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

I cock my head, eyeing her across the table. “Then what does that say about Mr. Sinclair? Why does he want me—if he can have any pussy, anywhere, anytime?”

Faren shakes her head with a slight grimace. “I don't know.”

I point at her. “Exactly. You know what I think?”

“No. But you'll tell me.”

“Damn straight, sweet thing.”

Our gazes lock. “I think some people out there have something someone needs. And sometimes, they can intuit their deepest desire on the spot.”

“Okay.” Faren picks up a fork and plays with it. “You're saying Chet has something that satisfies you sexually. Then why are you here with me, getting your freak on as you call it?”

“Because I'm scared.”

Her eyes search my face. “When the hell have you ever been scared of anything?”

“I'm scared of breaking the promise.”

Faren says nothing. She flips the fork over and under, under and over. The tines make a kind of music on the Formica.

Coffee and tea come during our silence.

I feel the waitress's stare burn me as she sets the small creamer next to the off-white ceramic cup.

Steam rises from the coffee, mingling with the heat from Faren's tea.

She grabs the tea with her bad hand. It trembles, but she dips the tea bag over and over. Pressing the spoon against the bag, she dips it once more then takes it out and sets it on the saucer.

Faren blows on the liquid, and pale brown ripples caress the top of the tea.

I make a face. “God, put some damn honey in that shit.”

Faren sets down the tea.

“Is that the promise you made about men and love?”

Shit.
I stare at her tea instead of her eyes.

“Is it?”

My head rises. “Yes. I'm never going to be with anyone, love anyone. Love's for chumps.” The comment sort of comes out like a growl.

“Then why is this a problem? Isn't Chet just some guy who plays harder than the others?”

Tears just burst from my eyeballs like ships lost at sea. They burn, making their way to the horizon of my eyelids.

When they trail down my face like a fleet of fire, I look at Faren.

“Oh. My. God. What the fuck is it?” she asks.

“There are no others.”

Faren's tea cup rolls as she grabs my hands. “Tell me—tell me there's been someone else. That this guy didn't come in—this guy Mick and I tried to set you up with—and do these things, and you've never been with anyone.”

“Nope. I've been with plenty.”

Faren's shoulders drop. “God, you had me there.”

I shake my head, a little sob breaking free like a chunk of my soul set adrift. I cover my chest with my palm as if it'll escape, like a sucking chest wound of grief.

“Please, please, Kiki. Tell me what's the matter.”

“He's—Chet's the first man I've given myself to.”

Faren shakes her head as if she denies it long enough, it'll make more sense. “I'm confused, Kik. You say he's the first one. Are you—were you”—she gives a shaky laugh—“a virgin?”

“Kinda.”

Silence swells. Faren's face is stiff, as though she can't decide what expression to make.

“My virginity was a prize claimed a long time ago. If my mom needed a fix, any guy who had a hankering for underage pussy got a slice of the Kiki pie.”

Faren's hands fly to cover her mouth.

“I didn't—”

I hold up a palm. “You knew what I wanted you to believe. It's good.”

“It's not good. It's so, so bad.”

“The best I could do was hide.” I hiccup, covering my face with my hands. My words slip through the gaps of my fingers. “Some found me anyway.”

“Don't tell me.”

Our eye contact is the severest, the most serious I've shared in my life.

“I won't,” I say.

“How old were you?” Her eyes are windows of compassion.

I can see down to her toenails.

Faren's real. She's my girl, she's got my back.

I can't say though. The shame is too hot, too real. It scalds my brain. “Young.”

“Oh my god.”

I nod.

After a minute ticks painfully by, Faren takes a sip of her tea. Eyes like glass let me see everything inside her soul.

I close my eyes at the kindness in her. I'm so needy for it I ache.

I wrap my arms around myself. I can't get caught up on relying on people. Never been a good plan. Even Faren.

“Did these guys… did they do this stuff that Chet does?”

“No,” I say. “It was just garden-variety child rape.”

She flinches.

I go on, “But Chet's a whole different tomato. He scares me. His total ownership, his need to consume me, brand me. Control me.”

Faren lifts her shoulders. “Dump him. Get counseling.
Heal
. You don't need Chet. Hell, if I'd known the actual full truth, I would have said no to men in the beginning until you could... I don't know, have someone help you.”

