The Token (#10): Shepard

by Marata Eros

  Her cell phone, which I've thoroughly hacked, she picks up last.

  I have all her information. I downloaded her birth and driving records. I know where Marissa Augustine lives—works.

  I've not studied the information yet to find the pattern of what makes her a mark. A cherry on American soil.

  I will find out.

  It is too much a coincidence that la famille has marked someone in America, of all places, and that mark happens to live in the same city as myself. Oui.

  “Where am I?”

  “Kent.”

  Marissa folds her arms beneath her ample breasts. “Duh. Where inside of Kent am I?”

  I evade the question. “I will blindfold you and take you to your home.”

  “No.”

  My brows sweep together. I remember hitting cherries for speaking unless permission was given. Instead, my voice comes out like a low purr. “Do you wish to leave?”

  She frowns. “Of course.”

  Marissa speaks as though I am a coarse fool.

  “You're most ungrateful. I have saved your life.”

  “And murdered someone—”

  “—who deserved not to live.”

  Marissa's frown becomes a scowl.

  A difficult point to refute.

  “Fine. I can't argue that.”

  Précisément. “I will explain as I take you to your home.”

  She retreats a step.

  My lips curl at her unconscious withdrawal. Somewhere, in the depths of Marissa, the primal part of self-preservation is finally taking notice of me. Good, that is good.

  “How do you know where I live?” Her voice is soft.

  I lift my shoulder while maintaining my intense eye contact. I've found direct staring to be more effective than any spoken words. “I know everything about you.”

  “I don't trust you.”

  Smart girl. “That is wise. However, I have no reason to bring you to harm.”

  “Okay,” she says with obvious suspicion.

  We leave the way we came.

  *

  “Hugo takes girls to make them mules for la famille,” I explain needlessly. Though for reasons unknown, I feel an almost irresistible compulsion to connect with this woman.

  I turn to look at Marissa, and she seems to sense my movement and her head swivels to face me, though the blindfold hides her expressive eyes.

  “What's a mule?”

  She cannot see the tension that sings through my body. Perhaps she feels the pause before my words. “It is a woman who runs drugs by inserting the product inside her vagina.”

  I sense the disgust coming off her in waves.

  “I would never put anything in me for anyone.”

  My lips curl. “If they threatened your family, perhaps?”

  “I don't have a family,” she admits in a low voice.

  Ah. We are finally getting somewhere.

  She tilts her head. “Is it because I can speak French?”

  “That must be part of it. However, all mules will transport, kill, and sex the clients. They must also know the etiquette and languages of the men they will serve in any of those capacities.”

  “I—I'm not the right girl for that.”

  I chuckle. She appears to be exactly the right girl. La famille does not choose randomly.

  “This isn't funny. You killed this guy who was sent to kidnap me. And you're telling me they were going to groom me to be this multilingual badass assassin chick who carries drugs and screws whoever? Here? In America. Pfft.” Her fingers spread against her chest, and my eyes linger on the pulse that thrums in the hollow of her throat.

  A place I always wanted to kiss on a woman and could never allow myself to. Too tender.

  I force my glance away at a street sign, see the one that marks her street, and use it. I find a stall and turn the engine off.

  The ticking of the motor cooling is like clinking ice inside shared cocktails.

  I do not wish to alarm her but to warn. It is a fine line. “I am troubled about the American component.”

  Her hand falls on the door handle. “What do you mean?”

  “When I was part of la famille, we took girls who would not be missed, in countries that were blind to such practices.”

  Marissa lifts the edge of the blindfold, sees that we are inside her parking area, and tosses the dark cloth at me. Golden curls with the barest kink cascade around her shoulders and down her back.

  I have never fucked a blond, I muse indifferently. Or an American. I find I very much want to. The novelty appeals.

  I catch the blindfold easily, the corners of my lips twitching with my thoughts.

  “Nice reflexes.”

  I shrug. Sometimes my speed has been all that saved me from death.

  “You say you took girls.”

  I nod, my chest tight, as my erotic thoughts instantly fade. So many girls.

  “So you're as bad as them?” Marissa manages to ask through her shock.

  I hesitate for a few seconds. “Yes.”

  “That's why you told me I was wise not to trust you.”

  I nod.

  I want what I cannot have.

  “You kidnapped girls and used them?” Her expression is sickened, and I deserve every bit of what I see in her face.

  “I did. But I was called a trainer—or some would call me a Handler. I taught the girls how to behave with clients—delegates. How to eat, handle themselves. Fuck.” My tongue clucks on the last word like a hollow drop hitting a full bucket of water.

  Marissa flinches. “What else?” She finally whispers the question.

  “Languages. Four different tongues needed to be mastered.”

  She shivers in revulsion.

  “There must be a demand for cherries from this country,” I say, mostly to myself.

  “Cherries? You mean—are you referring to hymens?” Marissa asks, outrage flooding her voice.

  “Oui. You are a cherry, Marissa.”

  She does not confirm my statement. “Pluck,” she says slowly. “That's why that jackass said it was his ʻpluck.ʼ”

  I don't answer.

