The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense Page 12

  I slug her and she yelps, giving me hurt eyes, then she smiles. “I’ll wear ya down, you’ll see.”

  “Never!” I stab the air with my fist as we turn the corner and a wall of noise hits me. Everywhere I look there are students, older adults and an odd assortment of people I’ve never seen. It’s too much to take in. I turn to Carlie; obviously, we totally can’t work out today.

  “Hey,” I say, looking into the deep auditorium that doubles as a gym. “What’s going on . . . what are all these people doing?”

  But Carlie’s already moving and doesn’t hear my question.

  An older woman is seated behind a folding desk and Carlie speeds to the desk, her flats making no sound as they whisper across the floor.

  She signs in to some ledger and I start taking it in.

  A totally hot guy comes to me with a numbered paper and a safety pin. “Hey,” he says, and I stare numbly at him. I can’t think of a thing to say.

  “Hi!” Carlie blurts from beside me, fluttering her sooty eyelashes at La Hunk. “This is my friend Jess Mackey.”

  Hunk smiles at me and I sink into his pale gray eyes—drown, more like. “I’m Mitch,” he says.

  I stare.

  Carlie elbows me with a traitorous cackle. God, can she be more obvious? “I’m Jess,” I stick out my hand and he swallows it in his own.

  “I know.” He smirks and a dimple flashes into place, disappearing just as quickly. He swings back long dark hair that refuses to stay out of his eyes.

  “Right,” I say, heat flooding my face.

  He steps into my private bubble and my flush deepens; my heart starts to speed when he reaches for my thin T-shirt and I shrink away from him.

  “It’s okay,” he murmurs beside my face, his minty breath tickling the sensitive skin there. “I’m attaching your number.”

  What number?

  I look around and see about fifty girls with their hair slicked back in tight buns, some high, some on the nape because they’ve been zapped with the unlucky thick-hair gene like yours truly.

  Realization slams into me.

  The Seattle Pacific Ballet Company has arrived. This is the audition Carlie tried to bully me into attending a few days ago. Heat suffuses my body in a sickening nauseous wave. I turn to leave and Mitch puts a staying hand gently on my arm. He jerks his jaw toward where a mock stage has been set up. “It’s this way, dancing girl.” He smiles, his teeth very white in his face.

  “I can’t do it . . . I’m not signed up,” I say, folding my arms again, the paper with my audition number crinkling underneath the gesture.

  His smile widens into a grin as he dips his head to look at a clipboard that just magically appears. Mitch runs a long, tapered finger down the assembled names until he reaches midway. He taps it once and I jump slightly. He lifts his chin, a light dusting of dark stubble sprinkled on the slight cleft that bisects it. “There you are,” he says softly. “Mackey, Jess.”

  He sweeps his hand in front of me; I give a death glare to Carlie and my traitor friend winks at me.

  I can’t not audition without looking like an ass.

  My feet are dragging like lead fills my shoes.

  My slippers!

  Carlie jogs to my side and hands me my ballet slippers. I seethe at her; she smiles sweetly and whispers, “Break a leg.”

  I gaze at the stage like it’s the fabled pirate’s plank. My stomach clenches as I move to take my place in line and watch the girl onstage.

  She’s perfect . . . breathtaking.

  The music ends softly and she moves off the stage. The judges whisper and I know immediately who they’ll choose.

  It won’t be me.

  I think of Faith and what she would have wanted. I think of how I love her still. Of how this dream of Faith's that I reach my full potential, that I escape the madness of a household ruled by indifferent tyranny and jealousy born of privilege and entitlement come to an end... and a new beginning. Thad can't reach me here, and this is my way to honor Faith, and in so doing- myself.

  Then an extraordinary thing happens. When it is my turn I float up the steps and onto the temporary stage as they put on Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven.

  It’s from before.

