The Token 5 (New Adult Dark Romance) Read online

  Kiki interjects, “It was my idea, Tannin.”

  Mom's head turns toward Kiki.

  “Faren's financial ship was sinking,” Kiki says. “She owed big-time debt for your care facility, and her PT wages weren't enough to cover it. They were going to move you to Evergreen.”

  Mom can’t hide her shock. Slowly, she rests against the pillows. “Oh.”

  “And, Tannin, I talked Faren into working with me. Neither one of us knew Mick—knew him, if ya know what I mean. He was just some hot rich guy who signed our paychecks.”

  “Why would you strip, Kandace?” Mom's trying to understand the incomprehensible.

  Kiki’s unafraid to give her answer. “I don't want any debt. No student loans, no mortgage... I want to get a place that’s mine. Something fine.”

  “I see,” Mom says with a sigh. My mom was never much for material things.

  “Here's the thing,” Kiki says. “Life is about options, and mine sucked. I don't know who my dad is, and my mom doesn't have the means. So it was up to me to make things happen. If men want to lust after me and fling money my way? Fine. I'm the one with the power. The pussy power.”

  Oh boy.

  Mom looks as if she swallowed a goat, then she bursts out laughing. “Everything changes, but some things remain the same.”

  “Yeah.” I give my foul-mouthed, true-blue friend a grateful glance.

  I'd be so lost without her.

  Thank God she never changes.

  Mom blows another strand of hair out of her face. “Okay, so Mick's a good guy?”

  I launch into an explanation about Rose McKenna.

  “Oh my God, that's as wretched a story as ours,” Mom says.

  Kiki nods vigorously. “That's what I told Faren.”

  “Why doesn't he defend himself? He could explain that the clubs exist to give girls who choose that lifestyle a safe environment, a good wage, benefits. Why doesn't he make it known he's not a...”

  “Silver-spoon trust-fund baby?” Kiki offers.

  “Exactly. And an inventor...?”

  I nod. “I don't think he feels he should have to.”

  “Wow,” Mom says. “He's either a very good-looking dim bulb or a humble, deep-feeling introvert.”

  I know exactly what he is and what he can do to me with his hands and mouth. I feel my face heat.

  Mom watches me closely. “Mmhmmm, I see that you're serious.”

  All that from my expression?

  Mom glances at my wringing hands. “Out with it.”

  A soft knock sounds at the door. A woman with owl eyes, glasses, and white hair sticks her head in. “Tannin, it's almost time for our three thirty.”

  My eyes flick to the clock: 3:19.

  Mom nods. “I'll be ready.” She turns back to me.

  “I suppose this revelation I feel brewing will have to wait until I get through another torture session.”

  I can't help but smile.

  “Y'know, your daughter gives a pretty good hurt when she wants.”

  Tannin shivers. “I do hate my physical therapy.”

  “I know, but the atrophy is—”

  “Acute,” she says with a wry grin.

  “Do you hate your therapist?” I ask.

  I know exactly what my colleague will put Mom through, though it's an utterly different type of therapy for injuries versus head trauma recovery. Limbs don't always do what they're told after four years of deep sleep.

  But atrophy is atrophy is atrophy. It's wasted muscle that needs to be reawakened, and it hurts like a bitch.

  Mom nods slowly. “A little bit.”

  We burst out laughing.

  “It's okay, Tannin. They say you'll be walking in a few months,” Kiki says.

  Mom looks at her hands. “Yes.”

  The hurt in her voice tightens my chest.

  When her head rises, I see the same determination I possess, and I know exactly who it came from.

  Mom grabs my hand, and I bring it to my cheek. It twitches a little.

  “Can you use it?” she asks.

  I think of lying, but I've had enough of that.

  “Some.”

  Her smile is like captured sunlight. “I'm so glad, baby. I'm so glad.”

  We both know we're not talking about hands.

  We’re talking about how wonderful it is to be alive.

  ~ 5 ~

  “Where do you think the old blowfish scuttled off to?” Kiki asks.

