The Token (#10): Shepard (8 page)

Thorn

“Simon, Hugo.” Tag raises his eyebrows, jerking his head toward the once-elegant French national. Now a stiff.

Corpses lack class.
Thorn snickers then cups his chin. “It's like Smith over there. Probably a million people with that last name in France. Obviously, a false one in his case.” Thorn sets the printout down on the table between him and Tag.

The vics are a dead end.

Thorn snorts at his bad humor. He knows the answers will come when that fuck Shepard is found. But finding him is panning out like shit.

The man
knows
how to disappear. And from what Juliette says, he's worth millions. With those resources, it's not too hard to vanish.

But Thorn did his homework with Shepard—knows more than he should. Leaned on a few perps. Hard. They sung a few facts.

Doesn't hurt that Thorn knows the language. Granted, he's Haitian. It isn't the fancy Parisian French spoken by so many.

But Thorn's never had a problem making himself understood. 

If language fails, there's always his fists. Sometimes it's
better
not to be a cop.

He supposes he has that French prick of a father to thank for that DNA temper blow-through.
Thanks, Dad.
Fucker.

“What'd you come up with?” Tag scoops sunflower seeds from his pocket and sprays the used husks of the last mouthful into his mostly gone Styrofoam cup of coffee.

Thorn wrinkles his nose. Fucking disgusting habit. Guess it beats smoking.

“Got a couple of leads in my old stomping grounds.”

“Yesler?”

Thorn nods. He can always squeeze some juice out of a few lemons from the hood. “One pimp says he knows every exotic girl that goes through Seattle.”

“Like he'd tell you,” Tag says drily.

Thorn levels Tag with a hard glance. “He would.”

Tag holds his stare, lengthening it. “You give him the Thorn special sauce?”

Thorn crosses his arms, planting his feet wide. “Yup.”

Tag jerks his chin up, his light eyes twinkling. “Nice. Have to say I miss those days.”

“Yeah”—Thorn gives Tag the look he deserves—“you miss watching me threaten and play undercover.” His eyebrows jump.

Tag pretends to think about that, tapping his chin and finally giving up. He chuckles. “Yeah.”

“Anyway,” Thorn says on a protracted word.

Tag smirks.

“Shepard's not working this area. If he's begun to pick off virgins for trafficking or running his own little gig here, my guy would know.”

Tag grunts, frowning. “So why is Shepard mixed up with the two French nationals on the ground?” Tag yanks a thumb toward the coolers.

Thorn rolls his shoulders. “Don't know. Don't give any fucks. I just want Juliette protected, and if I have to rip this guy's dick off to make that happen—I will.”

“
Jesus
, Thorn—settle.”

Thorn shakes his head. “No. If you had a wife”—Thorn pauses significantly—“you wouldn't rest if there was a threat to her.”

“I guess I'll take your word for it.” Tag leans his ass against the metal desk shoved into the wall opposite the corpse coolers and folds his arms.

Thorn grunts. “Yeah. So Shepard is there, wastes these two guys.” Thorn paces toward the coolers, and the flat metal doors look like a grid of stainless playing pieces.

He faces Tag. “Why?”

“Tom got back, Thorn. There
was
a female there.”

“Who?”

Tag smiles. There's a buzz from his pocket, and he extracts his phone. “Got the results. Train manifest.” He scans his phone.

“There's no fucking train manifest.”

Tag looks up, nodding happily. “But there's surveillance.” He taps his temple.

Thorn had been waiting for the same thing. “Cameras aren't in the right direction for viewing. It's like these fuckers knew exactly where to engage.”

“How many people were on the train at nearly ten o'clock on a Sunday night?”

Thorn shrugs. Tag's question is rhetorical, but he answers. “Figured you could fire a cannon through the Kent Station and not hit anyone.”

Tag points at Thorn. “Exactly. Everything's credit card pay now. Names are cataloged.” He spreads his palms wide. “It was only a matter of time.”

Thorn's exhale explodes between them. “Spit it out.”

“Marissa Augustine.”

Thorn walks to Tag, his hands on his hips. “Speak.”

Tag rolls his eyes at Thorn's obvious impatience. “American, mixed ethnicity—twenty-three. French major.”

Thorn's grin is savage. “Bingo.”