  Her hand lifts the door handle. “Are you still—with them?” she asks softly, her voice strained.

  I shake my head. “I am free.”

  Was free.

  “Doesn't really sound like you are. That name you have—Shepard? Does that mean you watch the flock of girls or something?”

  “It did. But I always understood that was not really representative of who I was.” The next part hurts to say, and I am surprised I can feel any kind of pain. “I did not protect the lambs.” My voice hovers above a whisper.

  “Oh.” Her eyes latch on to mine in the gloom of the car.

  Marissa slides out of the seat and bends inside the open door. The dome light stabs the soothing darkness away.

  A look takes root in her eyes, a look that I put there with the truth.

  That is also good. She does not need to ever see me again, unless la famille return.

  I point at her phone. “Phone me if you see them again.”

  Marissa puts her cell against her breast, and my breath stalls. Her gesture is vulnerability wrapped in steel, and the small act moves the mountain of my numbness.

  “I don't think so. You've told me you're a wolf in sheep's clothing, Shepard. You're no shepherd. You don't protect anyone.”

  That is mostly true. I could not even protect myself when I most needed to. “I protected you.”

  We stare at each other, me leaning over the center console and Marissa's grip bleeding to white from the strain of holding the car door.

  She breaks the eye contact, quietly shutting the door with a dull click, and I watch her walk into her apartment.

  I stay in the stall for ten minutes after she is gone.

  After starting up the car, I coolly drive away. But the emotion is not complete.

  Marissa has begun to thaw me.

  And la famille has found us bo
th.

  SIX

  Marissa

  I slide the worn drape away from my window.

  Shepard's car remains in the stall we parked in. His face is hidden by shadows, but I know he's staring up at the very window I'm looking out of.

  I tremble. I should be afraid of him. God knows, I watched Shepard kill one man with a silenced pistol and beat the snot out of another.

  But somehow, I don't feel as though he wants to hurt me.

  He seems really crazy, though. All this talk of the family this and the family that. And if everything he's said is true, then where does that leave him?

  If what Shepard says is real, he is worse than the man he murdered. Shepard helped take young girls—fuck them, by his own admission. Sculpted them into these little robots that screw, kill, and transport drugs, all while behaving in a way that blends in. Speaking the language of the people to be duped—or soothed.

  And how does he know I'm a virgin? I never play victim or helpless, innocent girl.

  How would anyone know it? I've guarded my secrets—and myself— very well. When my parents were killed, I was at a stupid age—thirteen. Just about the time a girl has her first menstrual cycle and technically becomes a woman.

  I gaze out the smudged glass again, and his car is gone. It was an expensive model. Audi. But it's not flashy, just elegant and expensive. Like Shepard.

  I don't have a car. Can't afford one. That's why I take the train.

  Took. I'm not sure if taking the train to and from work is the best choice anymore. Maybe I shouldn't even be in this apartment anymore. My apartment no longer seems like an anonymous oasis.

  After releasing the drape, I go to my backpack and take out everything but my ID and phone. I remove my water bottle, then immediately refill it at the tap and stuff ice inside.

  I know what to do next, but it's two in the morning, and my eyes are grainy with fatigue and lack of sleep. My adrenaline stores are spent.

  All of what's happened occurred in less than five hours.

  I open the fridge and break off a piece of apple muffin and stuff it into my mouth. I'm suddenly ravenous.

  Filthy.

  I look down at my clothes. My yoga pants are full of dirt from lying on cement.

  After I set the second piece of muffin down, I move down my narrow apartment hallway toward the bathroom.

  As I pass my door, I secure the chain. If they could find me on the train, they can find me here. Once in the bathroom, I stare back at my reflection. A red mark stands at the side of my neck as proof of Shepard's abuse.

  I can't trust him. He's obviously capable of extreme violence. So why did I hesitate when he offered to keep me safe?

  Because I'm stupid, that's why.

  I turn away from my image in the mirror. My face damns me. It centers me.

  I walk to the shower, turn on the hot water spigot, and put my hand under the rushing water. I pop the metal stem on top of the tub spout, and the showerhead turns on. Water sprays above me like warm rain.

  After stepping inside, I wash my body, my breasts, and between my thighs, which throb with only the memory of Shepard's hands holding me from Hugo.

  Dangerous hands. Merciless.

  Lust seizes me from those dark eyes that roamed my body as if I was special. As if I was worth saving—noticing. Marissa Augustine is not needy. Need is a luxury emotion, one I can't afford to have. I've never been able to.

  I will go to the police. Even if Shepard saved me. Even if Hugo deserved to die.

  Even though I have no proof.

  I give a vicious twist of the faucet, and the hot water pours out of the tub spout. I shut it off.

  Water drips, sounding like tears on porcelain.

  I step out of the shower, brace myself against the wall, and rip off first a towel for my hair and then one for my body.

  I wrap myself in terry cloth and pad softly through my dinky apartment.

  I pass by my tired but functional kitchen, moving back through the long narrow hallway to my bedroom in the very back of my space, and go directly to my high and narrow chest of drawers.

  Selecting new panties, bra, yoga pants, and a tie-dyed T-shirt later, I toss everything on. My eyes move to the Converse tennis shoes lining the floor of my open closet, and I choose the scalding red ones.