  I bark out a laugh, almost tripping down the stairs of my mom’s new care facility. “Jay?”

  Kiki turns to me, bouncing down the broad concrete steps. “Hell yeah. He's the biggest prick of the moment. Although, there's always room for someone else to take top position.” She winks.

  “You're slaying me.” I laugh.

  “That's the objective, sweet thing.”

  We make our way to her car, a souped-up Fiat. I love it. It's small, new, and flaming burnt orange. Kiki loves it because it's a great downtown car. Seattle parking sucks, so owning a car isn’t always bright. Better to take your chances with public transit.

  I lift a shoulder, my hand on the passenger side handle. “I'm not sure that he's the biggest. But I think it's safe to say that he won't bother me anytime soon.”

  Her eyes meet mine over the roof of the car. “Yeah, but weasels like him always sleaze back around.”

  “I'll worry about that if and when it comes up.”

  We pile in, and Kiki turns on the car. It starts up like a tin can, the whole thing kind of rattling.

  “So—prenatal?” Kiki asks.

  I nod. “Next week.”

  “How far along are ya?”

  I smile, shaking my head, and look at my hands. “Not even far enough to do the barf-o-matic.”

  “That paints a picture.” Kiki gives me an assessing glance. “Does this mean you're gonna puke inside my new set of wheels? She twists to face me, putting her back against the door.

  Because”—she puts her hand to her chest, bright red nail tips flame against her white sweater—“I love you, but I draw the line at the bodily fluid share.”

  I laugh. “I think we're safe for today.” I don't know when I'm going to start acting pregnant. Actually, I don't know where my headaches and dizziness have gone.

  Of course, Doctor Matthews said I’d have peaks and valleys of symptoms. He even touched on the euphoria that I might experience and believe everything is normal.

  “Okay, just sayin'. I'm prepared to go to the ground for our friendship, but cleaning vomit from the innards of my seat buckles holds limited appeal.”

  I snort. “Right. Like we've never had gross stuff to maneuver.”

  We glance at each other, thinking of the laps and their... leavings.

  “Gross!” we say simultaneously and crack up.

  We drive in companionable silence until Kiki breaks it, “I notice you didn't tell your mom you're knocked up.”

  Silence.

  “No... I—it's not something I can rush. I mean…” I swivel to look at her then face the street again.

  Kiki slams to a stop at a red light, engaging the door lock. A swaggering drunk makes it safely to the other side of the crosswalk.

  We sigh with relief.

  “God, that was close,” I say.

  Our eyes follow the man lurching in between pedestrian traffic.

  A horn beeps, and Kiki throws up her middle finger in an automatic salute to the car behind her.

  Blue and red lights strobe on, pulsing through her back widow in a splash of vibrant color.

  “Oh, fuck me running....” Kiki says.

  I see the cop car pulling us over. She swings the wheel to the right and slides into a handicap parking space. It's the only spot open.

  Just what we need. Almost home.

  Almost free. I can taste a hot bath. I've had enough text messages from Mick while he's been away to know that he's going to please me until I weep.

  But no pleasure now. Most
likely a ticket.

  My gaze sweeps to striding legs through the windows of the car.

  Kiki’s window slides down, and Tagger fills the hole.

  Holy fucking crows.

  I cringe before I can stop myself.

  I might have made some gross errors in judgment, but my sixth sense works just fine. It's way past an alarm—more like a shrieking crescendo.

  Kiki doesn't interpret my silence for the staggering fear it is.

  Tagger almost killed Thorn.

  He's on investigative leave. I do calculations in my head. It hasn’t been long enough.

  “Well hello, Miss Mitchell.”

  Kiki frowns. Her eyes move to my face then his. I know when she sees his name tag. Her face bleeds to hardness.

  His hands fall on the car door. “Weren't you following the traffic a little too closely?”

  “Aren't you going to ask me for my license and registration, Tagger?”

  They have a stare off, and I realize, not for the first time, that Kiki's sometimes-crude snark hides her fierce intelligence. She doesn't trust easily, and she’s already put together that Tagger popping up like a psychotic Jack-in-the-Box isn't good.