Seeing Thorn's manic glee, Tag inclines his head. “Doesn't fit the French angle perfectly, though. From what Juliette says, Shepard recruited young girls. Virgins who didn't already speak a bunch of languages. Chicks who needed to be
molded.
”

Thorn nods. He's excited. “Yeah, but that was foreign. In their turf where they had all kinds of resources they could pay off. Over here?” Thorn slaps his thighs, walking off his nervous energy. “Here, they would need a leg up. Makes more sense to nail girls who are already partially suited to their needs.”

“This chick doesn't look real mixed.”

Thorn is curious despite himself. “Let me see.”

Tag flips the phone around.

The image fills the screen. Classic driver's license photo. Girl has long, kinky dark blond hair and wide smoky eyes, Angelina Jolie lips, and is built to move. Athletic, big of bone, delicately featured. Different.

Thorn purses his lips. “Hands-down exotic.”

Tag nods. “She has a unique look, but she's not...”

“Black?” He hikes an eyebrow, remembering the French mob's idea of mules.

“Fuck, Thorn—you know I don't
give
a ripe shit.”

“I know.”

They stare at each other, thinking about their shared past. “But these clients—for lack of a better term—Juliette says that the girls need to be mixed to appeal to a wide variety of delegates.”

“Pricks,” Tag spits.

Thorn shrugs
. Truth.
“Yeah. But I want Shepard. He's got this girl, right?”

“Looks like.” Tag heaves a rough exhale, plowing his fingertips through his fair hair and uncrossing his arms. He puts the flat of his palms on his thighs. “But we don't
know
if he's hurting her, or he—saved her.”

Thorn scowls. “Shepard can't
save
anyone. He only fucks women up. A
Léopard
doesn't change his spots. He's his own fucking freak show.”

“I think that's tiger...”

Thorn hikes a shoulder. “Whatever. The dude clearly lacks compassion. Shepard was there. Juliette was here ten minutes ago and ID'd his methods. It's him. And we have two FNs dead and a missing girl. Looks pretty conclusive.”

“I know you want to bust this guy's balls, but something doesn't add up.”

“Which part?” Thorn tosses his arms into the air. “The part where the former pimp of the French mob shows up and so do bodies with known French mob connections, and a mixed-blood girl who speaks French is suddenly gone? Seems like it does. Two plus two is four, pal.”

Tag grimaces. “The circumstances point to that, but if that was this Shepard's MO, why wait an entire year to get back into the biz? Why piss in corners and mark his territory now?” Tag's brows shoot up.

“Wait till the heat cools?” Tag's frown deepens to a scowl. “Once no one's paying attention, Shepard moves in and claims this area for his own little trafficking oasis.”

Thorn shakes his head. “Nah.”

“Maybe he was hoping to be the mob's guy here in America?”

Thorn fights rubbing his arms from the meat-cooler cold of the morgue, clenching his teeth instead.

“They've got plenty of local trafficking going on. Shepard wouldn't get a foothold.” Thorn moves to the morgue door.

His hand heats the metal of the chilled doorknob.

“Maybe they were recruiting him,” Tag says to Thorn's back.

Thorn doesn't want to believe anything of Shepard except the facts of what he's done to women.

To Juliette.

Shepard needs to be stopped, and Thorn's the one to do it. He can feel it in his bones. He looks over his shoulder at his former partner. His friend.

“You're making this personal, Thorn,” Tag announces quietly.

Thorn pivots away from Tag. “Yeah,” he replies softly. “Always was.” He walks out with Tag at his heels.

Thorn knows his motivation is about saving this Marissa.

But it’s also mostly about retribution for Juliette.

Shepard

I press us against our mutual grime. Each other. Our bodies.

Our minds.

Marissa is sweet against my mouth. My body.

I didn't check in. I simply broke into one of the rooms. There is no credit card I can use that
la famille
wouldn't track.

Plastic leaves a trail. Cash stands out. There is no easy entrance.

When Marissa was out cold in shock from the sight of the men I killed, I took the time to lift the plates from their car and put them on my own.

I kept my originals in the trunk.

By this time, I presume everyone is after us now. But for different reasons.

They will
disappear
Marissa.

And me.

In the meantime, I will partake of her. But not in the way she thinks.

As brutal as I've been in the past, I will now be tender. Both the novelty and irony are not lost on me.