  The notes breathe through the auditorium, making the fine hairs of my neck stand at attention. The music robs me of thought, forcing my body to execute moves I forgot I knew. My arms sweep, and I pirouette, spinning and snapping my head to find my corner. The soreness from earlier melts away as my body heats with familiarity. As I whip my leg up, my foot is parallel to my head for a fraction of time and then I land softly, only to immediately rise to the balls of my feet as I approach the judges with their riveted stares. The length of the song and its sad ending beg my limbs to undulate in a perfectly timed flutter of classic swan arms. I draw nearer still while keeping my elbows level as my arms float in a wavelike pattern and the balls of my feet propel me forward just as the final piano notes fall.

  Then once more their sorrowful notes swell and fill the auditorium in melancholy triumph.

  I stop, dipping into a graceful plié, and assume first position.

  My hands are cupped slightly and I tilt my head, looking off to the right of my position.

  The utter lack of noise causes me to look at the judges as I relax my shoulders and my hands drop gracefully to my sides.

  They have stood and every eye is on me. Including the gray gaze of a certain hunk named Mitch.

  When the applause breaks out I don’t know whether to cry or run.

  In the end, I stay.

  My eyes scan the crowd and notice the one person who does not clap.

  A man leans against the back of the cavernous gym auditorium, his black eyes seeming to attack me, and I take an involuntary step backward from the burning intensity of his gaze.

  Carlie interrupts the moment, throwing herself at me.

  “I knew you could,” she whispers, strangling me in an epic hug that cuts off my airway.

  I gently push her away and look for that disconcerting male presence. Hostile.

  But he is gone.

  Just like he was never there.

  #

  Click link to read A Terrible Love

  Read on for another Marata Eros dark romantic suspense novel....

  THE DARKEST JOY

  Marata Eros

  THE DARKEST JOY

  Copyright © 2014 Marata Eros

  Excerpt

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prologue

  Brookie,” Mom begins in a warning tone. I sigh but obligingly pop my earbud out of one ear. I have to actually pay attention, because somehow moms can sniff out half attentiveness like last night's rotting dinner, even across a crackling cell connection.

  “Yes, Mom,” I say with resignation. I lightly tap the brakes, trying to survive the treachery that is I-90 from Spokane to Seattle. And like any other college sophomore, I'm aching for home and hearth, especially Mom's cooking. I survey the slick, stupid mess of the highway. I'd hoped to beat the rush.

  Not going to happen.

  I downshift, keeping one hand on the wheel with one ear pressed to the cell as to assist my brakes as the blue and red strobes pulse along the banked snow at the sides of the road.

  What the hell? Great, I think.


  “Be careful honey, I-90 is sloppy right now. Your father and I have been listening to the weather reports for the Snoqualmie Pass—”

  I roll my eyes. “Mom,” I interrupt, trying to be the Good Daughter and missing it with the irritation in my voice. “There's been an accident up ahead . . .” I squint my eyes as I take in the pileup. Medics are already swarming the vehicles.

  “What?” Mom asks anxiously and I can see her put her hand to her heart. Drama R Us.

  “Not me, Mom.” I look ahead. “There are three cars ahead of me, but . . . I won't be home for supper. There's no way.”

  “It's more important to have you home safely than for you to be reckless.”

  Like that would ever happen, I think.

  “Did you remember your sheet music?” Mom asks as I watch the police officer's hands, his orange baton guiding our slow progress around the crunched cars in my lane. My eyes sweep the wreckage and I swallow, my stare shifting to the blooming red that spreads underneath the huddle of medics, so red against all the snow.

  Blood.

  I shiver, setting the phone on my seat, Mom oblivious as my hand lands on my binder of sheet music on the passenger seat without looking. It's full of music I practice, music I've written . . . audition scores as well. I'm more likely to forget my purse than to leave my music binder somewhere. I hear her tinny voice and scoop up the cell again.

  “Yes . . . right here,” I say, distracted by the scene reflected in my rearview mirror.

