The Token 6 (New Adult Dark Romance)

by Eros, Marata

  The music plays softly, a song that's been heard for a hundred years. The bridal march keeps time with my mom's tentative steps. I'm her adoring sidekick as I draw closer to my future husband.

  Thorn is a dark shadow alongside Mick. He smiles at me and I clamp down on the urge to wave.

  And run to the altar.

  It's a small affair. A few dozen people. Mick pulled in favors from everywhere and got the air above our heads classified as restricted air space. Our vows would have been drowned out by the noise of chopper blades as they slice the air. Instead, they'll be spoken and heard at his palatial estate in the countryside of Redmond.

  The silence is not oppressive but pregnant with anticipation, closure.

  We finally reach the steps that lead to a gazebo. Ribbons of icy blue grace the lattice work, woven through with the blush of deep pink roses. Their fragrance overwhelms me as I release my mom's hand and look at her for the last time as a single woman.

  She smiles through the tears and sweat that brought her to this moment. I hug her and turn.

  To look at my man.

  His eyes move from my upswept hair, curls cascading down the deep back of my almost-cream wedding gown.

  A small gold chain encircles my throat. His eyes pause there then move to my cleavage.

  What I see in his gaze causes heat to infuse my skin.

  Thorn chuckles and the minister inclines his head just as Mick takes my hand.

  The stone in my engagement ring echoes the colors of the blooms that will witness the words we speak next.

  My bad hand is quiet as Mick says the words he's made up for me. It is still as he slips the slim wedding band encrusted with square-cut diamonds onto my finger. They glitter like captured ice, the large heart-shaped pink stone rising above them like the first blush of a frozen sunset.

  We don't let the crowd keep us from being real, intimidating us from the public display of affection that will announce us to the world.

  The minister tells us we're married and announces me as Faren McKenna.

  Mick ignores the hooting and hollering from the audience. Instead, he scoops me into an embrace so tight I feel the baby move between us.

  His lips brush over mine and he pulls back. “What was that?” he asks a little breathlessly. His eyes search my face.

  I smile, the feel of his hands are warm on the small of my back.

  “Our son.”

  ~ 14 ~

  Autumn

  “This is stupid as shit,” Thorn announces in a classic Thorn-ism.

  Mick pops the cork from the wine bottle, and I sigh with jealousy. Everyone can have some but me.

  “Don't pout, baby, or your nose will stay that way.” Mick pinches my ass.

  I jerk a little and glare at him. He puts a stemmed glass of sparkling cider in front of me.

  I don't think I'll ever have another glass of something resembling apple juice for as long as I live. I balance the bottom of the cup on my belly.

  “You're ready to pop, Faren,” Thorn says, reaching for a beer and chugging half.

  “Gee, ya think?” I roll my eyes.

  “Oooh, testy I see.”

  Mick says nothing, but he chuckles, and I narrow my eyes at him.

  Thorn smirks. “When's Kiki coming over?”

  “Soon,” I reply with a huff.

  Thorn scoops his beer bottle into his lap. I've found out a lot of things about Thorn besides him being an undercover detective.

  That he has refined tastes was the most shocking.

  He's a true beer connoisseur. He's also a little bit of a clothing whore. He pulls his slacks up from his ankles as he leans back, a sliver of black is revealed between his dress shoe. His shirt cuff pulls back to reveal the tat sleeve.

  “Y'know, Kik and me?” Thorn says. “We're just not...” He threads his fingers together. “Cohesive, if you feel me.”

  I think they're too much alike.

  “That's why you're here.”

  His eyebrows shoot up. “You're not setting me up?”

  I take a sip of my non-alcoholic bubbly and shake my head. “Not in the way you think.”

  He scrubs his face in irritation. “Okay, tell Thorn.”

  I smile at his third-person speak. “We have someone else coming, and Kiki will split if she thinks it's a blind date.”

  “Or any kind of date.” Mick makes a sound in the back of his throat.

  I raise my glass and our eyes meet, his have heat. “What he said.”

  Mick smiles and it holds promise. It says it all. How creative he'll be later in loving me. My smile in answer has the knowledge of a hundred nights where he already has.

  “So I'm some kind of Walt Disney?”

  I remember the rumor of the animator tycoon having a frozen crypt and frown.

  Thorn freezes, mouth partly open, beer held stiffly in one hand.

  “Nice,” Mick says.

  Thorn relaxes. “Damn. So she's going to show, and some other dude's gonna get up all in there?”

  I make a face, and Thorn laughs. He points his beer bottle at me. “You're great to get going, Faren.”

  I glare at him.

  “Y'know, Thorn…” He lifts his eyebrows, taking a swig, and I continue. “Someday some girl is going to hit you between the eyes like a two by four, and you'll be singing a different tune.”

  “Uh-huh,” Thorn says, clearly unconvinced.

  The doorbell rings.

  I set the glass down on the coffee table and waddle over to the door. Before I get there, the door flies open.

  “Hey, baby!” Kiki screams and throws herself in my arms.

  I almost topple over, my center is so unbalanced now.

