The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense

by Eros, Marata

  “God, you're gone. Are you really the fuck ʼem and leave ʼem Chet we know and love?”

  I turn, and Mick throws up his hands. “It was a good call, Chet. I knew—and Faren postulated—that Kiki might be a perfect solution for your issue.”

  “What issue?”

  “Commitment.”

  “I don't have commitment issues.”

  “But you do have needs.”

  I can't deny that, so I don't try.

  “I figured some woman out there had what you needed, and you had what she needed. Those rich bitches aren’t real enough for you. They're so caught up in bullshit and deception, they couldn't—they couldn't do anything for you.”

  “I know,” I admit.

  My guts churn.

  “Aren't you worried about her?”

  Mick taps his pen, leaning forward. “Yes. Kiki doesn't run from things. She faces challenges head on. And frankly, she's Faren's closest friend. This is out of character for her.”

  I agree. A name comes to me. “What about that man from her past—Ax?”

  Mick nods. “Faren mentioned something about him.” Mick palms his chin, then looks up. “Darrell? Damien?”

  “Dickhead,” I murmur.

  Mick smirks. “Probably not his given name, Chet.”

  Makes me feel better.

  Suddenly I have it. “Damon.”

  Mick snaps his fingers. “That's it.” He shrugs. “So? You don't think she’s playing you? The Kiki we know wouldn't do that. Which, of course, makes her disappearance even more compelling.”

  I think of Kandace underneath my hands, around my cock, bleeding into my heart like poison. No.

  Our time was pure.

  I shake my head. “No. But he's somehow a problem. He’s a link to before for her, a safety of some kind.”

  “Faren says he protected her from some of the worst of it.”

  I remember Kandace intimating about not being with anyone before me.

  Voluntarily.

  I know exactly what she meant.

  What exactly did that man protect her from? Is he really a protector?

  Or a predator?

  I look at Mick square in the face. “We have the means to find Kandace, to find out if this Damon Ax—”

  “Axton,” Mick supplies automatically.

  I nod. “If he’s a problem, and why she'd suddenly vanish. That part doesn't make sense.”

  “Foul play?” Mick asks, his brow connecting in the middle of his forehead.

  I think of the men I beat in the alley. But that doesn't feel right.

  I shake my head. “I don't think so.”

  “But you're worried. Hell—we're worried.”

  “Of course. She throws the cell I gave her in the trash, picks up her last paycheck here, and doesn’t answer Faren’s calls? Yes, I'm concerned.”

  Fucking ballistic.

  “It makes sense that Faren's frantic. But what is Kiki to you? Really, it's only been a week.”

  Mick spreads his arms away from his side.

  I feel thunder close on my face like a storm.

  I turn to my good friend. He’s the closest anyone has ever come to me, yet he still knows so little.

  Mick studies my expression. “Hey, just playing devil's advocate, Chet.”

  “It's been far longer than a week. It's only been a week since I pressed her.”

  Mick gives a rough exhale. “But what? She's Faren's best friend. I don't want her jacked around. It's got to be real. I'm not going to track Kiki down just so you can have a chick you like to ball. Faren would have my nuts in a sling.”

  I chuckle. “Doesn't she already?”

  Mick inclines his head. “Whenever she can.” He winks then his expression grows serious. “Tell me it's more than fucking. I want to help you, but you have to give me something real.”

  I turn to him. “It's more than fucking.”

  Mick says nothing, steepling his hands under his chin.

  A harsh exhale explodes out of me.

  “It's more than I want it to be.”

  THE END

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  Read on for the exciting sample excerpt from the New York Times and USA Today bestselling novel, A TERRIBLE LOVE....

  A TERRIBLE

  LOVE

  A novel

  Marata Eros

  A TERRIBLE LOVE

  Copyright © 2013 Marata Eros

  Excerpt

  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.

  Dedication:

  My steadfast husband,

  you helped me be who I was meant to.

  I love you~

  You're Mine:

  I took your everything

  took it for myself

  my enjoyment and no one else

  you're mine...

  Prologue

  The solid wooden doors of the closet shake as he pounds them. “I’ll hurt her, Jewell,” he says in a voice thickened by his usual rage. Thwack, punch, rattle. “And there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it!”

  I clench my eyes, arms wrapped around my knees; if I ignore him he’ll go away. He always used to.

  But it’s different this time. Faith came. She knew something was wrong and she came.

  I listen to her wail in the background, sweat beading on the tender part of my upper lip as I roll it in my mouth to keep from crying out. I thought I could hide.

  I thought it would end if I ignored it.

  I kept the secret, but now, as my stepbrother assaults the only friend I’ve ever had, I squeeze my head between my knees and shake with my silent sobbing.

  It’s me he wants to hurt. It’s me he’ll punish in this horrible moment of suspended time; Faith is merely the vehicle.

  Faith is in the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.

