“What the hell?” She kicks the door closed and looks down at the stiff material of my dress. Her eyes rise to my swollen ones.
“Tell me what the fuck is going on.”
I shake my head, tearing off the dress. Somehow, as I trip out of the thing, the fringe comes away and tiny glass beads skitter across the scarred wood floor like rioting gems. The music of their escape scrapes across my raw nerves, and I hitch in another sob.
“Okay,” Kiki says, throwing up a hand. “We're getting you out of this...” She wrinkles her nose and picks up the ruined dress with her long nails. “Dress, and getting you into a hot shower.”
I laugh. Water won’t wash away my crimes, my grief... my sins. Her brows sink low over her brown eyes. She’s so full of compassion that I look away.
She grabs my arm, and I let her herd me into the bathroom. When the pipes stop groaning, I step into the spray. I let the warm water trail over my face, gather in my open mouth, and fall across my body.
Kiki’s silhouette remains a ghost of shadow through the opaque shower curtain.
I don't know how long I stand there, but when my fingers prune and the water begins cooling, I raise them in front of my face. My abused left hardly twitches. The steam and heat of the shower had restored most of its function. The bright pink scars crisscross my palm, and I squeeze it.
Kiki's shadow has departed. My hand jumps, and I force it to soap my body. I take my time, putting myself back together piece by piece.
When every part of me is clean, I move out of the shower and towel off. I tuck the edges of the towel underneath my armpits and move to the door, surrounded by a cloud of steam.
I hear low voices and hesitate on the threshold of the open bathroom door. I take a few deep breaths and pass through.
I’m not surprised when Mick greets me from my couch.
He holds up his phone. “You don't answer your texts.”
Oh yeah... midnight. My eyes shift to my clock. It's twelve fifteen.
I nod and turn away, heading to my bedroom. I shut the door softly. I can't handle Mick tonight. I feel like the worst kind of human being. I’m losing everything that's ever mattered to me. Mick can't fix it, and he can't take away how he makes some of his money.
Nor can I stop my feelings for him.
I jerk on sweatpants and a cami, leaving my feet bare. I walk out of my room with my dripping hair and face free of makeup.
“What are you doing here?”
Kiki blanches.
“He was worried... and so was I.” She gives him a covert glance.
God, they're ganging up on me. “There's no reason to worry.”
I turn toward the stove. It's pretty easy to act emotionless when I'm so numb. If I can perform one normal task, I have a hope of getting past this recent batch of misery.
I feel Kiki behind me. Her soft-scented vanilla body spray heralds her arrival.
“Faren,” she says in a low voice, “just tell him. Maybe he can help.”
Does Kiki think I don't want his help? That I haven't rolled the obvious around in my mind 102 times? I have, and I won't. I need Mick's money, but he has something I want more. I have almost enough to erase my mom's debt from the clinic. One more stint of laps, and I'll be free of that. It won't stop the pole dancing after the laps are through, but if I never see another lap in my life it'll be too soon. I'll still need the cash from a few times per week at the pole for my mom's monthly care. Or that debt I've danced so hard to get rid of will come back to take a second bite out of my ass.
“No,” I answer just as quietly.
Kiki lays her face between my shoulder blades and sighs. “I can't make you, but he's not stupid.”
“She's right, I'm not.”
Just his voice makes warmth spread from places that had been dry and quiet moments before.
How can I respond sexually to anything after what happened only a couple of hours ago? I can't answer. I don't know.
Kiki slips away from behind me as my hand grips the kettle.
I feel Mick’s heat behind me, radiating through my thin cami. I shiver as his hands drop to my shoulders.
His fingers dig in almost painfully when he leans forward. “Let me in, Faren. Please.”
I can't fight them anymore, my best friend and this man who is wealthy beyond my wildest imaginings. He can have anyone he wishes, and it’s me he pursues. My grip leaves the kettle, and Mick feels my subtle shift. I turn, and his hold on my shoulders softens just enough to allow it.
When I face him, he crushes me tight. I shake in his arms, and Mick lifts my chin with a finger. Tears leak from my eyes all over again.
“Hey, hey,” he says, kissing each eyelid. “What's wrong?” When my tears become too much for his lips, he chuckles and wipes them away with the pads of his thumbs. “I can't stop this, but I want to try.”
I look at him through the waterworks and see Kiki behind him with her arms folded. Her eyes beg me to accept help. From him, from her... from anyone.
I put my forehead against his chest so I don't have to meet his eyes. His hand strokes my spine, his fingertips going from the top of my backbone to the bottom and trailing up again.
I speak into his chest, “I don't want to use you.” The truth eases out of me like a feather on the wind.
“Use me, Faren. I want you to,” Mick answers.
“Yeah, use him,” Kiki pipes in, and I smile through my sadness.
Mick chuckles. “Listen to your best friend.”
I tilt my head back. “You mean listen to you?”
His eyes search mine. His fingertip brushes away the last of my tears, and he nods.
