is going on? How did this cop go from showing up at the scene of my demolished apartment to accusing Mick of attacking me?

  My back's literally against the door, my heart hammering as Mick clenches my panties.

  “No,” I say, “nothing... happened here. Mick didn't hurt me.”

  I meet Mick's eyes, and his are sorry. He didn't want me to find out about the strip clubs from the mouth of a jealous cop.

  I'm betting he never wanted me to know.

  Tagger shakes his head, reaching for me, and I panic. I hit him with my bad hand because my right holds the strap of my purse.

  Tagger grabs my bad hand, biting into the carnage of nerve damage.

  I cry out, and even to my ears it's sounds like a wounded animal.

  Mick doesn't hesitate.

  He steps forward like a dancer in the first blush of movement. His fist lashes out in a natural strike, the knuckles set and turning as he pivots into Tagger's face.

  Tagger's face rocks back, his hand convulsing on mine, and I scream Mick's name as the pain rips through my palm.

  Mick swivels, his hand coming down as he turns, and hammer chops the cop's forearm. Tagger reflexively releases my hand.

  Mick turns to me, my hand a shaking nightmare and wraps his arms around me.

  I know Tagger didn't mean to hurt me. Probably doesn't even consider my damaged hand.

  I gasp into Mick's muscled chest, tears sliding out from underneath my clenched eyes.

  “Oh god,” I gasp. The old pain grinds through my hand and halfway up my forearm in the way only nerves can travel the agony highway.

  I hear a pop and then feel a pain worse than I've ever experienced slices through me.

  I fall back, Mick falling with me, his weight covering me in a brutal slap.

  I see Tagger, his legs spread and a nasty wound on his jaw, holding a Taser.

  Delivering the jolts that incapacitate Mick and transfer to me.

  I see his smile before darkness takes me.

  ~ 9 ~

  “Billionaire Jared McKenna has been detained overnight
for the alleged assault of physical therapist Faren Mitchell,” a reporter chimes. Her bronzer makes her look like an oompa loompa.

  Kiki turns off the television and stares at me, having just extradited me from the holding tank. I wrinkle my nose-- pee and barf still sharp in my memory. “Oh my god, girl, this is so many levels of fucked up shit.”

  I can only nod at another ugly turn my complicated life just took.

  I perch at her small kitchen table, déjà vu slipping over me. I've come full circle. I'm back at Millennium Tower, about twelve stories below Mick's place.

  I swallow past the mental replay of what happened in his condo. “Yeah, so what I need. More notoriety.”

  Kiki leans forward, long black hair misses her coffee by a millimeter. “Is it true?”

  I roll my eyes. “No.”

  “But he came clean about the strip clubs?” Her brows draw together as she sets her tea cup down.

  I shake my head. “No, not exactly.” A laugh of pure exhaustion erupts out of me. “The cop is the one who dropped that bomb in Mick’s little humpshack up there.”

  I point to her ceiling.

  Kiki folds her arms. “I never even knew that McKenna lived here.” She blows a strand of hair out of her face and moves away from the table as I look out the window to the water outside, “here I was, all jonesing to meet his rich ass and then poof-- he lives above me.” She flings a hand above her head.

  Kiki puts a butt cheek on the super-high seats around her trendy square nook table. It angles perfectly in the banked windows where west meets south where the glass windows intersect. “Somehow, I'm not thinking you like the proximity.”

  I look at her, hand around my mug of coffee, forgoing tea for the moment.

  “No. I mean, I don't know.”

  She says, “They're going to dredge up all the shit again.”

  “Yeah.” I lean back against the chair. “Just as I was becoming a nobody, they'll latch onto the entire Ronnie thing again.”

  I slam my mug down on the table. “I don't want people knowing...”

  “You took a chance when you signed up for the titillating stuff,” Kiki says.

  I sigh. “Yes, I'm aware.”

  Kiki lifts her shoulders in consolation. “People are entertained by sex.”

  “And evil,” I add and we lock gazes.

  “So here comes beautiful Faren Mitchell, survivor of an attack by her lunatic perv stepfather, only to be assaulted by billionaire bookoo bucks.”

  I grimace. “Alleged.”

  “Okay... so spill-- what did happen. The torn panties have made the news.”

  My mouth falls open, the fire of shame coalesces inside my chest. “Are you shitting me?”

  Kiki shakes her head slowly as her eyes glide over my sick expression.

  “Oh my god, my life has become a soap opera.”

  “It's official.” Kiki raises her hand solemnly. “You're the 'it' girl right now. Your apartment was ransacked, and that prick Tasered your supposed attacker, and you were collateral damage.”

  Kiki doesn't look away. “Did he really hurt your hand?”

  I nod. “I don't think he meant to.”

  “Don't defend that assjack,” Kiki fumes, “why was he putting his hands on you, Faren? I mean, eff me- that's just weird.”

  I did consider why he seemed so intent to nail Mick to the wall. How it seems like he's using me for his own agenda.

  “The whole fucking sick situation reeks.”

  “I... I guess he thought Mick was a threat?” I throw out lamely.

  Kiki barks out a laugh, and slaps the table. “That'll do it, good for McKenna.” She throws a victory fist in the air.

  “You can play the victim and get the police to lick your boots. You've gotta beat the press at their own game.”

  I don't like the way that sounds.

  “You hold a press conference, play the wounded gazelle. You know, talk sappy smack about how McKenna and you have been dating...”

  “I don't know if he wants that...”