  “Good, because Aunt Millicent is coming to hear you play for Christmas, dear.”

  Christ, I think, mentally rubbing my head. My great aunt is 120 at least. She'll never die because she's from Alaska. She was one of the early pioneers of that area back in the forties with a bunch of other salty old crabs as she calls them.

  Aunt Milli never lets us forget it. Y'know, the old story: When we were kids we walked to school backward in ninety-mile-an-hour winds in ten feet of snow.

  My eyes drop to the odometer. Shit . . . thirty miles per hour. At this rate I'll be home by New Year's. The dark night crowds in around my Scion as Mom talks about how much Aunt Milli appreciates my piano-playing talent; she claims music runs in the family.

  Uh-huh. Blowhard.

  I scowl, thinking about the piano-playing puppet I've become to the family.

  I guess it's better than being that Asian kid who could speak four languages by the age of five. But not by much.

  My parents have pushed me because I'm the local piano prodigy.

  I'm just a girl. I never tell anyone what I can do.

  What I'm compelled to do. It's kind of embarrassing. As soon as someone knows my talent with the keys of a piano, it defines me. I wish it didn't. I just want to be Brooke Elizabeth Starr.

  Mom asks me a question. Twice.

  Oops.

  “Yeah?” I say, my eyes trained on the road, the yellow dashes making me nauseous as huge snowflakes fall. I feel like I'm trapped inside a snow globe.

  “I need to let you go, honey. You don't need the distraction of talking on your cell.” That's Mom, conservative to the core.

  I hear a chime in the background. Our doorbell.

  “What's that?” I ask anyway.

  Mom hesitates. “I don't know, we've kept our calendar open; just your brother, Dad and you tonight. Oh . . . and Aunt Milli.”

  I give a small groan at that.

  “Bill?” I hear Mom ask in a loud voice from what I know is the kitchen. I can see her in my mind like a painted picture. Her back leans against the wall, a finger twisting the long cord of our 1980s vintage wall phone. The guts show through the clear acrylic housing. It lights when it rings.

  I can tell Mom's holding the phone against her shoulder as she calls out to Dad.

  There's a muffled noise . . . then a shuffle.

  Those old phones are archaic as hell but they convey sound very well.

  “Mom?” I ask because it's odd as hell that she's not responding. I sit up straight in my seat as the hot air blowing out of the heater vent becomes suffocating.

  Then I hear a sliding crash that sounds like a load of glass falling onto the tile floor. My memories of our home floor plan go into overdrive.

  Trophies . . . my piano trophies are on that glass tabletop in the foyer.

  I unconsciously clench my cell.

  A car behind me honks and my eyes dip again to the odometer. Twenty miles per hour.

  I don't accelerate.

  Sweat breaks out on my upper lip as my hands begin to shake.

  “Mom!” I scream

  A gurgle that makes my stomach drop greets me as I hear the receiver bang against a hard surface.

  It's so loud it almost causes me to drop my phone.

  The driver behind me lays on his horn, passing on the left, taking the icy road at forty miles per hour.

  He flips me off as he does.

  I hear the phone clunk against the wall. I see it in my mind's eye like a movie, unwinding at the end of its long cord, spinning . . . hitting the wall with a hollow slap of plastic..

  Then nothing.

  A piercing scream fills the receiver and I gasp, a sob erupting from my mouth. I know that scream.

  Joey!

  I put on the brakes in the middle of the highway, my ear pressed to the cell, as my hand leaves the steering wheel and covers my mouth.

  Cars pile up behind me, some drivers leaning on their horns.

  I hear the phone stop banging, then something dragging.

  Like a body.

  This isn't real, my mind numbly says.

  Thunk.

  Someone taps on my window as I begin to lose circulation in my ear.

  Breathing. That's what I hear now. Every sense I have goes off-line except for my ear against that cell.

  It's all I hear.

  Someone is breathing into the receiver.