“Yeah, that's what I mean.”
I feel my arms creep around his waist, and Kiki claps.
“Thank god,” she squeals in a whisper that sounds like a hushed shout.
“Yes.” Mick doesn't ambush me with his mouth but sips slowly, awakening me anew.
I rise on my tiptoes and press back.
I hate that a small part of me clings to a hope I don't have, that I don't deserve.
It's wrong.
Except, in Mick's arms, it feels so right.
~ 12 ~
Thorn
I can't quit. I need one more lap gig to make that last ten thousand. One more horrible, soul-sucking dive into the abyss of loss.
Of who I am.
I don't have a penny. I've paid every dime to my mom's debt, and the balance stands at only ten thousand. Only. I sigh. My thinking about money has become so skewed. This last gig will tip the scales, and she won't be moved to the state facility. I breathe through my nervousness as Thorn stares holes through me.
His chair creaks as he tips it backward, his muscular weight forcing it to accept his movements. He ignores its protests and taps an elegantly appointed lighter on his desk. “Faren... you know how much I enjoy you.” He tips the lighter upside down. Tap. Flips it right side up. Tap.
I cringe. Yeah, I know.
He smiles at my obvious discomfort.
I nod but say nothing.
Flip. Tap. My eyes key in on that lighter, the silver winking as he flips it. I hate it. Hate him.
He tosses it to the desk with a final resounding tap.
Thorn swivels to the side and stands. He walks around the desk, sets an ass cheek at the edge, and folds his huge arms in front of him. “We can't have a repeat performance of what happened with Jay.”
My hands twist in my lap. “I... I wasn't expecting...” Heat bites my skin like a colony of fire ants.
“Your little starfish to get a tap?”
Thorn's so vulgar. I think I hate that about him the most.
I glare at him, letting all the loathing I feel fill my expression.
He barks out a laugh. “I should make you give me another lap dance because I know you hate it. Hate me.”
I stay silent. I can't speak because I can't contain myself. I keep looking down, trying not to out myself.
“Look at me.
”
I raise my eyes to his. His dark face is perfectly sculpted, every feature beautiful separately, even better together. Thorn works hard on his physique. The tattoo sleeves that cover both arms are mere shadows against his dark brown skin. But his eyes are vacant of understanding, compassion... feelings.
“You have one chance to redeem yourself, or it'll be off with your head,” he says, laughing manically.
I seethe but nod. “You looked green at the last venue, and that can’t happen again.”
“Even with your behavior, you're a favorite.” Thorn's eyes bore into mine.
I lift my chin. This big, beautiful man with a black heart will not cow me. I can't allow even the finest crack in my composure. I need this.
Tannin Mitchell needs it.
So I wait, my breath held as he lets me stew.
“An associate of mine has thrown his hat in the ring, so to speak,” he says, letting out another dark chuckle. But his amusement overrides everything.
“Who?” I ask, hoping for Jay. Gross as our dance was, I'd rather have the evil I know than one I don't. One more time.
“Ron.”
I feel my mouth open and close like a fish out of water.
Thorn nods, spreading his hands apart. “You should be happy. He paid the big bucks and the cops came. He didn't get his piece of the pie.”
My eyes flip to his. I wish I'm wrong, but I know I'm not.
“The Faren pie.”
When I stand, my handbag falls to the floor and the contents spill out. My hands fist as I hiss, “I am not food.”
“You're what and who I tell you to be. If you want to suck up the cash, you need to do the deed. Period.”
Thorn makes me sick. But sicker still is being forced into dancing for my assailant. “Does your boss know how you get girls to participate in your pathetic merry-go-around?”
Thorn jerks his chin back. “McKenna? You think Mr. Bleeding Heart is aware of this?”
I stumble back. I think over my interactions with Mick, how certain things didn't fit.
Thorn's perfect inky brows pull together, and he laughs. “What? You thought that McKenna...”
I nod, and he scrubs the short black nap on his skull. Thorn shakes his head, palming his chin. “No. Jared McKenna plays everything above-board. He does not have a bead on this... game.”
“It's not a game. We're people, Thorn.”
He shakes his head. “You're a bunch of girls who give rich dudes what they need. You can't play innocent when you rub your kitty against the pony.”
I kick up my chin. “I could tell him.” I lay my fingertips over the lips he'd kissed. If I tell Mick, then he'll oust Thorn and I can come clean.
“I know,” Thorn says with a smirk.
“What? What do you know?” My eyes become slits as I glare at him.
“I know you're McKenna's new plaything. Why do you think I don't force you for personal laps?”
His words are a slap in the face. My thoughts scatter like dandelion seed on the wind.
I stare, my hands loosening, and dizziness seizes me again. I grip the chair behind me with my right hand. I fight against it, hoping I won't get a headache to remind me of my short path.
Thorn sees me sway, and his arm reaches out to steady me. I jerk back unsteadily.
