The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense

by Eros, Marata

  Praise for THE TOKEN SERIAL....

  “....Overall I love this book and the Token Series. I rated this book 5 out of 5 Purple Rant Hearts and would recommend this book to anyone that loves a romance that is an emotional roller-coaster that is full of action. This book has all the elements of a great story with a edgy twist. I will be adding the Token 4 to my favorites list.” - Crystal R. "Crystal R."

  “I love this series and am on pins and needles waiting for the next installment. The story plot is wonderful with the twists and turns, not knowing what to expect next. Of course the hot parts mingle in so nicely. The series is a definite re-read in the future. The only draw back is how long it Takes for the next book to come out.” - Sue

  “....Ms. Eros rivals JR Ward- author of the Black Dagger Brotherhood series, for her male POV writing ability! She has an absolute gift for it that resonates through all of her amazing books.THORN has been my favourite installment so far, in The Token series, although I can't wait to read Kiki's story which is next!” - Skylar Griffin

  One Promise.

  Kandace "Kiki" King lives a dream life. Rising above the ashes of a neglected childhood, she's graduated from a prestigious Seattle university with her pre-law degree. Her best friend, Faren, has overcome tragedy and found her happily ever after.

  Kiki's not looking for love.

  The Lie.

  Love has other plans. After Thorn's revelation about the ties of their past, Kiki feels as though she's been set adrift. When Mick McKenna's billionaire friend shows interest in her, she dismisses him. Exotic dancing paid for her lifestyle. What does Chet Sinclair know about sacrifice and hard work?

  A Truth.

  Until they discover a similar appetite. For the first time in her life, Kiki feels helpless against the pull of a sexuality she doesn't understand, couldn't anticipate, yet hungers for. Will she allow herself to succumb to what Chet Sinclair offers?

  Or is the oath she made to herself in danger of being broken?

  THE TOKEN 8: Kiki

  Copyright © 2014 Marata Eros

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  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.

  DEDICATION:

  Caryn Ferraro

  Music that inspired me during the writing of TT8

  Beth Hart

  Baddest Blues

  Christina Perri

  Jar of Hearts

  Thanks Girls, I couldn't have done it without you~

  ONE

  Kiki

  I swipe Juliette's face from my now black cell screen and clutch my cropped coat over my boobs. Winter isn't here yet, but the season's all the up-in-my-face chilled damp shit I hate.

  Seattle, gotta love it. Actually, I mostly do. I gaze around at the hundred-plus-year-old oaks dotting the University of Washington campus. Stubborn flames of color masquerading as leaves hang onto an autumn long gone.

  I pat my front jeans’ pocket, feel my cell safely wedged there, and smile. Juliette and Thorn are safe in the east, jerking Mick's clubs back into shape.

  Melancholy steals over me. I kick a leaf like discarded tissue paper across the broad concrete sidewalk, my backpack a comforting weight between my shoulder blades.

  I should be happy for Juliette and Thorn. Hell, I practically coerced Faren into seeing the Mick debacle through. Now she's a little breeding machine, and baby Shane is almost a year old. They're already talking about having another spoiled heir.

  I snort. Shane’s such a cutie pie, with Faren's bright red hair and Mick's dark eyes. They'll make gorgeous kids.

  But there's no prince dude in sight for me. Not that I'm jonesing for a boyfriend. But... Thorn might be right. The words he spoke before he left for New York ring in my head like an echo that never quits.

  “Listen, Kik,” he'd said. “Me and Juliette... hell, if I can make a relationship work, anyone can.”

  I remember I was looking at my feet encased in stiletto boots just shy of the tip-over point.

  “Look at me, Kiki.”

  My chin raised.

  “Don't listen to this.” He tapped his head with two long fingers, his dark eyes holding my gaze prisoner. “Listen to this.” Those fingers floated down to the approximation of where his heart lay.

  I gulped, and he smiled. Thorn knew I wasn't Miss Intimacy.

  I playfully punched his arm, and he grabbed my hand, holding it tight.

  “I know it's a lot to negotiate, what with me being big brother and all.” His lips twisted in classic Thorn style.

  I smirked back.

  “Yeah, big boy.”

  The DNA test had come back positive for a first-degree relation. Old French king pimp, Roi—he'd dished out the pain to a lot of people like nobody's business. But he'd given me Thorn, a surprise half-brother. Thorn doesn't feel half but whole. As shit deals go, it's wasn't a bad trade off.

  Thorn's smile had faded as he watched my expressions morph. “I mean it. Don't let the bullshit baggage of what's happened to us rule you. If the right guy comes along, try not to see him as something to catch and release.”

  I crossed my arms, the cold metal of my hoops tickling my neck. “What? Like a fish?”

  Thorn grinned. “Yeah, just like that.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I'll try not to do that.”

  He hugged me.

  I hadn’t cried until after he was gone.

  That was maybe more truth than I wanted to deal with.

  I bite my lip, thinking about the couple Thorn and Juliette make. My fingers had trailed out of his grip those few weeks ago, and Juliette had moved to his side. He tucked her against him as though they were two pieces of a found puzzle.

