The Token 4 (New Adult Dark Romance)

by Marata Eros

  We look at each other.

  Silence beats at us.

  “Did you fuck him?” he asks.

  Like a slap, my face is on fire.

  I remember with perfect clarity what it felt like to have Mick's body invade every part of mine.

  I could never be with anyone else.

  “No.”

  My head dips.

  “No,” I repeat in a whisper.

  “Faren.”

  I lift my head. “Don't fuck with me.”

  “What? I'm not.” What is he talking about?

  “I think Mick's gone on you,” Thorn says. “I don't want you doing the stiletto tap dance on his soft little underbelly.”

  I stare at him.

  “I don't want anyone else.”

  Thorn exhales in relief and stands.

  “I'm glad we had this little chat.”

  I'm still reeling from Thorn's revelations and his normal bald delivery.

  I don't tell him about Jay's insinuation that I’ll see him again or he'll make trouble for Mick with the cops.

  More press.

  Tagger's full attention.

  Ronnie seeing more and knowing more than I want.

  “So this is your two weeks’ notice?” he asks, slinging an arm around my shoulders.

  I’m horrified. I’m done with laps!

  Thorn sees my expression and chuckles.

  “Just messin' with ya.”

  I smack him.

  “Not funny.”

  He grabs my wrist, pinning it behind me.

  My heart gallops.

  He could easily hurt me.

  “No hitting.” His breath is warm on my face.

  “Okay,” I whisper. “I didn't mean anything by it.”

  He slowly drops my hand, and I fight not to rub where he held me.

  “Nobody hits Thorn.”

  Mick did.

  “Do you hit them?”

  My question stuns us both.

  He gives me a considering look.

  “Sometimes.”

  I back away, and he grins, flashing white teeth.

  Somehow, it reminds me of a shark.

  “Everyone has a dark side,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I answer, my hand on the knob.

  “You've got nothin' to worry about.”

  That captures my interest. “Why?”

  “'Cause you're Mick's bitch.”

  I scowl.

  “Do you have to be so crude?”

  He shakes his head. “I don't see it that way.”

  Don't ask.

  “So how do you see it?” I'm so dumb.

  “If I give enough of a shit to say a woman's mine, nothing in this planet is gettin' in the way. She's my property.”

  God, and I thought I could thaw toward Thorn… “So the poles come naturally—running them.”

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  He studies my face.

  “I know what you think. I'm such a bastard.”

  He robs me of speech.

  “But you ask that sweet piece-of-ass Kiki what she thinks of Thorn's follow-through skills.”

  “You are aware of how creepy it is that you talk about yourself in the third person,” I say.

  He shrugs.

  “Now blow outta here before I change my mind about you being Mick's. 'Cause I gotta say, you put the 'P' in the male protection quota.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” My good hand tightens on the door.

  Thorn palms his chin, the rasp of his stubble a rough caress of noise.

  “It means”—his eyes arrest my movement, so raw and sincere I can barely maintain eye contact—“that you're the kind of woman who makes every man want to take care of you.”

  I stare.

  A long moment passes.

  He breaks the silence by flinging his hand at the door.

  “Now get outta here.”

  He turns his back on me.

  I look at a broken man who is all right with not being fixed.

  I'm almost envious.

  *

  I put on lipstick that Mick will kiss off the instant he sees me.

  Rolling my lips together, I make kissing faces at the mirror. I can't wipe the happiness off my face.

  Perfect.

  I have such pale skin that the rich apricot looks amazing. It’s Kiki’s lip gloss, and it looks great on me for the same reason it looks great on her—contrast. I'll have to thank her for the lend.

  I brush on one more stroke, framing my cupid's bow, and pucker at my reflection.

  The doorbell chimes, and I stroll over to the door, sweeping it open with a smile.

  “What... no trench coat?” he asks.

  I stagger back from surprise, falling to the ground and twisting as Ronnie tackles me.

  My heart lurches in my chest, adrenaline surging to my extremities in a sickening tingle of pins and needles. My elbows take the brunt of my fall.

