“No, Rex...”
His hand slams into her face. “Don't say my name.”
Mama falls back. She doesn't move.
I do what she's told me to do.
I grab the bulge between his legs and twist it.
I use both hands.
*
An elephant is sitting on my chest.
I gulp oxygen and it tastes like water.
I'm drowning.
“Ty—hear me.”
I gasp as I swim to the surface.
Gotta. Break. Through.
“Tyson Marius Simon, hear me and awake.”
I sit up straight, my eyes bulging so hard they feel as if they'll burst the pockets of my face.
I take in where I am.
I can still smell the cigar smoke, and my hands tremble as they search my arms for fresh wounds that are no longer there.
My mind's eye sees my mother and how beautiful she looked in the middle of violence and dirt.
I turn my forearms over and see what my tats cover.
I was her shield.
Doctor Dillinger says nothing during my silent scrutiny. He just watches me.
“How do you feel, Ty?”
Like someone kicked me in the nutsack, but thanks for asking.
I ask, “Did you...? Did I?” God, this sucks ass. I don't know what bonehead things I did while I was lying there, helpless in my sleep. I don't know what I said.
The secrets I revealed.
“Yes, you were under for quite a while. But”—Doctor Dillinger's clear amber eyes look into mine—“I thought it was best we get you out of there.”
“What did I say?” I hate not knowing.
Hate knowing.
“Your mother's name? Tasha...?” Dillinger's eyebrows rose.
It feels weird as hell to hear someone say her name.
Tasha Simon isn't beautiful anymore. She’s dead. Her funeral is this week.
The drugs she loved more than anything have taken her. I swipe a trembling hand over my face.
“What do you remember?” he asks.
My eyes burn. I've never cried in my life, and I won't start now. My hands clench into fists. I shove that shit down where it belongs: deep and unowned.
I hate what the child I was had to suffer, but I don't regret it. He'd have killed her.
Rex.
I turn over my arms and bring my forearms together. The tribal sleeves do a bang-up job of hiding the worst of it, but if you know what you're looking for, they stand out like measles.
Dillinger leans forward until his knees press into the side of the couch as I wordlessly show him I know the why of the damage I camouflage.
He knows what he's looking for.
Dillinger's hands dangle between his knees as he loses count of the circular burn marks dotting my flesh.
Cigar-sized.
I shrug his hand off my shoulder when he tries to give me comfort.
I can't accept it.
I have one goal.
Vengeance has a name.
*
three days later
I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands. The chair creaks under my weight as I lean back and put my laced fingers behind my head. I close my eyes.
I'm so fucking tired of using Google I could die.
There is no Rex.
I know what I have to do. I need more information. I need to visit Dillinger again to find out what I can. I can't break the lock of my memories, but there's more; I know it.
Dillinger says memory repression is a deep-seeded measure the mind uses to protect itself.
The thought of recounting any more snippets of my miserable childhood brings on an instant, physical reaction.
My palms sweat and my breathing comes short and hard. I sit up, my hands gripping the armrests of my chair in my office at the Black Rose exotic dance club.
I'm having one of those candy-ass panic attacks, so I plow through it as my eyes burn, my armpits tingling with insta-sweat.
Kiki bursts in without knocking. Pushy broad.
She takes one look at my face and walks closer, cautiously. “What the hell is it?”
I shake my head, dropping my chin to my chest and not looking at her.
Kandace “Kiki” King is a pole dancer, one of my best. I don't supervise much anymore though. I leave that to the floor manager. Even private lap auditions, once a mainstay of my job and a sick thrill I enjoyed, are growing stale as fuck.
I'm unraveling.
Good old Thorn is hanging on by a thread. I know it. Dillinger sure as fuck does, and he's got the ear of the precinct.
They have a dumb name for it.
Trigger.
A current event triggers memories of a traumatic one.
When my boy McKenna's girl almost got done in by that whack job, Bunce Junior, it had enough parallels that now I'm on vacation from undercover.
Mandatory, with pay.
Standard with a kill in the line of duty.
I guess I took a little too much pleasure in offing that fuck.
I close my eyes. The image of Faren on the floor, covered in Butch's blood.... it echoes too many long-buried memories.
Now, like an exhumation, the ghosts have escaped their graves.
I open my eyes, and Kiki is standing there. She knows I won't give an inch. No one knows Thorn, and that's how I like it—safe. Anonymity by choice.
Her face hardens, but inside that bravado is a soft center. Kiki doesn't fool me; she never has. But she lets it go for now.
“Ready?”
I nod, standing abruptly.
I tower over her. A sudden memory comes over me.
Rex was tall. Like father, like son.
But that's where the likeness ends. His fair skin is milk to my chocolate.
Who says dark is evil?
I say it hides in the light.
Kiki and I leave for Tasha Simon's funeral.
ONE
Shane's chubby baby fist bats around as the drizzle falls. No matter how many times Faren tries to cover his little head, he jerks the hood off to reveal carrot-colored hair.
Mick moves closer to his family, securing the umbrella over his wife and son's heads.
I watch the three of them dispassionately. It's not as if I don't dig Mick.