  Her arguing got Thaddeus to notice her. However, Faith will never submit.

  Her pleas go unheeded. I bear witness in a dark locked closet; shamed, terrified and soaking in my own sweat and tears, I hear what he does and I can’t stop it.

  Faith saved me, and my apathy is murdering her.

  Black

  Black is everywhere; it’s in the sky, the ground, the pounding rain that pings off the casket.

  It’s on my dress.

  My shoes. The umbrellas are a sea of it, rolling endlessly on and on.

  But there is one spot that’s red. The flare of my mother’s dress I can see from just beyond the polished lip of the wood.

  My stepbrother meets my eyes with the deep gray of his own and I shudder with keen revulsion.

  I count backward silently, the tears that scald my face chilling as the rain meets them, mingling with them in a dance of sadness that washes my face. Though it doesn’t cleanse the guilt. It never will.

  He gives me a little smirk and I cast my eyes down so he can’t see the burning hatred in my gaze.

  Thad thinks he’s home free. His crime buried beneath the prestige of his standing in the community.

  He hasn’t counted on how far I’ll
go to secure his future destruction. And my own survival. I’d do it all.

  For Faith.

  I suck in a shuddering breath, my plan firmly in place, my fear as well.

  I drop a single deep-cream rose on Faith’s casket. It spins in slow motion, making a soft thump as it connects with the mirrored finish, and I turn to leave, the good-bye caught in my heart for eternity.

  The reporters are already here.

  I flee, my high heels stabbing the sodden earth beneath my feet. When the limousine driver opens the door for me I slide inside, breathing a sigh of relief when I see I share it with no one. My vacant mother and stepfather will dutifully stay and shore up my best friend’s parents against the tragic loss of their daughter. For duty’s sake, not empathy’s.

  Thaddeus MacLeod stands watching my limo, the closing glass of my window beginning to shield me from him. As the reporters gather around him he has eyes only for me. I shiver at that quiet look of contained menace, despairing. I gather my resolve like fragile collected blossoms.

  I can do this.

  “Thaddeus!” I hear a woman reporter yell. “What does Senator MacLeod think of your attempted rescue of your dear family friend?” She heaves a microphone above her head and toward Thad’s face, skimming the heads of reporters who stand in front of her.

  He turns his face away from mine and even in the dim light of the outside I can see his one-hundred-watt smile come online, dazzling the reporter who posed the question. It makes me want to hurl. There’s no food in my stomach but my body goes through the motions nonetheless.

  I let the glass swallow the view, turning away and sinking into the plush leather as I allow my tears to come.

  Our limo driver flicks his eyes to my wet face in the rearview mirror, then discreetly away.

  I hit the up button on the divider and the glass partition slides up.

  It is the last moment of grief I’ll allow myself. Soon I will run.

  Toward anonymity, freedom. And maybe someday, absolution.

  Chapter One

  Two years later

  “Jess!” Carlie calls, chasing after me. I listen to the rat-tat-tat of her high-heeled boots stabbing the poor hallway behind me.

  God, if it is another scheme to get me to go along with some crazy-ass plan . . . I’m going to be pissed.

  “Jess!” she shouts, and I turn.

  It’s impossible to stay mad at Carlie; she is too over-the-top ridiculous for words. My eyes take in her customary look, the perfectly coiffed hair, the skinny jeans jammed into second-skin boots that somehow house thinly knit leg warmers. And don’t even get me started on what she rams her boobs into. It is surely a manacle for tits.

  How did she get them to look like that? I shake my head and smile despite myself.

  “She smiles! Excellent!” Carlie runs and throws her arms around me, saying in an uncharacteristic whisper, “Look what I have, girlfriend.” She waves a paper around in my face like a flag.

  I can’t make anything out, it’s just a grayish blur. “Stop that, ya tool!” I say with false rage.

  Carlie gives me the bird and holds it steady in front of my face. The words come together in a collision of—no. I'm not going,” I say, beginning to walk away.

  “I’m not going,” I say, beginning to walk away.

  “You are so going,” Carlie says. Then softly she calls, “Jess.”

  I stand with my back to her as other students ram through the hall, jostling and loud, maybe a minute left until class.

  “What?” I ask, still not turning.

  “It’s ballet,” she says.

  “I know,” I whisper. I break out in a light sweat, an automatic response. The opportunity to indulge my passion for dance, my former privileged life’s only oasis, now teases me with its nearness.

  “They’re coming here . . . to our school. You could, like . . . audition.”

  I could. “No, Carlie.”

  She takes me at my word, throwing the paper in the trash and slinging an arm around my neck. Carlie uses me for balance as she totters around on her stilettos. “You have to admit it was a good idea.”

  I look up into her face; she’s a damn Amazonian. “Yeah,” I say.

  “You can’t run forever, Jess.”

  Her words jolt me, but then I realize Carlie is just using an expression. She isn’t being literal.

