The Token 7: Thorn (A Token Novel)

by Eros, Marata

  “Oh yeah?” I place my hands lightly on my hips. Ready.

  He mirrors me.

  Not good.

  “I'm Simone's boss. She doesn't have time for part-time gigs with smarmy dudes.”

  He insults me in French.

  I already recognized his accent. I have an ear for it. I learned French first, and it assimilates just like English to my ear. No hiccups.

  I feel my lips pull into a smirk. “That might be, ya douche, but if I'm an imbecile and an oaf, than you're a bigger one for assuming it.”

  The girls gasp, and he narrows his eyes at me. I see not much surprises this prick. I get a sweet stab of joy that I have.

  Questions sprout in my mind sprouts like out-of-control weeds. Who is this prick?

  And why does he want Simone?

  Certainty that mimics pain drives up from my feet and lands with a thud that becomes a light headache.

  He's not having Simone. No one is.

  It's one of those shitty moments in life when you know you can't rule your bullshit. It rules you.

  “I don't recognize which province you hail from?”

  He sounds like a Parisian asshole. Same accent as Simone.

  “I'm Haitian,” I reply in French, not that I need to explain dick to him.

  “Ah,” he says softly, tipping his head back in smug confirmation. “That explains so much.”

  I'm ready to put him back in his under-the-rock place he crawled out of when Kiki pipes in.

  “Okay, this all sounds pretty and that, but I think you guys are circling another fight, so you”—Kiki points at Frenchie—“leave. Come back when all the other paying guys do.”

  “Or not,” I add, still in French.

  His eyes cut to me. I keep mine on him like a dog fighting for dominance.

  The silence fills with loud music, never once taking the swollen feeling from the air.

  Simone's silence has so much weight. I can't look at her right now.

  This guy seems to be waiting for my guard to drop.

  Not. Gonna. Happen.

  He swings his head, and I know he's looking at Simone. “I will talk with you at a later date.”

  She doesn't answer.

  He turns to me.

  “Who are you?” I ask.

  He smiles, and it's genuine. It makes my primal alarm system sing like a canary.

  “They call me Shepard.”

  That's so bizarre it's poetic.

  He lifts an eyebrow, and I return the favor. “Thorn.”

  Shepard opens his mouth and laughs, throwing back his head. “That's precious, really.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  His smile vanishes like sunlight behind a storm cloud.

  “Why the moniker?” he asks.

  I nod.

  Fancy mouth to go with his fancy duds.

  “I tend my flock.” He speaks to me, but his eyes are all for Simone.

  I don't like where this creep is looking. I move in front of her.

  He frowns. “You are named for something that has beauty.”

  I shake my head.

  “Thorn makes things bleed.”

  The unspoken warning lies between us.

  “Touché,” he answers softly.

  With a searching look, he turns on his heel and walks out.

  The very room breathes easier without him around.

  A new complication.

  I turn around to get some damn answers from Simone.

  She's gone.

  Kiki and I look at each other and she shakes her head.

  Simone has disappeared like a ghost.

  One thing's for sure: She haunts me.

  12

  Simone

  I'm running again. Tears burn my eyes as I hold them open against the wind as I jog.

  I reach the door, jam my key into the entrance of my apartment, and swing that first door open. It opens easily and closes softly behind me.

  My heels clatter on the six steps to my apartment door.

  It's off the hinges, scattered like a wooden sheet of paper on the floor.

  I survey the mess while flipping my small baton, letting my keys succumb to gravity as I swing the fob forward of my body.

  Without a door, it’s easier to enter without worrying about a bad guy hiding behind it.

  I hear a noise and recognize it for what it is: a drawer being tossed.

  My heels are left behind.

  I pad bare-footed across a minefield of dumped knick knacks, silverware, broken glass, and kitchen debris.

  I use stealth that is learned, holding hands out for balance as though walking a tightrope. I'm on the balls of my feet, and they swivel as I assure my footing on the carpeted hallway.