  Then they slowly hang it up in its cradle.

  Click.

  My cell phone silences.

  It drops to the floorboards of my car, sliding underneath the gas pedal.

  Someone opens the door.

  It's the police officer who was directing traffic.

  It can't be, that was hours ago, I think.

  “Miss . . . ?” He looks at me and I stare back.

  I can't think. Feel . . . move.

  Mom was just asking me when I was coming home.

  I'm sure she's fine. Something just fell.

  She's not dead. Nobody's dead.

  My body begins a fine quaking that I'm helpless to quell.

  Aunt Milli is there . . . being the old-relative cheek pincher she is.

  Everything’s fine. Everything’s . . . definitely not fine.

  Just breathe. Breathe.

  “Miss, I'm going to have to ask you to step out of your car.” A flashlight moves over my face and I don't blink, his voice sounding like it’s underwater.

  I don't move, I can't move. Because all I hear is breathing.

  It's so loud it drowns out my thoughts.

  The cop moves toward me and I pitch forward face first.

  Darkness greets me where consciousness had been.

  Sometimes that is the mind's only way to protect itself.

  Two weeks later

  He's hunkered down in front of me. My mind is searching, searching . . . Oh yeah, Decatur Clearwater.

  FBI. That’s right. The memory sluggishly plugs into place in the slow-moving river of my mind.

  The debris of my grief makes it crawl.

  Marshal Clearwater gives me a sad smile of sympathy, his eyes flicking to the sheen in mine. “I know this is difficult, Miss Starr . . .” he begins slowly, spreading his hands out to his sides as he balances on his heels.

  My gaze shifts to his, traveling from orbs so dark they almost blend with the pupils, to a fresh-looking scar that stands at ugly attention at his throat. It's bright pink, angry.

  Somebody did that to him.

  Suddenly the viole
nce of that wound reminds me of my family and I swallow hard past the lump in my throat.

  I'm not going to lose it yet again, I tell myself.

  I bite my lip until I taste the metallic flavor of my own blood. Then take a deep breath.

  I nod, my hands clutching the Christmas gift that Aunt Milli had brought me. I close my eyes, the vision of her frail broken body softer than the reality.

  The Feds had told me just enough to fill in the visual gaps.

  Clearwater stands and presses his card into my hand. “If you need anything, I'm here.”

  I think people just say those things. They know that people for the most part inherently do not want to impose on others. Especially families like mine: upper-class white—prestigious. No, we white-bread snobs don't inconvenience others with our dirty laundry.

  I look again at Clearwater, whose dark skin signals his mixed ethnicity. He returns my stare with level, honest eyes. He doesn't see me as a white rich girl, with that critical gaze fueled by the common assumption that I’m privileged, spoiled. Marshal Clearwater is color blind. Don't ask me how I can tell, but I just can.

  He turns to his partner, a tall, tattooed Fed with cool eyes and an indifferent disposition. Tough. He wears a suit, they all do . . . but it doesn't cover his neck. Ebony ribbons of ink circle his thick throat and I swallow.

  A small hand squeezes my shoulder.

  Lacey. I cover her hand with my own.

  “It'll be okay,” she says in a whisper. The empty sentiment runs off my consciousness like water off a duck's back. Lacey is the last bit of glue from the remnants of a childhood now gone. The one thread in the fabric of my past that's been there since the beginning. I can't think of a time in my life when she wasn't a part of it. Her eyes tell me it'll be okay.

  But nothing will be okay. Ever.

  I try to keep my focus narrow but it widens as I sit there. The Feds pick up small plates filled with appetizers provided by our upscale neighborhood in Magnolia.

  A house isn't a home without your family.

  I clutch the gift tighter.

  Our neighbors use the china Mom kept locked behind glass cabinet doors. I take a deep, shuddering breath as I see the slim, delicate plates being passed. Cups of real espresso are next, the creamy porcelain moving in a parade of hands.