The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense (15 page)

“Yeah. Yeah you would.”

His face doesn't change. His mouth lowers until I feel the heat of his lips hovering above my own.

“Yes. I would.”

I shiver.

“I'm scared.”

“Of me?” he asks, his lips still suspended.

Truth time.
“Yeah.”

He kisses me. It’s not a light press but a devouring of my mouth. I don't respond at first.

Then my mouth becomes a traitor and moves under his. I groan, pulling his face to mine.

I smell blood, sweat, and the sweet scent of Chet.

It's still home.

But it might not be a place I want to live.

*

Chet doesn't come inside, and I don't ask. He hangs off the top of the doorjamb, his long dexterous fingers clutching the top. He swings his body forward and kisses me. I grab his lapel and kiss him back.

His face says he wants to say more, but he's quiet.

Chet retreats a step, folding his arms. His knuckles are a raw disaster, and I look away.

“Do you have the cell I gave you?”

I look at the kitchen table where it lays. “Yeah. I didn't bring it tonight because we were together.”

He grins. “Yes. Very together.”

I think of him hugging me after he made love to me in the theater.

It was somehow a tender cherry dropped on a volatile cake.

So Chet.

So us.

“Carry it with you—everywhere.”

“Okay,” I say, knowing I can't give him up. But I should. A small part of me shrieking to get out while I can.

He backs away, and I close the door when all I see is his back when he enters the elevator.

My purse survived the alley, and I pluck my cell out of it. My hands shake slightly as I cruise through my messages.

There's one from Ax.

It has a pin on a location on Google Maps.

I smile, widening the perspective.

A neon sign centers on the cell screen:

The Crawl.

It's a picture of a crab standing on two legs like a person. Blue eyes glow out of a human-looking face. I smile.

Three words:
See ya soon.

I think of Chet’s violence against the men and the kind I like when we're together.

He's not healthy for me.

Just because I want him doesn't mean it's right.

I might have to protect myself—

I don't know.

One thing I do know is I need a shower. I can't stand knowing that creep's hand was on me. I feel as if the filth of his fingertips remains.

I'm in there until the hot water grows lukewarm.

I know I'll have nightmares.

But I don't.

I'm dreamless.

*

I make my way to the Black Rose.

My dirty money is there. I figure with my final paycheck, I’ll have enough to live on for three months. Then it's student loans and back to the grind.

I sigh as I cram the Fiat into a parking space too small for most cars.

Loving on that city ride.

I bob my head at the last note of an awesome song and reluctantly shut off the car.

I get out of the Fiat and walk up to the BR. I’m glad to my toes I don't have to strip anymore.

No more envisioning all the pathetic wieners in the audience as Ronald McDonald’s clowns.

I snort as I click up the steps.

I'm truckinʼ along, keeping my head down and lost in my thoughts.

“Hello, Miss King.”

My face lifts as my high heel hits the top step and my eyes hit on someone at the base of the stairs I just climbed. I shield my eyes from the glare of bright winter sun. A tall woman—she’s well-preserved but in her early forties—wears a plastic smile like a mask.

I smell trouble. I have a nose for it.

I slow in front of the entrance. It's early afternoon and quiet at the Black Rose. The dancers haven’t even arrived for practice yet.

“Yes?” I ask, though I know I don't want to know this broad.

“We haven't met yet.”

“No.”
Right, I often get accosted at my former place of work.
I fight a telltale hard eye roll. I keep my distance. Miss Coolness notices my not-so-subtle bubble and smiles.

She reminds me of Chloe somehow.

“No,” I repeat somewhat stupidly. I want to kick my own ass.
Come on, Kik!

“I'm Clarice Sinclair.”

Some relative of Chet's? Her eyes look at my face then travel to my spiky scarlet pumps. Slowly they move to my hands, taking in my nails and the wide sterling band on my middle finger. She checks out the ta-tas shoved in my favorite bra and the fine sterling chain encircling my throat. My trademark thin-as-paper hoops swing from my lobes. My mop of hair is piled high.