  Ronnie grips my shoulder and flips me over. My head smacks the wood floor, and pain slices through the back of my skull.

  “Help!” I shriek.

  He slaps me so hard my ears ring, cutting me off mid-scream.

  His face fills my vision. Beady eyes, slight double chin. So ordinary.

  So lethal.

  “You little cunt, did you think I'd let you get away?”

  No, sadly, I didn't.

  My hand bats behind me, slapping air... then a cord. Ronnie's eyes follow my left hand as I jerk on whatever's attached to the cord.

  My lamp sails forward and bashes the fucker in the mouth. My bad hand snaps the cord, checking it at the last critical moment, and the second strike is a bouncing smash against his nose.

  Porcelain shatters, the shards scattering like jagged bullets.

  “Argh!” he wails, blood spraying from the mess I've made of his face.

  I glance at my hand, behaving perfectly when I need it to.

  Amazing.

  I scramble backward, and Ronnie falls on me.

  I grunt as the breath leaves my body. I manage to knee him in the gut and crawl away.

  I'm ten feet from him when I take in what he's wearing.

  Gloves.

  Mask.

  Holy shit.

  He's the one who helped kill Rose. It makes a terrible sense. I don't dwell on the revelation. I take off running for the open door and smack into Thorn.

  I bounce off him, and he snags me.

  His eyes move behind my shoulder.

  “Move, Faren.”

  He sets me gently aside.

  Mick follows him and I retreat a step, Ronnie's blood is a stripe across my dress. My beautiful lipstick is indeed smeared.

  No longer amazing.

  “Now this is the kind of hand job I love,” Thorn states.

  Mick's eyes move over me, assessing injury. When he sees I’m unharmed, his gaze moves to Ronnie.

  Ronnie doesn't stand a chance. It's two against one, the kind of odds Rose never had.

  My mom.

  Me.

  I watch them beat Ronnie Bunce into an unrecognizable pulp on my living room floor.

  I silently shut the front door.

  ~ 10 ~

  “Stop!” I yell.

  Two pairs of primitive eyes meet mine. Maybe that’s how males have always looked when they defend.

  Thorn's a hot mess of blood and torn knuckles. Mick's tie is askew. Blood spatter like macabre pinpoint polka dots cover his creamy button-down.

  His cufflinks twinkle in the moonlight.

  I tear my eyes away from the surreal vision of the two gore-covered men.

  “C-check his pulse,” I stammer.

  I want him dead so bad I can taste it, but I know that Tagger will come and at the very least, Thorn will get sent back to prison—or Mick.

  I won't be responsible for that too.

  I don't want the melody of my life to end on that discordant note.

  “Fucker,” Thorn says. His spit latches
on to the front of Ronnie's torn clothing in a gleaming dollop of phlegm.

  I shudder.

  Mick tears off the ski mask, and Ronnie's head bangs against the wood floor.

  I flinch.

  He places his index and middle fingers on Ronnie’s pulse point.

  Three of my heartbeats pass. God knows how many of his—if any.

  Mick's eyes meet mine. “He's alive.”

  “Don't kill him,” I say.

  Thorn's expression nails me. “This fucktard is the one who did that.” He points at my trembling hand with the mangle of scar tissue in the center. “He's the lap, remember?”

  Mick looks between Thorn and me. “What is going on?”

  “We need to discuss this later,” I say.

  Sirens wail.

  Thorn and Mick look at each other.

  “Fuck me running.”

  Mick's face darkens, knowing there're more revelations to come.

  Damn.

  I look to Thorn.

  “Why—how did you know?”

  Mick exhales, putting his hands on his hips. “I have you under surveillance.”

  My mouth drops open. Is he kidding? “You're snooping on me?”

  “No, Faren. This is the man we suspect wrecked your apartment. I'm seeing you. Why wouldn't I use the means at my disposal to secure your safety? And now Thorn says he's responsible for permanent damage to you?” His brown eyes don't let go of me.