  Juliette had just texted me to say she and Thorn would be back next month. They only had one club left to rehab.

  Faren is super busy, and Juliette isn’t available.

  I sigh, walking on—I’m not going to feel sorry for myself.

  December should be colder. A breeze makes the barren day skate with leaves as though the concrete ribbon I walk on is an ice rink. I shiver inside my insufficient coat. It's cute though. Fashion matters, dammit.

  I don't want to admit that without the go-go pace of the Black Rose strip club—where I've worked to pay my way through school and for my posh place in the Millennium Tower—I finally have time to think about my life.

  I'm not into introspection shit. My mom's a drug user and former prostitute. My grandparents are unknown. What else is there to ponder?

  Knowing who my real father is? Not a bennie. Who wants to lay claim to a guy who drugged young girls and basically raped them into pregnancy and a life of drug abuse and neglected children?

  Like Thorn and me.

  Roi's sperm-donor role gave us something beside each other: resiliency. Neither one of us is much for quitting.

  Kandace King doesn't give up.

  The class I just left was the last sneaky credit I needed to get my criminal justice degree buttoned up. It's officially over. I perk up. Christmas break begins now. It's been a long quarter with just one harpy class to survive. The future looms large.


  My girlfriends are tied to their men. My grueling first run with school is over.

  Loneliness snaps at my heels like a barking dog on a chain.

  Alone for Christmas.

  Shit. I'm having a pity party.

  I don't have to throw one for myself. I mean, Faren told me to come to their swank pad in Redmond for the holidays. I can drown my sorrows with prime rib and pink champagne.

  I roll my lip farther inside my mouth, gnawing the soft flesh.

  But I might see him.

  Chet Sinclair, no E.

  My heart rate speeds just thinking of him. I pause as I remember his fight with Thorn at the BR months ago. Chet's used to getting what he wants.

  But did he bring it with Thorn.

  It was kinda hot, I admit.

  Thorn, a six-foot-three mountain of living muscle, and Chet, a sleek panther of rippling ivory. They'd been tangled threads of menace as they fought. Thorn doesn't like Chet.

  A nervous laugh escapes. I don't like Chet.

  I think about his intense pale blue eyes, his dark-honey hair. It's enough to make a girl’s panties damp.

  I know he might want to go out with me. At least, I assume that's what the twenty texts I haven't answered mean.

  Actually, I'm sure he wants to go out, but I've made it clear I don't.

  Even though I desperately do. He's like a forbidden yummy piece of fruit.

  Men like Chet Sinclair don't date girls from where I've been raised. Girls who aren't lily-white little rich princesses. He just wants his milk chocolate while he eats his angel food cake. Ah-huh.

  I'm not anybody's novelty.

  I release my lip, and my shuffling picks up to a stride of confidence. In the distance, I see the bright spot of my burnt orange Fiat and smile.

  Fuck it, I'll go to Faren and Mick's for Christmas. If I go home, Mom will have her mouth stuck around a pipe, sans all her teeth. I can't be there for the meth-fest anymore.

  Won't.

  I'm so buried in my thoughts I don't notice the sleek car parked beside mine. When I open my car door and happen to glance over the roof, I spot it.

  My car's such a little toaster, I can see over it for a mile. Having a big car while living in downtown would be insane. Lots of Seattle-ites are hipsters: boat shoes, fake glasses, low-slung pants, and a penchant to green living that approaches zealotry. They don't even own cars.

  I really go against that type. I like to be in charge.

  Parked next to my Fiat is a silver Spyder

  Not like a creepy crawly with legs and crap. Nah—as in a Porsche 918.

  It's beautiful. The almost-winter light glints off windows so dark, they’re black.

  Wow, I mouth to myself.

  I'm not typically a car girl. I like my scooter. I spent my cash on my pad with the corner water view. It's safe, small, and luxurious.

  Bought and paid for with cum and sex. Dirty but true.

  I huff out a sigh and bend over, flicking the lever to move my seat forward. I heave my weighty pack into the tiny backseat, and I straighten, giving the spankinʼ car a final glance before I shoot outta here.

  My breath catches.

  Chet Sinclair leans against the outside, legs and arms crossed in an unassuming pose. His shaggy dark-blond hair frames his angular face in a tousled, choppy casual manner that never matches his affluent demeanor.

  Sneaky fucker, my mind hiccups.

  I fight against wiping my hands on my skin-tight jeans, but I can't stop myself from doing a slow scan of Chet. He has an almost irresistible pull, as if he’s a magnet and I'm a goddamned Viking fridge.

  I feel my face pucker at that analogy.

  And here he is. Showing up in the UDub parking lot. Wonders never cease. Fancy that fucking shit.

  “Hi ya, stalker Chet,” I say with an offhand wave. My heart's in my throat and my palms tingle with the beginnings of sweat, but I've got the bravado in spades to cover my nervousness.

  I can do this.

  He says nothing. His glacial eyes are like a storm brewing, and I shift my weight.

  God, he's gorgeous.