  It seems a little too easy; she’s usually a dog with a bone.

  Carlie stops hanging off me like a monkey and we part ways for our respective courses.

  I listen to the sound of her heels as they echo down the nearly empty hall.

  I take a deep breath and pass through the door for English lit class. Just one of many sophomores in a generic university in the great state of Washington. I like blending in.

  My life depends on it.

  Ballet was my life—before. I can’t give it up, because it won’t give me up. The music plays in my head night and day. It’s a wonder I ever get anything accomplished. Some of the other students might see a subtle bob of my head and wonder. I smile at the looks and stare off into space during lectures.

  I do a similar internal music routine when I work at the coffee shop like a good drone; my partial scholarship at the University of Washington requires a little sideline income. I’m lucky to have it. I had to test out of a bunch of freshman courses, prove proficiency and then cop out as poor. I certainly couldn’t use my former grades and prestigious private school to get the full ride I’d had. That was from before.

  It was all worth it. The stress, the work.

  Then Carlie wormed her way inside my defenses despite every obstacle I’d thrown up in her way. Declared herself my friend when it went against every promise I’d made to myself. I broke them all with our friendship. What she sees in me I’ll never know.

  Carlie knows about the ballet barre I installed in my dorm room, which doesn’t have space for it; it’s pretty tough to hide and it’s my only décor. A huge metal bar driven into studs behind drywall. Yeah, so beautiful. I move my bed every day and go to sleep each night looking at it. Trying to forget. Ballet blanks the pain; it’s the eraser of my memories.

  Each day I execute my barre exercises, just as I did every day when I was another girl. Now I am a woman, with woman-sized desires and dreams. My traumatic memories haven’t robbed me of my humanity. No matter what happens there’s a stubborn spark that wants to live.

  Carlie has begun something inside me with the whisper of the ballet company visiting the U Dub campus. I ignore that something, beat at it when it appears, reject it, but it refuses to let go and blooms inside me.

  Hope.

  It’s all Carlie’s fault. I was just fine when I didn’t have any.

  Now it’s here and there is no hiding from it.

  I open my mouth as I put the blue contact in, blinking once, hoping the damn thing will sit correctly. I’ll never take having perfect vision my whole life for granted again. At the end of the day I can’t wait to tear the suckers out of my eyes; they dry up like popcorn farts and burn like hell.

  I stand away from the mirror, applying the barest hint of colored lip gloss, giving my eyeballs time to rest from the abuse of inserting contacts. I brush my teeth, squirt vanilla body spray on all the high points and cover my deep-ginger lashes with chocolate-colored mascara.

  I flutter them and decide they look just right. Next, I plait my hair into two thick braids. Even braided my hair is past my breasts; its former deep auburn is now dark blond. Its length is my only concession to my former life. Despite its length, it is nondescript, nearly invisible.

  Just like I want it.

  I study my hairline for roots. Finding none, I step away from the mirror, then turn back to it and stick my tongue out.

  It’s a glaring blue from the Blow Pop I’ve just ruthlessly sucked on.

  I need to grow up.

  I saunter off just as the knock comes at my door.

  Carlie doesn’t wait for an invitation, she just
bursts in.

  I put my hands on my hips. “Why bother knocking?” I laugh.

  She flicks her hair over a shoulder and puckers her lips, giving a dismissive shrug.

  I don’t see her stuff my ballet slippers in her backpack.

  “Ready?” she asks innocently.

  “Yeah, just . . .” I collect a few things, ramming them into my oversized Guess purse, which I swing over my shoulder.

  It’s a rare day off and I am really dragging ass. I’m sore from the barre and twirling in the middle of a dorm room with only the walls watching my perfect performance.

  Pathetic.

  “You wore makeup,” Carlie says, eyeballing my pathetic attempt to look cute.

  “Does mascara and lip gloss qualify?” I ask.

  “Hell, yeah! Especially for you,” she exclaims vigorously. “Miss au naturel.” She giggles behind her hand.

  “Bitch,” I say.

  “Sticks and stones and all that happy ho-ho shit,” she replies, completely unperturbed by my shameless name calling.

  “Why did you tell me to wear makeup?” I ask, suspicious as I cross my arms underneath my breasts, my eyes narrowing. I slam my dorm door, rattling the knob to ensure it’s locked. It never closes right.

  We move away from the door and I impatiently wait for her response.

  Carlie’s brows arch and she pouts at me. “Because: you will look attractive to the opposite sex. If it takes my last breath, you will look cute even while we sweat.”

  I look down at my yoga pants, the turned band at the top a muted tie-dye pattern, with a tight deep-blue tee and my braided hair rounding out the hippie-chic thing I’ve got going on.

  “I think you’ll have to try harder,” I say.

  “If you were just sluttier,” Carlie says mournfully, hiding behind her dark curly hair.