  It sounds so reasonable.

  And true.

  “So you and Thorn show up and beat this shitbag because you don't have the resources to take care of him any other way?” I ask.

  Mick takes me into his arms and cups my chin.

  I feel so fragile in his arms. So safe.

  “There are some things I don't wish to delegate,” he says. “Don't emasculate me by robbing me of that option. I'm rich, but I'm still a man.”

  “You go, Mick,” Thorn says blandly.

  Mick gives him the finger.

  We hear stomping on my stairwell. The damn elevator's not working.

  I look at Ronnie lying on the floor.

  I tremble in Mick's arms. “They're going to arrest you.” My eyes move to Thorn. “Or Thorn.”

  “It was worth it,” Mick says.

  I shake my head. So not worth it.

  “Police!” yells a voice I recognize.

  “Well isn't this special.”

  We turn and face Tagger.

  His weapon never drops. Two cops move into the room, flanking him. Their eyes go from Thorn to Mick to me—then to Ronnie Bunce.

  “Who's the perp?” asks one of the cops.

  It bears asking since there are three bloodied males.

  “Alleged,” Tagger corrects.

  “Oh fucking please,” Thorn spouts. “Look at this wardrobe, guys—classic black with a chaser of ski mask. Seems legit.”

  “You, shut up.” Tagger lines the barrel of his gun up with Thorn's chest.

  “Hands up!”

  The other cops give each other uneasy looks.

  “Listen,” I say, “I know this guy. He's my stepfather—missing for four years now. The police will be happy to have him, believe me.”

  “He broke in here and beat on me.” My voice stays level.

  Tagger never looks at me.

  “Tagger,” one of the other cops, Largent, says. “Let's cuff the suspect and call the medics.”

  “We're doing this my way. I've had trouble with Mr. Simon here.” Tagger smirks.

  Thorn's face goes rigid.

  “I paid my dues for something I didn't have anything to do with. So you can get off my dick.”

  Tagger steps forward and pistol whips Thorn across the face.

  Blood flies, and Thorn stumbles backward into Mick.

  It's so unexpected we all stand there in shock.

  Mick’s lips curl back in a baring of teeth that is so incongruous with his typical elegance. He steps into Tagger and swings, but the gun gets in the way.

  It flies, the safety apparently off as a bullet embeds itself in my wall.

  I scream and hit the floor as things slide down a horrible slippery slope I couldn't ever imagine.

  Ronnie comes awake, groaning and looking pathetic for about two seconds.

  His eyes roam the room, taking in Thorn’s lacerated face while Tagger and Mick struggle and the other cops charge in to break them up.

  Ronnie's gaze falls on me. We're a body length away from each other.

  The gun lies between us.

  We jump for it at the same time.

  And that's when my hand decides to not cooperate. My fingers circle the grip of the fallen pistol, and Ronnie tears it out of my twitching grasp.

  He turns it on me and grabs my ankle, jerking me in a hard pull beside him.

  The scuffle stops.

  “I'll litter the floor with her brains,” he says with quiet resolve.

  The circle of metal against my temple feels like an icy brand.

  Death has found me too early.

  The sudden silence is deafening.

  All eyes go to me, a gun barrel against my head and Ronnie caressing a stocking encased ankle.

  “Who's the perp now, dumbfuck?” Thorn asks, spitting bloody saliva on my wood floor.

  Tagger looks as if he swallowed a dead mouse.

  I feel as if I'm going to.

  “Let's go, bitch. We've got some closure we need to work out.”

  “Faren...” Mick says.

  Ronnie presses the muzzle deeper into my skin, and I can't stop the hiccuping sob that erupts.

  “Stand up, slut,” Ronnie says.

  He jerks me up by my armpit.

  Mick’s and Thorn's hands are clenched in fists they can't use.

  I bet they're both wishing I'd let them kill Ronnie.

  I know I am.

  Tagger steps forward. “Listen, Bunce, this isn't going to work.”