  And weird. How many texts has he sent me? Too many to count.

  “Why haven't you returned my texts?”

  I jump when he speaks. I cross my arms, immediately on the defensive. “Because of this”—I sweep a palm in his direction—“the whacko million texts and the follow-Kiki-around business.”

  He surprises me with a grin. “I've followed you? Are you quite sure?”

  I lean over my roof and glare into his eyes. “Hell yes, I'm sure,” I whisper-hiss.

  As if on cue, the passenger-side door swings open, and a girl who’s so beautiful she has to be a model rises like cream to the top of milk. She has blond hair like a cloud kissed by gold and eyes so pale blue they look like water on a summer day. They gaze at me with aloof indifference.

  There goes whatever good mood I'd been going for.

  Her deep pink lips curl into a condescending smile.

  I'm cool as a cucumber. Wasting a little finger flutter on her in greeting.

  “Hi.”

  Inside I'm dying.

  Dying.

  I assume my little confession to Chet was possibly heard by Blondie and I'm beyond embarrassed. I don't know what mental shelf to put it on:

  Most Embarrassing Moment of All Time.

  Wish I Where Anywhere but Here.

  Or A Hole Opened and Swallowed Me.

  Any of those brain shelves sound good. Instead, I just stand here as though I'm completed unbothered.

  Ice Queen turns away and lifts her chin a fraction of an inch at Chet. Her long neck is attached to perfect shoulders that lift into an elegant little shrug.

  I bet she practices that in the mirror, like, every day.

  “Ready, Sin?”

  Sin? Oh my God. I want to punch her. I keep my smile affixed to my face like a frozen wart.

  Wonderful.

  Chet turns to Icy. “Quite.”

  His gaze moves to me, and he gives a little salute-like wave.

  I feel dismissed.

  “I'll see you soon, Kandace.”

  I can't help myself and will kick my own ass for it later, but I have to know. “Why are you here?” Since he so obviously was not following me—god.

  Icy glances at her bejeweled wristwatch as though my one question puts her out.

  I ignore her, my whole attention on Chet.

  He jerks his jaw toward the building behind him. “Oh”—he smiles brilliantly—“we're attending a function for donors.”

  I immediately think organ. Then I look at the frozen bitch next to Chet and think she might have a few to hand out. That makes me smile, and I hold back an auto-snicker.

  Chet’s expression appears all-knowing, as though he’s aware of my uncharitable thoughts.

  “Those who've contributed significant donations are invited for a Christmas luncheon.”

  “Chet?” his bitch girlfriend says.

  His eyes harden, but Chet turns away from me and takes her arm like a choreographed dance move.

  “Good-bye, Kandace.”

  “Bye,” I say.

  The bitch smirks and loops her arm through his. She totters once on her high heels as she pivots to walk in the opposite direction.

  A smile corkscrews my mouth. I'd have no problem maneuvering in those heels. People don't know that exotic dancers are really dancers, and every bit of our job is done on fish picks.

  I slide behind my steering wheel and stare at the space just occupied by Chet and his date.

  Girlfriend.

  I press my forehead against the steering wheel. Whatever. Why do I give two shits about Chet anyway?

  My head rolls against the textured cover, and I look at his sleek car again. A car that costs almost a million dollars.

  I lift my head, and my eyes find the one-hundred-twenty-year-old building where a bunch of rich people rub elbows and talk about how cool they are because they tossed money
at my university.

  I get out of there before I feel like a kid with her nose pressed against the glass.

  TWO

  Chet

  Chloe is yammering, and I use my finely honed I-don't-give-a-quasi-shit talent and tune most of it out.

  It's all about her. That bottom line means fashion: handbags, and what-so-and-so is wearing or thinking in their soft little brains.

  God. I sip my champagne and slide a glance at one of the waiters. His white-gloved finger gives a microscopic twitch as our gazes meet.

  He's a smart one and begins to weave through the hob-knob crowd to gift me a fresh glass.

  I must dull myself to survive Chloe.

  “Sin?” She places slim, perfectly manicured hands on her non-existent hips.

  Which, of course, makes me think of the charming Kandace. Now those are hips I'd love to sink my dick into. Not the hips, but in the general vicinity.

  Makes me hard just thinking about it.

  “Please call me Chet,” I say through my teeth so the words come out curt.

  My attitude works, but I can't get rid of her. She's like a tick, burrowing.

  Chloe smells blood and moves in for the kill.

  “Chet, stop drinking all the champagne and answer my question.”

  She doesn't stomp her foot, but I glance down to make sure. No, her shoe is firmly on the floor.

  I smirk. “What question?”

  I sip champagne, gazing over the fine crystal rim at her becoming-livid face.

  “The one about you coming to Christmas dinner at my parents’.” Her blue eyes light with anger.

  She’s probably pissed like a hornet because I ignored her question.

  Twice.

  “I don't know if that'll work out, Chloe.”

  I see Mick making his way toward us with his wife, Faren.

  Saved. Deep relief floods me.

  She does stomp her foot then. “Why is it always such a chore to get you to commit to anything?”