“Wait,” Marissa says against my mouth, but I have already unwrapped her clothes like a much-anticipated present. Her bare, lush breasts press against my chest.

“Why?” I ask, because I told her what I wanted to do. What I intend to do. I will not allow myself that pleasure. I could take what I wanted. But the days of me stealing innocence for
la famille
are over.

“I want you—I do. Even though every instinct I have is screaming for me to run.”

“Then run.”

Marissa's forehead falls forward, landing softly on my own. “No.”

A dark chuckle slips from between my lips.

I have already shut the motel door behind us with the flat of my foot. I took us through the bathroom door and turned on the hot water.

We will cleanse each other.

The rush of water hitting the tub is the only sound. And our breathing. The rushed hands as we extract ourselves from our clothing.

I set Marissa on her feet and sink to my haunches. My hands clasp her ankles, and her long hair brushes the top of my head, tickling the stubble at my jaw. “Trust me,” I say in French.

“I don't,” she admits from above me.

I tip my head back, staring into eyes gone dark with desire. “That is good. I do not trust men, either.”

Marissa's breath catches at that. “You said you'd fuck me.”

I nod. “Eventually.”

Her hands run through my hair, a smirk ghosting her lips. “What now?” she whispers.

“We shower.”

I jerk her pants down.

Marissa yelps, her eyes rounding in fear. I lift her right leg, and she instinctively grips my shoulders for balance.

My face is in line with her slit. Marissa does not wear panties. She is bare before my gaze.

I smile.
She is gorgeous.

“Don't hurt me,” she says.

I don't answer, taking off the other pant leg. Rising, I move her backward into the hot spray like a dance step.

We move smoothly underneath the water, and it flattens her hair against her skull, causing the thick strands to darken to a deep gold.

Her sooty eyelashes blink up at me.

I run my finger back and forth at her jaw, and freedom swells inside me. I have saved this woman. A cherry.

Tenderness is foreign, but I have experienced the emotion. Once. The more I practice, the better it feels. Like a wound that finally scabs over.

Marissa takes my finger and brings it to her mouth.

Her smoldering eyes meet mine. Marissa sucks me inside the heat and wetness between her lips, and I sway toward her, my cock catching between her legs.

She scissors her thighs together, and I go from half hard to rock solid in seconds between her legs.

I lick my lips. “You are a virgin.” I say it to remind myself. I say it for restraint.

“In a way.”

My eyebrow hikes.

She squeezes harder, and I moan. The sensation of letting the moment organically build without a premeditated agenda is an aphrodisiac in and of itself. “Having a hymen doesn't make me a virgin.”

Mon Dieu.

Our eyes lock.

“What has happened, Marissa?”

Her smile is slight, and one of the saddest I have ever witnessed. She shakes her head softly, and her hair, so wet moments before, tries to lift and dry.

I smooth it underneath my hand, reveling in the texture.

Turning, I tear a towel off the rack and twist it, placing it at the end of the tub. “Let me show you something besides pain. Let me prove that I can.”

Her eyes are wide, but tears fall regardless. She nods, and I ease her back against the back curve of the tub. I adjust the showerhead, allowing the water to fall only partly on our bodies. Steam rises, swamping us with heat.

We make our own as we gaze at each other, and my eyes run down the length of her body. Beautiful
caf
é
au lait
skin covers every inch. Subtle muscles present with each minute shift of position, her legs clamped tightly together.

I lower to my knees and use them to push her legs apart.

My eyes meet her own. “I won't make love to you tonight.”

“I don't think I could. You're—I don't know you from Adam.” Even with the context, I'm not sure of the expression.

“Our bodies know each other.”

Subtle red spreads across her cheekbones. “Yes,” she whispers.

I have never been one not to revel in the moment. I am primal. For all my training, experiences, atrocities committed—and survived—at heart, I only wish to be who and what I am.

I lather the cheap motel soap, the pathetic suds accumulating. Slowly, my slick fingertips climb smooth wet skin. Marissa's chest rises and falls with her rapid breathing, her eyes deepening to pewter with my touch.

“Shhh,” I say quietly as the tips of my fingers breech the crease between thigh and pussy.

Her hands latch onto my wrists, halting my reach. Her fingers cannot meet around the circumference. “Don't.” She bites her bottom lip.

“Don't what?” I ask in barely more than a breath as my head sinks to just above her sex.