  I glance at my cell and see it's nearly three a.m. I rub my eyes and look at the time again. The witching hour.

  No time like the present.

  I sigh, sliding my backpack on. As I move through the quiet apartment to my front door, the water drips.

  The vintage clock ticks, its Felix the Cat tail swinging endlessly back and forth. It's the only thing I was able to save from the orphanage. Seeing that black-and-white cat clock every day in my place is sad. It's also wonderful.

  A thought occurs to me.

  Shepard said to call him if I saw someone again. Someone from the family. The French mob.

  Like what? They have a sign on them: “French Mob coming to get you”? Right.

  I take my cell out of the front pocket of my pack, move my thumb, and press Contacts. Hit S.

  Shepard is not the first contact under S, but neither is he the last. The letters of his name softly glow at me. Mock me.

  I shiver. He commandeered my phone—and who knows how many other details of my life? Though I keep my personal life to a minimum of distractions and relationships. It's safer that way. There is not much to know.

  Shepard can't be his real name. What is? Why is he so cruel—why did he save me?

  What kind of man hurts young women like that? What kind would rescue one from the people he used to be a part of?

  Walking over to the door, I sling my loaded pack over my shoulder and grasp the handle. My hand warms the doorknob.

  I remove my fingers. Indecision shakes me to my core. I should go to the police and let them figure out all this crap. There's probably someone there that would listen.

  But I don't want to get in trouble, be suspected, get waylaid, and lose time from my job—my studies.

  Lives are at stake. I bite my lip. My life is at stake.

  The hell with it. A second later, I put my hand back on the knob and twist it open. The chain I forgot to unlatch jerks taut.

  An eyeball stares back at me from the inches of space I created. Shepard.

  I gasp, instinctively trying to shut the door.

  An Italian shoe inserts itself in the space.

  My eyes rise to meet his.

  “Would you have phoned me?”

  His question robs me of breath, but I manage to answer truthfully because I'm so flustered by him reappearing. “I don't know.”

  The chain bisects his throat, dividing us.

  He smiles at my answer, and it's a real smile, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners. It's sexy and scary, making my female bits tingle.

  “They have found me.”

  Oh God. “Who?” I whisper, but I know.

  A flutter appears at his jaw. “La famille.”

  “How?”

  The natural smile that was there a moment ago narrows, becoming something else.

  Something less beautiful. Feral.

  I realize the man he was, steals the man he wants to be. I hate watching it happen, and I've known him only hours.

  “Where were you going?” His eyes shift to my pack, my bright red shoes tied and ready—my hand on the knob.

  I laugh self-consciously. “The police.”

  “Non,” he replies instantly.

  I frown. “Why the hell not?”

  “Because they have most likely been bought. It is akin to hanging a sign around your neck that says Here I am.”

  “But it's the French mob—not an American outfit.”

  His full lips thin. “That naïveté is what makes you weak.”

  I'm not naive. He has no idea what I've done in my life. I sure as hell am not weak. I cross my arms, the locked door still between us. Shepard is not coming in here. “Y
ou've admitted to me that you were this ʻhandlerʼ guy. Why should I trust you?”

  “I am no longer he.” His deep chocolate eyes bore into mine. I can't look away. Don't want to.

  Oh my God. Those eyes. They're soulless. They're deep. They don't shift and even bother to maintain the pretense of courtesy.

  I swallow back my unfamiliar surge of lust.

  His hand moves through the gap in the door and cups my chin, his thumb rubbing along the side of my jaw. “Ma chérie. Let me help you.”

  My eyes shut against the unexpected tenderness. No one has ever saved me before. I inhale deeply then ask, “Does helping me entail coming back to your place and being a sex slave?”

  I slowly open my eyes, languid in his hand. Putty.

  He laughs softly, deep throated and sexy. The sound causes a flood of warmth through my body. Ending between my thighs.

  Great.

  Real virginal, Marissa.

  “Unfortunately, there is no place. La famille has ransacked my space quite thoroughly. I have only the things of importance in my safety deposit box here in America, and what I wear on my back.” He lightly touches the tops of his broad shoulders. “And a single holding they could never know about.”

  “Oh my God—they went to your place?” I breathe through the adrenaline that surges through me. My eyes search his face for deception, but his expression is bland.

  “My flat, yes. In our absence—when I took you home—I returned to the spoils of their efforts.” He shrugs. “They did not seem to care about my suits or ties.”

  My heart races as our eyes meet.

  “Are they coming here, Shepard?”

  Or whatever your name is.

  “Almost certainly.”

  “Oh shit—why didn't you tell me?”

  “That is the exact point I have been circling this entire time. I want to gain your trust. When what I should have done was take you with me by force.”

  By force. Those words echo in my brain.

  Run, Marissa. Do it now.

  I can't leave. I have a job—though my days off are now. I have my French studies. My gaze bounces to Shepard, darkly handsome and inches from me.

  His hand warms my face.

  He's dangerous. An unknown. But the known is the crazy French mob deciding to make me some kind of whore drug runner.