  I can't keep the shock off my face.

  “What. The. Fuck,” Thorn asks.

  Largent and Duffin, the other cop, looked just as shocked as the rest of us.

  Everyone is looking at Tagger.

  With suspicion.

  Except Mick. He watches the beaten but emboldened Ronnie who is slowly backing out the door with me.

  “Stop,” Tagger says.

  “Nah, my days of informing for you are over. You've got your scapegoat, and you don't need me. Let me take care of my long overdue business with her.”

  I feel his hand like a band of steel on the back of my neck, slick with blood as he shakes me.

  Mick's eyes tail me, and he gives a small swivel of his head.

  Don't fight him.

  “You can't put the drop on me without hurting the girl,” Ronnie says. “Blame it on Tyson. That's what you want.”

  Thorn laughs, taking a shaky hand away from his split lip.

  “Figures.”

  Mick steps forward. “This man's a criminal. He broke into my girlfriend's apartment.”

  “A second offense,” Thorn interjects.

  Mick nods. “We came to her defense, and you”—Mick points at Tagger—“allowed her into harm's way.”

  “Tyson's going down for this,” Tagger says in a low voice, tearing out a small pistol from an ankle holster and raising it to Thorn's chest again.

  Mick’s outrage is comical, or it would be if Ronnie wasn't hauling me out the door.

  Largent turns his pistol on Tagger.

  His stays on Thorn.

  “Tagger,” Largent says, “you have the wrong perp.”

  Duffin's pistol is trained on Ronnie, and me by association.

  “No, he's always been the right one,” Tagger answers in a dreamy voice.

  Thorn puts up his hands, Mick is watching Ronnie slide me completely out the door.

  I hear the hammer click.

  A gun goes off, and I see the flash before my eyes clench. The vision of Thorn's beautiful muscular rawness, dying in a
pool of blood, fills my mind.

  I open my eyes and see Tagger on the floor, bleeding.

  Duffin's gun sinks to his side, a look of dumbfounded realization on his face.

  I don't see much more because Ronnie drags me down the hall.

  A second flash momentarily blinds as the crack of gunfire deafens me in the shallow corridor stairwell as he disables the door with a bullet.

  We make our way down the stairs. My pretty high heels echo through the fog of my hearing.

  How Ronnie is still alive and walking after what Thorn and Mick did to him numbs me.

  He tears me out of my apartment building, and the last thing I see before he stuffs me into his car is the Out of Order sign on the shitty freight elevator.

  They can't get to me in time. Fate's asserted itself neatly into the space reserved for my untimely death.

  It doesn't seem fair. My chest is tight with destiny's inevitability.

  Ronnie has nine lives, and I don't have even one to spare.

  ~ 11 ~

  Ronnie slows the car in front of my mom's care facility. The thick air of the car suffocates me. I'm going to barf right now. He's come to hurt my mom. Mick doesn't matter at this point.

  I don't even matter at this point.

  He'd planned it all. The car had been waiting, he'd driven straight to where it all began.

  My whole miserable focus for the last few weeks has been on providing whatever bit of comfort I can for her.

  “No,” I say in a low voice. “Just kill me.” Then I laugh.

  I laugh until I'm hysterical.

  I don't even feel the gun hit me. I slump against the window, hiccups stutter out of my mouth instead of the horrible laughter of the insane.

  “Shut up, Faren.”

  I swing my head around. The pain is nothing, the realization everything.

  “Kill me, kill me, kill me. I'm dead anyway.”

  “You'll die when I'm ready for you to die, and not a fucking minute before.”

  Something flows down and settles between the crevice of my breasts.

  Ronnie watches the blood and licks his dry lips. He grabs my breast and squeezes painfully.

  I don't respond.

  I'm numb inside the shell of who I am.

  “Tannin gets to listen to you beg for it. Then I'm going to do her—and splatter her vegetable brains all over the place.”

  I groan at the thought of my mom having to witness that.

  They say coma patients can still hear something. That's why I am so faithful about visiting.