  Front heavy, I stagger underneath her enthusiasm.

  “It's criminal that I live in the same building and you guys are too busy humping like bunnies to invite old Kik over. What's with that?” she asks, ignoring the awkward pause as she sweeps inside like a tornado, dumping her handbag, scarf, lightweight jacket and kicking off her five inch platform pumps.

  Her eyes land on Thorn, and she looks wary.

  “Hey. Was I supposed to bring like special stuff because He-man's here?” Kiki jerks a thumb at Thorn.

  He grins as if to say, told ya.

  I untangle from Kiki. “No. We're—it's just a casual get together,” I say.

  Kiki's eyes narrow to slits.

  “Hmmm.” Her gaze moves to Mick, and he shrugs.

  Kiki pads to the island and taps a nails on the mirror-like surface of the crushed quartz. “Set me up, stud.”

  “Your wish is my command,” Mick says, winking at me.

  “I like a compliant man,” Kiki says.

  “Then you won't like me,” a voice says from the door.

  Kiki's frank appraisal of him is met by an equally bold one.

  “And who might you be?”

  He cocks his head to the side, longish hair surfing over eyes so pale, they fight between a cool white and gray. “Chet Sinclair. No e.”

  I swallow as I watch the maelstrom.

  Thorn sits up straight, and Kiki comes to herself in a rush of assumptions, defensiveness, and indignation.

  She opens her mouth, every person watching her.

  Mick moves in with perfect timing, putting a drink into her open hand. “Stay awhile, Kiki.”

  Her mouth snaps shut and she openly glares at me.

  I can't help it—I laugh out loud. I hadn't really grilled Mick when he said that he had the perfect man for Kiki.

  I didn’t know that one existed, but Mr. Player here? He might not be the right one.

  Kiki takes a solid sip of her drink and manages to fold her arms across her considerable boobs. “So, you're the Chet Sinclair? No e.”

  Mick gives Chet his drink, and I watch him swing his honey-colored hair out of his eyes and take a sip of a martini. He takes the olive off the plastic spear with a practiced twist of his tongue.

  It's obscene.

  Kiki c
an't look away.

  “That's right,” he finally answers.

  “I think I'll just call you No E.” Kiki nods vigorously.

  I'm amazed to see she might be nervous.

  Kiki never gets nervous.

  Very interesting.

  Chet looks at her over the rim of the martini glass. “Whatever. I've been called worse.”

  Thorn laughs.

  Chet turns to him. “Hello, Thorn. I hear you're quite the celebrity?”

  Thorn looks at him for a beat. “Depends on how ya look at it. Is every Tom, Dick, and Harry knowing I'm a good guy good? Nah.” He brushes a hand over his cropped hair. “I'm thinking that's the kind of notoriety Thorn doesn't need. Infamous I don't want.”

  Chet smirks. “I'm not sure you're right on that score, Thorn. Fame is one and the same; a person can have fame for the wrong reasons and still be well-known.”

  He looks directly at Kiki when he says that last.

  “And what is your name?”

  “Kandace King.”

  Chet looks at the ceiling, seeming to consider her. “Alliteration at its finest. Tell me... is it Kandi?”

  “Pfft—no! What kind of name is that?” she asks, insulted.

  “A name that reminds one of something sweet.”

  Thorn chortles, and I want to punch him.

  Kiki flashes Thorn a look that should burn him on the spot, but he keeps on grinning.

  Flame on.

  Mick clears his throat. “Soup's on.”

  “Excellent,” Chet says, “I'm famished.”

  “Me too,” Kiki says.

  Chet moves toward the kitchen. He's graceful, tall, and very lean. The angles of his cheekbones could cut paper. He's not so much handsome as striking.

  His features would linger in a person's memory far past the idea of beauty. When Chet looks at you, everyone else melts away.

  Chet puts a casual hand on the back of Kiki's neck, and she startles, trying to pull away. His grip tightens as he looks down at her.

  Something passes between them, and I glance at Mick.

  “What may I call you then if not Kandi?” he asks.

  “My friends call me Kiki,” she says, and her voice sounds breathy.

  He squeezes her neck, and I watch Kiki's eyes tighten. Then Chet releases her. “Well then I shall call you Kandace.”

  Her brows come together.

  “Not into friendship, Chet?” Thorn pops a cherry tomato in his mouth and grins at Chet like the Cheshire Cat.

  A secret smile curves the corners of his mouth. “No. I think Kandace and I might be destined for other things.”

  What a pompous asshole.

  I give Mick an I can't believe you did this look.

  He doesn't respond.

  “I don't think so,” Kiki says.

  He puts a finger under her chin, and her rich dark skin blooms with color. “I do.”

  My water chooses that moment to break.

  “Mick!”

  He flinches, looking at me as he rounds the kitchen island.

  I grip his forearms. “My water broke.”

  A look of pure panic washes over his face, but it's gone as soon as it starts.

  “Okay.” He moves in one direction, and I go in the other.

  Thorn grins as the usually unflappable Mick strides around the penthouse looking for the hospital bag.