“Kiss you?” My voice ends in a lilt, and I roll my eyes up to meet her gaze.

She shakes her head.

“I am merely cleaning you.”

Marissa watches as my hand leaves her thigh and my fingers split her folds.

She moans, gently tossing her head back. A tendril of hair strikes me like a soft, wet whip, and I clamp my teeth together against the erotic sensation.

I seesaw her wetness apart with the side of my hand, the water sluicing at my back and hitting her hips. Hot drips slide to the valley of her, running over the dam my fingers create. The soapsuds aid my slick assault.

“Oh God,” she cries, her head falling all the way back.

God will not grant permission, but I will.

I drive my shoulders against her round ass, and the movement kicks her legs up behind and on either side of my head.

She pushes against my shoulders, but I continue to work the soap deep into the heated crevices of her pussy, rinsing her with the water that runs like a small river from her hips to her sex.

The button of her desire is a swollen bud beneath my lips—begging for attention.

Marissa stops pushing, watching my focus at the center of her. She finally gives me the permission I need, bringing her chin down in a jerking nod. “Yes,” she whispers.

I plunge forward, hammering her clit between my lips, and suck. Hard.

“Ah!” she says, crying out in a desperate gasp.

With one finger, I enter her partway. I find what she told me she had. I press against the thick barrier. Her eyes snap open, and I suck her clit harder, lightly biting as I move my finger against her hymen. Softening it.

Stretching.

Marissa shakes her head. “What—
oh God
—what are you doing?” she says, her fingers sinking into my wet hair. She yanks.

I ignore it and bury my face in her delicious cunt.

My face rises, soap and her juice clinging to my chin, and I answer,  “Pleasuring you. Now let me
finish
.” I press my finger to the second knuckle, and the walls of her pussy spasm against me, her hips bucking.

“Okay,” she breathes and tosses her arm behind her, her fingers splayed on the cold tile.

“Move your hips against my face.”

Spreading her legs wider, Marissa shoves herself against me, driving my finger deeper. She sucks in a breath at what I know from experience is painful.

“Harder,” I growl against her wetness and plunge deeper. I feel her barrier stretch, and I clamp my lips around her clit—pulling the sensitive flesh deep.

Marissa yells and cums as I knew she would. With abandon.

Ferociously.

I work her clit as her pussy pulses around my seeking finger. Her tight trench closes around the single digit like a vise of velvet flesh.

“Yes,” I hum against her bundle of nerves, and Marissa screams as she cums a second time. I grin against her slick heat.

Perfect.
Except
my erection needs deflating.

I circle her clit with my tongue. A slow letdown of small orgasms quakes against me, and my teeth press against the swollen head of her arousal. I peel the hood back and kiss the raw nerves, and she jumps against my mouth.

Selfish Shepard lifts his head and lies down against the opposite side of the tub.

Water falls like rain between us.

Marissa blinks in the post-coital slow-motion way all women have when sufficiently pleasured.

My cock stands at painful, throbbing attention. I wave a palm toward myself. Her eyes grab ahold of my erection and widen.

Marissa gets up on her knees, snatching up the same soap I just used on her, and slowly lathers it, her eyes never leaving mine. Hot water falls against her bare back, and her breasts move independently of her actions, rolling seductively between her handsʼ rotation. Suds slide down her forearms, obscuring her dark mocha nipples.

“Turnabout is fair play.” She lifts a shoulder, and the delicate striated muscles play at the joint.

I shake my head. “It is payment.”

Marissa frowns, and I grab the back of her neck. Her hands fall to my thighs with a wet slap.

My eyes search her, fevered, intense. “Never forget who I am.
What
I am.”

Her fingertips bite into the flesh of my thighs. I embrace the pain while Marissa sketches the scars of my body with her eyes.

“Suck you or nothing.” Her face wears the horror of where I've put us, her head straining against my hold.

I softly shake my head and whisper, “Suck me and get everything.” My words are true, my actions hard.

Marissa drops the soap and lowers her face as her lips circle the sensitive tip of my cock.

I know what will happen before she does. She moves down the length of me once. Twice.

I groan, my hands moving to her head and holding her in place. I cum from my feet, blasting everything I have into her mouth. At first she uselessly struggles.

Then she does what she has to.

Swallowing me down. Deeply. All that I give her.