  Tagger's lips flatten, his knuckles bleeding to white.

  “You can't, can ya?” Kiki adds. “Faren's running around free because you blew it, and you think you can put her on notice by stalking her.”

  “What do you think you know, you cheap slut?” Tagger snarls.

  Kiki smiles, pushing every ounce of charm she has into those big brown peepers.

  “I know that if you lay a finger on either one of us before your bullshit ‘internal investigation’ is complete, they'll throw away the key and toss your corrupt ass in prison.”

  “You don't know dick.” A cloud of uncertainty skims across his eyes.

  “Oh yeah? Pre-law, douche.” Her eyes rake him in supreme dismissal. “Might know a few things about your situation.”

  “Kiki...”

  Tagger's eyes snap to mine.

  “Tag!” a voice calls from behind him. He straightens, giving a wave that looks like a salute.

  “Just a sec!” he bellows back.

  Kiki looks behind her and squints at the other cop in the squad car. Her face is a jacquard of blue and red. “Be interesting to know how they let you out to run around and make a pest of yourself. I'm sure someone at your precinct would be stoked to know you’re harassing the very woman this is all about.”

  Tagger looks at Kiki, his struggle for control reigning supreme. “Don't get involved, Miss King.”

  Kiki leans forward so her breasts brush his knuckles. His eyes flick down at her assets, and he doesn't move away.

  Neither does she. Kiki's not above working it.

  “I have two words for you, Officer.”

  Tagger licks his lips as I clench the strap of my purse.

  “The first one begins with F.” She bats her eyelashes. “And the second begins with a U.”

  Tagger jerks his hands off her car door as though he’s burned. His eyes lift, and I see hate burning in them.

  His fists clench as he locks on Kiki like a missile, but she's already pulling away.

  She doesn't say anything until we're almost to the Millennium. “I hope you realize I misspelled on purpose.”

  “What?” I ask, still numb from the Tagger encounter.

  “I think he's too much of a slack-jaw to get it.”

  Oh, I think he got it.

  Those are two words that most everyone gets.

  We slide into the underground parking garage, and Kiki turns off the Fiat.

  The engine ticks in the silence as it cools.

  “This intrigue shit is killing me.”

  I roll my head toward her. “I think it's me it's killing.”

  A moment later, I realize what I said.

  Neither one of us corrects me.

  We both know it won't be the two men who do me in.

  ~ 6 ~

  My arch fits perfectly against the rolled porcelain rim. As the razor glides up my leg, an errant bubble falls on the marble tile outside the tub. My hair is wrapped in a turban as I soak.

  I'd kill for a deep, fruity, sweet glass of red wine.

  My palm moves to cover my belly.

  A small smile lifts my lips, and I let my head rest against the back of the tub. I wipe my wet hand on the hand towel beside a row of fragrant candles lined up like vanilla soldiers.

  I stare at the text of Mick's penis thrust through the slim hole he's made of his slacks, and I feel my smile grow. It's a flesh handle I want to suck and play with.

  Turnabout is fair play.

  I lift my hips out of the water, take a picture of myself, and press send.

  Mick: Bubbles are in the way, baby.

  Me: So greedy.

  I use my wet hand to push them away and send the pic of my hot pink goodness to him along with a pouting emoticon.

  Mick: Hang tight.

  I feel a frown form as I stare at the screen.

  A noise startles me, and then Mick is in the doorway to the bathroom. I squeal, my phone skittering amongst the candles. I jump up in the tub, suds and water sliding off me.

  “Hey, baby mama.”

  His voice purrs across my wet skin, and I shiver. He's says it as if I'm the sexiest thing that's ever lived.

  His eyes eat me up, carnivorous—leaving no part of me unexplored.

  Mick takes off his suit jacket, tossing it on the yards of marble vanity that are now cluttered with the mess of my femininity.

  He stalks to the tub like a panther and takes me in his arms.