  “Well, you can't say you and Mick have been casually fucking.” She cocks her brows.

  The oxygen leaves the room. “Because we haven't.” I manage through my teeth.

  “I want the deets,” Kiki says.

  I open my mouth and she does a slicing gesture across her throat. “Later. Anyway,” she pauses, getting into her scheme, “Moneybags—”

  “Mick,” I interrupt.

  Kiki rolls her eyes, “Hotness?” She waits, and I let a small smile slip.

  She grins at my expression. “Hotness is there for you when your apartment gets burglarized. Then this dirty cop comes by to make sure you're where you said you'd be”—her eyes swivel to mine—“and how many shades of fucked up is that anyway? Nevermind. He stomps in there, interrupts consensual… whatever it was, sees your underwear, and goes medieval with the juice.”

  I guess that about covers it, but Kiki is missing some finer points.

  I hold up my hand. “First, we don't know Tagger's a dirty cop.” I lower one finger.

  “He's something.” She juts out her chin in defiance and I can't dispute something reeks like a badly camouflaged turd.

  “I think he knows Mick. There's bad blood there. I mean… Mick knew his first name.”

  Kiki makes a sound that I translate as knew it.

  “Second, my place was not burglarized, it was demolished. Third, it didn't look good.... Mick and me.” I whisper that last.

  “What doesn't look good is Tagger's concern over your underwear and why he thinks Mick is capable of assaulting women. Where the hell does he get that?”

  A beat of silence passes as we stare at each other.

  “Google!” we yell at the same time, making a mad scramble for her laptop.

  “I can't believe I haven't already thought of this.”

  Kiki looks at my face. “You little weasel, you've already thought about it.”

  “Well, he Googled me...” I say in lame defense.

  Kiki taps her lip. “But you took him at his word.”

  “Yeah… Tagger said something about how 'if I knew about his past.'”

  Kiki gives a low whistle.

  She flips open her Mac, and I watch over her shoulder as she inputs Mick's name.

  “Holy fuckballs!” she shouts. “There's like fifty pages.” Her shoulders slump. “It'll take all goddamned day.”

  I scan the first ten hits; all entail holdings, buildings, real estate... so many stories about Mick and me. I swallow, ignoring those.

  No... no, no, my eyes flicking through each post. I keep scanning.

  Second page: Black Rose gentleman's club holdings.

  “Click that.” I point at the elegant black rose held between a skull’s clenched teeth.

  Kiki clicks. It's a boatload of boring fiscal stats. My eye catches on a small thread.

  Related articles: Black Rose inception.

  I point again and Kiki clicks.

  I don't know who finishes first, but when we're done reading, she closes the laptop.

  “That's horrible,” Kiki says.

  Yeah.

  At least I know why he peddles flesh.

  “He's like... a really honorable guy,” I whisper, feeling like a flea for my layers of deception.

  The shame I'd held at bay seeps into every pore.

  “Yeah… a really rich, hot, honorable guy with a tragic past.”

  Kiki gives me a sharp look. “It's almost as tragic as yours.”

  Almost.

  ~ 10 ~

  Kiki drops me at the curb. I flick her a wave, and she lifts her cell. Text me, the gesture says. Our revelations swirl between us like unseen smoke. I nod and turn toward concrete steps.

  I'm on my way to see Mick when a text comes in from Thorn.

  Thorn: You get a pass on laps because of what went down with Mick. It's your only freebie. You feel me? Tonight Faren.

  I chew on my bottom lip while I tap out my response
.

  Me: Yes, I'll be there.

  I don't ask about Ronnie. I have to accept that Thorn understands Ronnie terrifies me, his trashing of my apartment is his newest calling card. Thorn isn't heartless; he's determined.

  I don't know which is more dangerous.

  I have to talk to Mick about the strip clubs and somehow keep my secret just a little longer.

  When we quench this fire between us—when he realizes how innocent I am—I'll come clean about the laps. After all, I can't keep that particular secret much longer.

  He won't want to keep some naïve virgin anyway. He'll take it and run.

  I'm counting on that. Mick's tender with who he thinks he knows, not who I actually am.

  I inhale deeply at the thought of an experienced, rich guy settling down with a terminally ill girl who gives him her virginity while grinding on the laps of strange men.

  I think about what I learned on Google. Mick's protective nature makes more sense now.

  A lot more.

  I just don't know where that leaves us. I know what would have happened if Tagger hadn't burst in. Mick had had me right where he wanted me. I was exactly where I wanted to be.

  Then fate inserted itself.

  I push the glass door to the Seattle Police Precinct open, the directional reflects back at me, West.

  A horse whinnies with a cop on its back as I walk into the old stone building and scan my surroundings. My body feels ultra-sensitive from the shock of the Taser. I'm certain that combined dangerously with my illness.

  I shove that thought away for later reflection.

  I walk over to the reception desk and stand there while a cop types something.

  “Yes?” he asks without looking up.

  I feel sexist for thinking it's weird that a man is working the front desk instead of a woman.

  “I'm here to see Jared McKenna,” I say, my eyes sailing around the huge noisy space.

  He stops typing and looks at me, really looks at me. “You're Faren Mitchell.”

  “Yes.” How does he know who I am?

  Nothing about that seems good.

  Officer Ferric stands and walks around the chest-level, semi-curved desk. He gives me a once-over. “Follow me.”

  I don't.

  He's ten paces away before he notices. “Miss Mitchell?” His brows rise to a receding hairline of unkempt tufts of dishwater blond hair.