  Chet only has eyes for Kiki.

  Thorn scrutinizes them as he mows through the vegetable dip.

  “I'll take you two to the hospital.” Thorn swipes his keys off the counter and pockets them.

  Mick jogs back into the kitchen with the brightly colored bag he's had packed for two months.

  “You're a week early.”

  As if that's going to stop the baby from coming.

  “I think the baby has his own timeline,” I point out.

  “Let's go,” Thorn says.

  I move toward the door, Mick's anxious hands cruising all over me.

  “I'm fine,” I whisper.

  He glances at me with a tight smile before he turns toward Chet Sinclair.

  “Can you take care of Kiki?” Mick holds up the bag helplessly, pregnant me under his arm.

  “Oh yes,” Chet says while he stares at Kiki.

  She shakes her head and moves to leave.

  Chet's hand closes around her arm. “Stay.”

  It's spoken like a command.

  Kiki never listens to anyone. She told me this guy was a rich weaner.

  Yet... she stays.

  And I go.

  My baby is coming. The proof of life, of my continued existence.

  The love I get to keep.

  The End

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  *

  Read on for the exciting first chapter of THE TOKEN 7: THORN

  coming July 25, 2014!

  The Token

  Volume Seven: Thorn

  Copyright © 2014 Marata Eros

  Kindle Edition

  http://marataeroseroticaauthor.blogspot.com/

  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.

  All rights are reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to a legitimate retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Prologue

  “Listen to my voice.”

  I struggle with calm, the inner rage so much a part of who I am I can't separate the two. I breathe deeply, then respond with more civil words than the ones I was going to say.

  “This is gay, really.”

  That's downright benign for me.

  The shrink sighs. Probably sucked and spewed more CO2 with me in a day as a patient than anyone in his entire career.

  “It's mandated Mr. Simpson, as you're aware.”

  “Yeah, I gotcha, but this whole, quack like a bird while I'm under? It blows donkey dicks.”

  I lift my lids, arms folded across my chest as I stubbornly blow off my millionth session on the couch.

  This is what our world has come to: PC Central. Throw poor broken Thorn a bone. His mama just died from a drug overdose, he's still suffering trauma for being falsely incarcerated at a young age. He's deep undercover so he needs stress relief.

  That's all fucking fine and good.

  What I don't like is this memory recapture. That's the new term for it. Some yahoo, too busy jacking himself off, decided it'd be a great idea for me to come to terms with my childhood.

  Because it was so righteous.

  Yeah.

  Couch time is a free service offered to detectives who “they” determine have dubious backgrounds.

  Those are polite terms for shit families. Or, as “they” like to coin the phrase: familial hardship.

  The good doc breaks into my thoughts. “Mr. Simpson... this regression therapy has been proven to be successful at reintegration.”

  Maybe I like what I don't remember just fine.

  I give a slow blink. “Yeah.”

  “Will you try?”

  I exhale forcefully. I think of Mick and all he's done for me. I think of the anger, a vast well of bottomless rage. It makes me tired. Chasing me like it does. I can't have a relationship without rage.

  With trust.

  Every time a woman wants more than my dick in her, I run.

  I don't want to love
a woman.

  It's dangerous.

  I don't know why, I just believe it down to my marrow.

  “Relax in pieces, Mr. Simpson—as we discussed in prior sessions.”

  “Ty,” I correct.

  “If you prefer.”

  I open one eye, pegging Doctor Grady. “I do.”

  I ignore the compassion I see.

  Thorn doesn't need pity.

  I only need myself.

  I go through the relaxation technique as Grady's boring voice drones on.

  This is such bullshit.

  This regression crap never works.

  *

  It's dark and I hear crying. Soft and relentless, it has a familiar quality to it. I pad through the dark house, discarded needles glint as the city streetlights spear the dirty glass inside decaying windows.

  I don't listen to mama about wearing my slippers, I think they make me look like a baby.

  I don't look at the eyes that follow me. That shows interest, mama says.

  And I don't want the attention they'll give me.

  I ignore the men and woman as they wrestle naked on the floor.

  I pass young greasy people with pipes as they smoke. The rancid rotten egg smell is a constant vapor inside my nose.

  I stand outside the door of mama's room. Mine is behind me and locked. The padlock is hot in my sweaty palm, my finger restlessly stroking the ridged metal.

  My heartbeat shifts from fear to one of expectant terror. If this goes like always, my mama won't be alone.

  The door swings in, grime piled in corners. The filth bleeds to the center where a man stands above mama.

  He's the same one that comes only at night.

  He doesn't look like us.

  His skin is pale like cream.

  He's big... and in my mind I know he's an important man. It's instinct that I know he feels big for reminding us that we're small.

  His lips curl in satisfaction as he sees me. I fight the urge to pop my thumb inside my mouth. Instead, I bite the inside of my lip to keep from doing it.

  “He's mine?” the man asks, as his hand is fisted in mama's hair.

  I walk closer, my eyes skip nervously at his hand in her hair, the size of his fist, that coiled rage.