His eyes are on me, his hand encircling my arm with bruising force. “You tell him about the laps, and I'll tell him you work it.” He's collecting money behind Mick's back.
Blackmail in its purest form. My vision narrows to a pinpoint of light. Thorn's face fills it.
“Test me,” he provokes.
I don't.
Instead, I feel my right orbital region explode with pain so acute, it staggers me, and I fold where I stand.
It's the only time I’ve seen Thorn have an expression other than contempt, greed, or lust.
That emotion surprises me as consciousness departs, and it follows me down the spiral of darkness.
Fear.
#
THE TOKEN
A Token Series Novella
Volume 3
New York Times Bestselling author
MARATA EROS
All Rights are Reserved.
Copyright © 2014 Marata Eros
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.
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Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing
~ 1 ~
Light. Searing and complete.
My eyes remain shut, but I feel a deep burning behind my heavy eyelids.
A sharp click like a pen closing. Then, “When did this happen?”
I think I know that voice.
“I don't know, a couple of hours ago.” A pause. “We were talking and then”—I hear the shrug in his voice—“she just folded like a deck of cards.”
I know that voice.
Thorn.
My eyes open slowly. The bright light is gone, and Doctor Clive Matthews’s compassionate gaze comes into focus.
“Hi there, Miss Mitchell.”
I say nothing. Thorn is here.
Where is here?
I look around, my neck stiff and see that I'm in another hospital room.
Great.
“Your boyfriend said you fainted.”
Oh, my God. My head swivels to Thorn, and he grins back. His hands are jammed in his designer denims, his sleeve tats in full relief.
“Ah...” I croak.
The good doctor gets a cup of water and bends the straw to my mouth.
I sip, leveling a death stare at Thorn.
I finish and open my mouth to deny Thorn's claim of any attachment to me.
Before I can speak, Thorn says, “Doctor Matthews said that you shouldn’t be working so hard in your condition.”
My head turns to Matthews, and I narrow my eyes to slits of condemnation. Had he told Thorn?
His brows rise. “I thought we talked about management, Miss Mitchell.” His brows fall as his head cocks to the side. “You agreed you would minimize your activity as part of that plan.”
Thorn looks on with keen interest, his eyes ping ponging from Matthews to me.
I have to take this in hand, but I'm not sure how.
I mentally recap. Matthews believes Thorn is my boyfriend. I don't know if Thorn knows I'm terminally ill, but he knows something is up. Mick doesn't know about the lap venues, but Thorn holds that over my head.
It's a circle of madness and deception I can't decipher.
I close my eyes against the chaos that my life has become.
Just then, my cell sounds a text chime, and all eyes move to my purse.
“Want me to get that, babe?” Thorn asks, his tone light and his eyes dark.
“No,” I answer through gritted teeth, “let it go to voice mail.”
Doctor Matthews pats my knee through the hospital gown. “I'd like to keep you here for twenty-four hours.” He sees my face and chuckles.
“But I know you won't stay for that.”
I nod.
Damn straight I'm not going to stay here.
“You're free to go, but remember what we agreed on.”
Matthews looks at me before his eyes slide to Thorn.
I nod quickly, hoping that Thorn doesn't know everything.
He already kno
ws too much.
*
“Get out of my room,” I tell Thorn the instant Matthews leaves as I hike the blankets to my chin.
“No,” he says.
I scowl, and he waits.
An exhale rushes out of me.
“I don't owe you an explanation.”
His chin kicks back, and a large hand scrubs his short hair. “Uh, yeah, ya do.” His dark eyes peg me to the bed.
I stubbornly say nothing.
“Listen, Faren, I've got a good thing going with these lap gigs. McKenna runs his uppity-whitey shit—”
“Whitey shit?” I ask, my fingers coming up in airquotes.
He gives a stiff nod. “Yeah. McKenna and I go way back, same hood.”
My brows meet above my eyes. I didn’t expect that revelation.
Mick had told me he was self-made. His intellect isn’t in doubt. But that edge that he wears—his dark, gritty side?
Here's the proof. Thorn isn't an accident as an employee. There's a real man hidden inside the suave shell of the billionaire that everyone else sees.
“So you're a charity hire?” I confront.
Thorn steps forward, his expression flashing from neutral to angry. “You don't know jack shit, girl.”
We stare at each other.
“I know you're skimming money with the revolving lap venue,” I say. “That McKenna remains unaware.”
Thorn scowls, rubbing his face then putting his large hands on his hips. I watch his tats undulate with the movement and swallow.
I can't deny Thorn scares me on a primitive level.
Or maybe any level.
“And I know that you like boss man,” he says.
I shake my head, but my expression gives me away.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding and palming his chin. “You dig my man Mick.”
“How did you know I was... seeing him?”
Am I seeing him?
Oh yes.
“I know it's real because my bro doesn't dish on the cracks unless he's serious.”
“Cracks?” I ask miserably.
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