  The escape routes are behind me. It fills me with unease. Two exits are always better than one.

  I close my eyes. Small noises alert me I have one, maybe two intruders.

  I open my eyes and weave down the hall like a dancer entering the stage.

  The bathroom door is to my right, and I hear makeup and bottles being shifted. Someone is rummaging through my things.

  My heart thumps, blood rushing like a river of noise inside my ears.

  I swallow.

  I blink slowly again, steeling myself to do what needs to be done.

  Straight ahead is the tiny bedroom that houses more than my escape duffel.

  Another man is there.

  It's not Shep. He never does his own dirty work.

  I move to the frame of the bathroom doorway. The space between that door and the bedroom is three meters.

  I won't be able to surprise them both, but I can't have bad guy number one behind me. That's just bad form.

  I turn in a half circle, and his eyes meet mine in the mirror as I move in behind him.

  His eyes widen in the reflection. I strike him at the back of the neck with a precise tap that is as deliberate as it is forceful.

  I'm too small to catch him and make it quiet. Besides, his lack of tearing through my crap will alert bad guy number two.

  Too late.

  I spin out of the bathroom as number one falls in a loud heap of garbage on linoleum.

  Bad guy number two is already moving to meet my dance steps.

  At this level of thug, gender means nothing. He assesses me as a threat.

  As he should.

  He strikes me hard. I block with my left arm, but it still glances off my chest. The blow numbs me from forearm to wrist, but I jab my six-inch solid steel baton into his Adam's apple, crushing his esophagus.

  He tries to howl, but I've made that impossible. He's a gasping fish without breath.

  I move in. I let the keychain fall as I palm the back of his head, and my left knee meets his nose.

  It splits like a ripe cantaloupe.

  I hesitate as he staggers backward.

  Do it, Simone.

  I choke back a guttural sob of advance remorse. Women are supposed to give life, not take it.

  I suck in a breath. It's me or them.

  I don't have room for a kick. I flat palm the heel of my hand into his wrecked nose, driving the shards of cartilage into his brain.

  He spasms.

  Gorge rises. I stifle it.

  Not done yet.

  I hit the throat a second time with my bare hand.

  Powerfully.

  Finally.

  His head rocks back and he falls like a tree that's been cut.

  His body slams on the floor with a thud that echoes in the apartment.

  I straighten. Closing my eyes and breathing deeply of the death I created, I hear no movement.

  Then a sound reaches me from down the hall. Like a cat, I spin toward that small noise, my hackles rising.

  Thorn moves into the doorway at the end of the gangplank of a corridor, a gun naked in his hand.

  Fuck.

  I can't kill him.

  I'm too deep in to play the victim. I can't tell him the truth.

  Lies won
't do.

  For the first time in years, I don't know how to handle this mess.

  My eyes flick to bad guy number one. He still isn't moving from his spot on the bathroom floor.

  The priorities of survival float to the surface like cream in milk.

  Emergency duffel.

  Ignoring Thorn, I pivot and dive for my closet.

  Tearing it open, I grab a compartmentalized black duffle.

  It has all that I need. I breathe a sigh of relief that Shepard’s dogs didn't sniff it out. It would cripple me.

  I jerk it out of the closet, my eyes sweeping the room. They land on my assailant for a moment then move on.

  The cops will want to know how this happened. Thankfully I have no record in either system, and the name on the apartment lease is false.

  As is the name I go by now.

  Simone Balland is one of several aliases, but it was my favorite. It'll have to go away. Part of it comes from my family.

  Not that I think about where I come from. Ever.

  Thorn is moving down the hall. “Are you okay?”

  I nod.

  His hand grips the door jamb of the bathroom.

  Feet dangle out into the hall.

  He crouches, feeling for a pulse. “He's alive.”

  Thorn stands, his frame so large he dwarfs the hall. His dark skin blends into the shadows. His expressive eyes seek my face.