He's always had my back; he has it now.
Their kid's cute. Faren is perfect for McKenna, like I knew she'd be.
I hold on to my indifference like a restless life raft. I’m afraid of capsizing into the ocean of my emotions, memories.
Mick meets my eyes from across my mom's coffin. He gives a miniscule lift of his chin, and I mirror him. Faren's eyes, so light a gray they almost blend with the stormy sky, look at me with empathy. I look away from her knowing gaze.
That girl has seen some rough shit in her time. Her fucked up stepdad nearly killed her mom, putting her in a four-year coma. He had some twisted agenda to go after Faren, but she took care of him. In the end, it was Bunce's demented spawn who placed blame on Faren she didn't own.
We'd barely made it in time to save her.
I repress a shudder thinking about where Mick would be now without Faren. She balances out his crap.
Or without Shane. Almost on cue, the baby begins to cry as they lower my mom's body into an unforgiving earth.
As if Mick shares some telepathic bond with my morbid thoughts, his long arm curls around Faren's shoulders, pressing her into his side as she tries to quiet Shane.
I jam my hands in my pockets, checking out the fake astro turf used to hide the raw earth that, like discarded coffee grounds, will cover the expensive coffin.
I feel Kiki behind me. She tries hard to reach out. I think I'm her project.
But Thorn doesn't want to be fixed.
I push her away, but she's a gnat on my ass. The scary thing is, I don't think she's into me. I think Kiki senses something is wrong, and she wants to help. That's way more of a sphincter-pucker than if she just wanted t
o bang.
I can't accept pity or charity, or any of that happy crap. I have to figure my shit out for myself.
The preacher drones on to the few of us who are here. I raise my head and see a thick knot of cops, and it puts that lump in my throat front and center.
I can't swallow past it.
I don't try.
I hear the pulleys but don't look. It's the only time I can't be brave, a reminder of what I can't fix. It's too final.
Lance Tagger keeps his eyes on mine. Such a good actor during the sting where we took down Dmitri Bunce. A good friend. He knows I'm hurting. Instead of doing the same solemn shit everyone else does, he scratches his nose with his middle finger, a little Mona Lisa smile ghosting his lips.
I smile. It's so goddamned inappropriate I can't help myself.
No one is gonna give me back my mama. I can't love her for leaving me, but I can love her... for loving me.
Kiki sees the interchange and frowns at Tag. It makes me grin wider.
At my mom's funeral I decide it's better to focus on my asshat partner than the sadness that threatens to engulf me.
I survive another day.
*
“Kiki—fuck me,” I say, wanting to slam my palm into the steering wheel.
“Okay.” She tightens her jaw, crossing her arms. Her hoops swing as she moves her head. “Don't accept any sympathy. Be da man.”
The wheel creaks under my stranglehold as I smoothly turn into the garage at the Millennium Tower. The new hood.
Can't take the old hood out of me though. Sometimes, no matter how much schooling I've been through, how many years as an undercover detective, I still feel like that small boy who feared the night. I don’t have to speculate as to why anymore. Dillinger dredged the shit up like a found shipwreck. That uneasy feeling now has an anchor in reality.
She catches me off guard, changing the subject to one I'm okay with: work.
“You seen that new girl?”
My eyebrow rises as we wait for the security arm to plow upward and allow our entrance into the dungeon of the Tower.
The car rolls underneath as it lifts and I peer into the murk of the underground parking, locate Kiki’s stall, and pass it by. Mick owns five; I'll park in one of his.
“No,” I say, only half-listening.
Still thinking about my mom. Has beens. Should've beens. I hated the nagging bullshit.
I hate that I couldn't save her. Jesus God, I hate that most.
I park and kill the engine.
The ticking as it cools is the only sound in the car.
“Thanks for the ride, Thorn.” Kiki’s hand lands on the door handle, popping it.
“Wait,” I say, remembering her comment I didn't respond to.
She turns, one stiletto dangling out the door.
“What girl?”
She shakes her head. All the black she's wearing blends with my interior, and all I can make out is one scarlet pump. A spot of blood against a sea of ebony.
I swallow hard at the uneasy visual. Maybe too many crime scenes. Or just dealing with my mom's death.
Fuck. I drag my hand over my skull.
“Never mind,” Kiki says, flapping her hand in dismissal. “The fill-in guy's going to get her for lap audition.” Her eyes meet mine. “I mean, I know you gotta do face time there to keep the undercover going. God knows it was hard to keep it under wraps with the media blitz following Bunce's murder.”
Yeah, the media hounds want to know which cop did in the perp. It's sensational news. Billionaire's pregnant fiancée almost killed by her stepfather's biological son.
Can't make that shit up.
I scrub my face and lean my forehead on the steering wheel, inhaling deeply. My chest tightens, hurting.
Normal.
I'll go to the gym and work it out. Work out that grief to right where it needs to be: nowhere.
Kiki's hand lands on my shoulder.
The pain in my chest notches up.
“You okay?” she asks.
I turn toward her, ready to lash out. Her eyes stop me.