  “Hey!” I gasp as his lips cover mine.

  I soak his button-down shirt instantly.

  I pull away. “I'm making you wet!”

  “No.” He dips his head and pecks my lips. “That's my job.”

  Moisture that has nothing to do with the bath floods my sex, and I crave what he offers.

  “Yes.”

  “Wrap me, Faren.”

  I follow his erotic orders without pause.

  He grabs my wet ass cheeks, as I twist my legs around his waist, ruining his perfect suit.

  Mick twirls us around and walks past the bedroom into the living room.

  The couch—where he first licked me into oblivion—grows closer. He places my wet body on a blanket.

  “Spread them.” Mick's already dark eyes appear obsidian with only the city lights to illuminate our encounter.

  I part my knees, and his gaze falls to my center, a mirror of the text.

  Mick wrecks another shirt, the damp material sucking off him in a wet, tearing pull, and he throws it on the polished floor. His belt snaps out of loops too tight for the motion, and the waist band gives. His wet slacks fall even as he steps out of them.

  “Show me,” I say in challenge. That picture of his stiff penis fills my mind.

  He smirks, popping his sizeable package out of the boxer briefs that are tight enough for speculation and loose enough for mystery.

  I grab the length of him and sit up, flicking my tongue over the slit at the end of his dick. His ass clenches, and his hips move forward. I take him deeply inside my mouth, my smile allowing a swivel of his hips.

  “Faren.” He grips my hair and gently pushes my face down.

  I relax my throat, letting his tip dive deep. He groans, fighting his instinct to hold me there. My lips are pressed to the base of him, and he lets the pressure go.

  I look into his eyes, sink into them.

  “Again,” he says.

  I glide back down, and he holds me. I repeat it over and over.

  “Stop, Faren. I'll go if you keep that up.”

  “Maybe I don't want to stop,” I say wickedly.

  His eyes smolder. “I want to return the favor.”

  My hands slide away from him, trailing down thighs powerful from workouts he does as partial atonement for sins only he sees.

  Redemption is ours together. His for m
e, and mine for his. We're each other's catharsis.

  I lay back, and his fingertips press against my knees. Pinpoints of heat dot my skin as he pulls my legs back. His head lowers as his hands glide up my shins. His mouth hovers just above my most sensitive part, and I shiver as his breath heats me.

  “Please,” I beg.

  Suddenly his mouth covers me in perfect suction, and I gasp, my hips flexing. But his hands are there, pressing my heels against my ass.

  He laps at me, releasing pressure and sinking inside me, the tip of his tongue strong in my entrance.

  When the flat of his tongue rasps against my clit, I moan, my arms flinging back across the armrest. Cool leather heats beneath my flesh as I writhe under his mouth.

  My hips meet him as Mick flattens his tongue against my clit.

  His finger replaces his tongue as it sweeps to the little nerve center that thrums with my building orgasm.

  “I like that,” I say when he inserts a second finger, curling his fingertips inside me high and deep, just a flick and I brim with fire. The taut line of climbing, the downward slope of my orgasm rides to meet me.

  “Like?” he murmurs.

  His hand exits my wetness, the other leaving my clit and my eyes snap open.

  “You better fuck me now,” I rasp, my mouth parched from my panting.

  He gives no warning before he lifts my hips and sinks to the end of me.

  Mick fills me so deeply and unexpectedly, I stop breathing, thinking.

  Everything is that moment, where nothing matters but the joining of our bodies.

  I blow a strand of hair out of my mouth as he throws back his head, his hips locked with mine. Mick's head lowers, and he looks at me.

  He pulls out and thrusts back in. I moan, biting my lower lip, and he tweaks my nipple. My ass is on his knees, but still he pulls me against him.

  Mick picks up speed. His large hands cover the globes of my ass as he smoothly pulls me against him then pushes me away. Our rough breathing is the only music in the condo, the clock's ticking drowned by our noise.

  He brings me to the brink of ecstasy and strains to hold back his release. I stop, and he pauses as well.

  “What—”