  He's a beautiful man.

  I want him.

  We always want that which we cannot have.

  Thorn's gaze shifts to the intruder at my feet.

  I scoop up my keys with the baton.

  Our eyes notice the blood at the same time.

  “I've seen a few dead bodies in my time, Simone,” Thorn says. It strikes me as odd phrasing.

  I have too.

  “Yes?”

  He doesn't respond. We stare at each other over the body.

  I need to get out of here and run.

  Again.

  Thorn holds out his hand, palm up.

  I stand there for a full minute, staring at what he offers.

  His hand never wavers, trembles, or disappears.

  Tears that haven't been shed in a decade scatter my vision of his unspoken offer like fairy dust thrown on water.

  His flesh wavers like a mirage.

  Maybe it's not real.

  I move my hand out, seeking.

  I touch his, and he grips my hand, engulfing mine.

  He pulls me over the corpse and into his arms.

  I shake my head. “I can't.”

  Then I bawl. I sob as I never have before. I'm so tired of this life.

  Scared.

  So filled with empty I'm frozen in place.

  “Thorn's here,” he murmurs against my temple, his big body covering mine as I shake with sorrow against him.

  He wraps all my hair into his fist and presses my face against his chest so tight I can't move.

  I’m not frightened.

  I feel safe. Selfish.

  Right.

  13

  Thorn

  “'Kay, are we just a couple of fools, or what?” Kiki asks over the blaring music.

  Maybe. I look at where Shepard just exited then where Simone had stood behind me.

  The mystery shrouding Simone deepens, and I can't have this shit. My emotional rocker is in tough shape. Even I have to admit that.

  My mom just died.

  Bio-dad needs to be found. He has to atone. Period.

  I've got some girl I'm crazy for mixed up in something bad—I can smell it. She’s also a martial arts expert.

  But she wants to be an exotic dancer.

  Maybe “wants” isn’t the right word.

  Maybe has to works better. I think of Faren briefly, about how she was hiding in plain sight.

  “I don't know what's going on exactly,” I yell over the din. Giving up, I turn. I gotta get outta here, find Simone.

  If I'm honest with myself, which usually isn't a challenge, I'll just admit she's got me in knots of worry. Shepard is bad news.

  Bad for her. I'd stake my life on it, and

  I just might have to.

  Kiki jogs after me, her heels like spikes of noise between the beat of the music.

  “Thorn! Wait up...”

  I only think of Simone, consumed with her safety.

  She catches up to me striding out toward the exit. “Hold up, fucker!”

  I turn, and Kiki literally bounces into the wall of my chest. I grab her as she falls backward.

  “Gah!” she wails. “Don't just go off half-cocked! Use the big head, pal.”

  Half-cocked. Yeah.

  I drop my hands, and she rubs her arms where I held her.

  The sunlight hits me as I move through the employee exit at the back. She slowly walks through.

  It slams shut, and I glance back at the smooth door.

  Exit only, it's smooth where a handle would be. We can't have dickholes sneaking in through the back. That was my idea. Cut the security bullshit in half.

  It doesn't allow someone in without a code. My mind circles around Sinclair and Shepard.

  Kiki looks at me. “Okay.” She blows a curl out of her face, and it promptly pops back into place. “Simone has some bad ass French a-hole after her.”

  This I know. I twirl my hand to keep her talking.

  I want to get to Simone, like, yesterday.

  I scan the parking lot and see Simone’s vintage VW bug is missing.

  “Thorn... is he, is he French like you?” Kiki asks.

  I remember his voice, his accent.

  “No, not like me. Different countries. He's city, Paris. Haiti is another world.” A world of mixed cultures, ethnicity, Creole peoples, and voodoo.

  No, it's not like Paris; not like France.

  Just the same language, yet—not.

  Hard to explain that all to Kik.

  “Oh,” she says in a small voice. “I think Simone is running, and trouble has found her.”