She fucking cares.
God damn.
“Yeah,” I answer. Gruff. I look away.
“Who's the girl?” I ask the steering wheel, diverting. Always diverting.
Kiki's quiet long enough that I roll my face against the rough texture of the steering cover and look at her.
“Simone.”
I lift a shoulder. Why are we talking about some chick the day I put my mom in the ground?
“Yeah?” So?
“I don't know. She—I don't know. I can't... I think she should audition with you.”
I jerk back my head. “What? No, I don't need to do that biz no more.”
Kiki nods, her hands knotting in her lap.
Not a typical Kiki reaction.
I stare at her profile, feeling the tick in my jaw. “What's going on? Tell Thorn.”
She gives me a small smile. “I think that guy's a creep.”
Grady, my floor manager? “Yeah,” I say slowly, “we're in the stripping business. Lots of dudes have to be creepy to manage it.”
Her face turns. The low light catches it, and a spider web of illumination cascades over her expression. She looks piercing and deep, impenetrable.
“Besides, you're about out, right?”
I don’t know why exactly—I don’t get this feeling much—but I don’t like Kiki doing the poles. I don't judge, but I've seen a lot of girls come through the club. Most are various degrees of broken.
Faren had been different.
Kiki is too, but I don't know why.
I'm a fan of listening to my gut. I'm one of the few men who still do. I'm plugged into my primal nature.
Maybe too much, but it's helped in the undercover work. Being a cop is one part logic and two parts instinct.
“Yeah,” she replies softly, “about out.”
I sit in silence for a few seconds, deciding. “ʼKay, I'll check her out.”
Kiki exhales.
It sounds like relief.
*
I check in at the precinct. All is on target. The media's beginning to back off. They don't have a clue, so I can continue my face time at the Black Rose. Bunce Junior’s murder is now only a blip on my undercover screen. I'll be back on the force in a month.
Mick wants me to give a kick-start to his six east coast clubs. It's perfect timing; I should jump at the chance. Hell, the money's awesome. Between my six-figure cop salary and Mick's generosity, I'm living large.
My life is a steam engine. I power along, working out, hanging out with the buds. On my free time, I spar with a few other dudes who have what I need. I bang chicks who are willing to give me all the free pussy I can stand.
Hell, life's a banquet.
So why do I feel like I'm starving?
The sameness rolls on like a river without borders, without texture.
My life is smooth, satisfying.
That pain in my chest tightens and I head to the gym. Time to put the introspective crap on a shelf.
I get a text from Mick.
Mick: got the jet reserved for you. Just say the word and you can skip town, get those clubs whipped into shape. Might do you good to get away.
What with your mom biting it on the heels of you being on administrative leave, Mick doesn't say.
I smirk at my thoughts.
My finger hovers, hesitating about committing to the truth and my feelings. An exhale explodes out of me as I tap out a reply.
Me: not yet, man. Still working through my shit.
Mick: I hear you. I've got good temp people in place. You say the word when you want to escape, do something different.
Word, my mind answers.
Me: Gonna lie low for now, figure it out.
Mick: ʼKay. You know where I am man.
Before I can respond a second message pings.
Mick: Where I've always been.
I don't respond. I pull u
p outside the gym, jump out of my car, and hurl myself up the concrete steps. Time to beat my body into submission.
Too bad my mind is so uncooperative.
It never shuts off.
TWO
Simone
“Balland? What kind of a fucked up name is that?” Tyler Grady asks.
I cast my eyes to the floor, rubbing my hands together nervously. I stuff my anger. “It's French.”
I'm switching out one bad gig for another, but the last place was a quasi-escort service. Translation—eventual whore. This place isn't much better, but it has a good rep for a strip joint.
“So should I call you Frenchie?”
God, this guy.
I shake my head. I need the work. I need to fly under the radar.
I clamp down on my words. I'm only allowed to be caustic inside my head. “Simone's fine.”
“Okaaaayy,” he exaggerates the word. “Simone Bal-land.”
He butchers the pronunciation and I roll my lip into my teeth to keep from correcting him.
His bulging muscles and hard face motivate me as much as the job. Fear is a powerful preventative to what I call Smart Ass Syndrome.
“Got something to say, Frenchie?” His unkind eyes take off the skimpy dress he's asked me to wear.
Kiki told me he's a temp, a fill-in for the regular guy. What was his name? Super hero something... Tor? Thor? I don't know.
How'd he get right in front of me? I stumble back, and he laughs.
“You can call me Grady, Frenchie...” A speculative look comes over his face, and he cocks his head. “Do you do things with that tongue... French things?”
He looms over me and snaps his hand around my wrist. I feel the cool metal of my sterling bangles, thin as a willow wisp, slide between our locked flesh.
“It's Simone, Grady.” I can't stop the clench of my jaw, the grittiness of the words as they escape my teeth.
He laughs and jerks me closer. “You're gonna do a dance on my lap and like it.”
I'm going to like nothing he offers.
I force myself to relax against him when what I really want to do is bite off his nose.
I embrace the old violence and it allows me to escape the horror I'll have to endure.
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