I cross my arms, defensive. This twit acts as if I'm on the auction block. “Okay.”

I give her nothing, letting the silence lengthen. It’s a little trick Faren taught me, and it's highly effective.

But not with old Clarice.

She's lithe, and so pale she should have red hair. Platinum hair with a bit of red is in a simple knot at her nape, and her deep blue eyes regard me like a gnat. Slim fingers lace in front of her. A blinding diamond graces her left ring finger.

Married. Too young to be Chet's mom.

My confusion deepens. I don't know who she is but why she's here is the bigger question.

“You're not his usual type,” Clarice comments almost to herself.

“Listen, doll. I'd like to say it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance or some similar shit, but since that's not ever going to happen it's been real.” I flutter my fingers at her reddening face.

“I am Chet's mother, Miss King, and I have come to warn you.”

I turn, taking in her insincere face. “No. You're here about you. I can tell that from the three hundred seconds you've been standing here.”

We stare at each other.

“Fine.” She crosses her arms. “You're not right for Chet.”

Knew it.
“So you what? Stalk my ass, come to where I used to work to beg me not to see him? Who is Chet to you?”

“He's my son.”

I snort. “Not likely.”

Not unless she had him at twelve.

“Stepson.”

“That's more like it.”

“You're very sure of yourself, Miss King.”

“You don't bother me. Or anyone like you. You don't know anything about me. Your speculations don't count.”

She smirks, her face one of artful control. “The facts are, you come from a dubious upbringing of mixed origin.”

Tactful prejudice.
Still insulting.

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrow rises. “You're a former stripper and, how can I delicately put this?”

“Don't bother,” I grate.

“Your social interaction leaves much to be desired.”

God.
This bitch raised Chet?
He'd have to wear armor to survive her.

I cross my arms. “What do you want?”

“Don't see Chet. It's really quite simple.”

I smile. “Nobody tells Chet what to do. I would think you might have figured that out by now, but maybe you're a dim bulb.”

Clarice bares her teeth and steps toward me, looking me straight in the eye.

I know she wants to hit me, but she probably doesn't want to sully her perfection with my perceived lack of it.

“I am not dim. But I will not stand by and let Chet ruin his engagement.”

“What?” I ask, feeling a sucker punch to the gut.

Her lips curl cruelly.

“You didn't know? Why Chloe and Chet have been engaged since time immemorial.”

I retreat from her.

Someone is crushing my chest—I can't breathe.

She saunters closer, hips swaying as she moves in for the kill. She flicks her eyes down me again and smirks. “He'll fuck you, Kandace King, but it is Chloe he will marry.”

She turns away from me as I use the wall to hold me up.

At the bottom step, she turns. A wool jacket is buttoned tight at her chest, and the bottom lifts in the breeze that kicks up.

Like a witch's cape.

I viciously strike down the hysterical bubble of laughter before it can escape.

“Chloe mentioned the misfortune of making your acquaintance. You already know
who
is right for Chet, Miss King.” Her smirk flattens into a satisfied smile. “Good-bye for now.” Clarice turns gracefully and walks toward a limo that I notice is double parked.

Horns blare, but the blonde queen ignores her rudeness as though it doesn't exist.

I stare long after the limo departs.

I take two cells out of my pocket.

One goes in the all-black garbage can outside the entrance of the Black Rose.

The other I open and send a text to someone who can help me forget.

Everything.

It isn't until I'm home and packing my bag that I realize I forgot to pick up my pay.

Chet

“Stop shouting!” Mick says loudly.

I control my breathing, trying for calm.

That’s pretty fucking difficult when Kandace has been missing for three days and even Faren doesn't know where she is.

I hold her cell. “This is the last place she was. I find her cell in the BR trash can and, forgive me—it's goddamned damning.”

“Isn't that like a double verb or something?” Mick says, attempting humor.

But mine has vanished. Not that I ever had much to begin with.

“Let me just say it's a little out there that you tracked Kiki's cell,” he says.

I toss the cell on Mick's desk and stalk away. I throw my hands on my head, lace my fingers, and pace. “It was a safety thing.”

“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.”