  I level a look at Kiki. “I agree.”

  “What're you going to do?”

  I laugh bitterly. “Why is this my issue?”

  Kiki grins. “So you went blazing out of the Black Rose to catch some fresh air? You searched the parking lot for her car ‘cause you give less than a shit? Right—don't blow me, Thorn.”

  Right. I can't fucking believe this.

  I peg my hands on my hips, chin down, eyes on the ground. I'm so mad I could scream. The seconds slide by while Kiki waits for a response I don't want to give. “I fucking dig her, 'kay? Happy?” I growl.

  The silence pounds me like the heat of the sun above us.

  “That's why I asked you to take care of her. She's the ying to your yang.”

  I lift my head. “What kind of psycho-babble is that?”

  Kiki lifts a shoulder, pushing her hoop with it. “The kind that's true, dude.”

  I storm off, pacing the open asphalt between the cars. “Fuck!” I kick a tire that's close and plow through the rows of parked cars.

  I can't go after her.

  Too. Fucking. Vulnerable.

  Too much of a fucking pussy move.

  I lift my head, and Kiki's watching, her eyes solemn. She says, “Just go after her. That fucker's bad news. Isn't your cop gut telling you that?”

  I kick a rock, and it hits the building like a missile, popping a chunk out of the corner trim like a loose tooth.

  Hell no, it's not telling me. It's shouting it.

  I hate how goddamned smart she is. I stare at Kiki, daring her to say more.

  'Cuz she's Kiki, she does. “Just go.”

  I throw my hands down like pistons at my sides.

  “God!” I bellow, hands clenching into fists, the cords of my neck like ropes strung taut.

  He doesn't listen.

  It's time to listen to myself.

  I don't look at Kiki. I pull my keys out of my pocket and stride to my Porsche.

  I break ev
ery law getting to Simone's shitty addy.

  Not wanting to.

  Praying I'm not too late.

  *

  I cuff the steering wheel for immobility, tweak the alarm on, and shut the door. The cherry I leave on the roof.

  Let the dredges take my cop's light. It serves as identifier and warning in one red orb.

  I sprint to her apartment entrance.

  I look in either direction. Humanity’s indifference meets me at all sides.

  The latch had been compromised. The metal tongue that engages the striker has been covered with tape.

  Fuck me.

  I tear the door open, run and leap over the short flight of steps to her apartment, landing on the balls of my feet at the base of the stairwell. I grunt softly at the impact.

  I have my gun in my palm before I've thought to do it.

  The door to Simone's apartment covers broken remnants of the contents of her apartment like a boogie board on top of an ocean.

  I don't surf it, but move between the islands of broken glass and tossed drawer contents.

  Someone's been searching. None too subtle either.

  I wind my fingers around the grip of my weapon. The gun comes up, rounding each corner before me. I sweep the piece in my path.

  Silence greets me.

  I'm on intimate terms with the quality of silence, and this one has people in it. I don't know how I understand it, but it’s one of the aptitudes that allowed me to survive my childhood and nail perps by intuitive leaps of logic.

  I employ that now.

  I move into a shadowed hallway, gun first.

  I slide my arm down the hallway, dipping a sliver of my face into the hall like a crescent moon.

  Nothing.

  Not a breeze, movement, shift or hint of anything.

  There are people here.

  I move into the center of the hall, a bigger target there isn't.

  So does Simone.

  I almost raise my gun, but her figure is all aligned in the curves of a woman. I recognize female instantly.

  I shove the gun into the back waistband of my pants.

  Simone watches me with shocky eyes. I move toward her slowly, feeling as though she'll spook.

  I ask her if she's all right, and she mouths yes when her eyes say no. Eyes can speak if you look hard enough.

  My gaze shifts to an open doorway to my right, flicking back to hers.

  She tracks my movements.

  Glass and harsh light greet me in the bathroom next to me.