“He does,” I admit. “That scares the shit out of me too.”

Faren makes a low sound. “I don't think that's the kind of help you need.”

“I'm scared because when I'm with Chet, I feel safe. Right.”

Her eyebrows pop. “Whoa—that's not… Really?”

I nod.

Faren laughs. “Listen, we're having this deep discussion—”

I lift my coffee mug. “Over cold brew.”

She inclines her head toward our neglectful waitress. “Yes, and we don't know how serious this thing with him really is. Just tell Chet no. He'll probably go to the harem of hangers-on.” Faren shrugs again.

Jealously knifes through me.

I tell her about the flowers and the cell.

She whistles. “Huh. Maybe he won't take a
no
easily.”

The cell dings, skittering slightly against the table like a black Mexican jumping bean.

Her eyes meet mine, and she picks it up.

She reads the text before turning the screen toward me.

It reads simply:
Seven tonight.

I feel my jaw tighten. “Now does
that
look like casual to you?”

Faren slowly shakes her head.

“What do I do?” I ask.

She grabs my hands with her one good one. “I don't know.”

Chet

I tap my cell against my thigh.

It's been half an hour since I sent Kandace the text of my impending arrival.

I anticipate tasting her swollen pussy again, and my mouth waters like the promise of a ripe fruit is just out of reach.

Instead of panicking because she hasn’t responded, I simply pour a shot of whiskey.

I sip at the amber liquid. It burns a trail of fire down to my gut.

I set my cell on top of the glass table beside my easy chair. I spin it with one finger, my mood turning contemplative.

I lift my fingertip and stand, walking away from the cell with the cut-crystal tumbler in hand.

Eugene steps into the doorway and nods. “Mr. Sinclair? Your parents have arrived.”

I turn my head slightly and give a curt nod to my long-term butler. My stomach turns at having to survive the next hour or two.

Eugene, a rugged and virile sixty, strides out the door of the library. I hear the entrance doors open and close. Muted voices reach my ears.

My stepmother glides inside the library without Father.

I take her in with my usual indifference. Most would find her beauty breathtaking. It just makes me want to disgorge my long-ago lunch.

Instead, I take another sip of whiskey. At ten thousand a bottle, it isn't something I gulp.

Clarice Sinclair creeps toward me with a not-so-subtle sway of hips. I see only the prowl and the clear machinations of what she has in mind. She wears her malicious intent like a suit. Her naked evil lies beneath.

“Where's Father?” I ask with a casualness I don't feel.

She runs a bejeweled fingernail over the rim of the high table that anchors the center of the library. The icy white of the Carrera marble contrasts with her scarlet tip dusted with real diamonds. Blood against purity.

I swallow. My Adam's apple makes a painful plowing journey.

Clear blue eyes, strikingly like Chloe's, meet mine. Her lips curl into cruel amusement.

“You don't visit anymore, Sin.”

She pouts.

I glare.

“Don't call me that.” A flutter in my jaw takes up permanent residence.

Another sip of whiskey trails liquid fire to my simmering stomach.

Her eyes fall to my tumbler. “A tad early to drink, Chet.”

“It's four o'clock somewhere—at least, that's what you always told me.” I raise the tumbler. Prisms fling across her face like shards of colored glass.

We gaze at each other in silence. The little boy that I was runs around in my skull, screaming.

The man I am protects him.

“Too true.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Elanor has come bearing tales. Disturbing ones.”

I smile my first real one of the day.

A troubled expression skates across Clarice's face like a storm cloud.

Elanor is Chloe's mother.

I shrug, taking another sip of molten fire. My eyes meet hers again. “I'm not sure what she could be saying.” I lift a shoulder, feigning nonchalance like a champion.

Clarice's beautiful, full lips flatten. It's the least of what makes her ugly. I find it suits very well what I know lives inside her.

“She says, you—you had intercourse with Chloe in the back of your car. Outside the Christmas luncheon. In the parking lot, Chet.”

I take another sip. “So?”

Her shock is wonderful. Sharp joy stabs me in the best way.

Clarice's hands drop to her sides. The rage in her expression sends a thrill of fear through me, though I know she can't hurt me anymore.

“I know you're not normal, Chet.”

Yes, and that proclamation used to work.

I pivot and stride to her. She glances up, fear and arousal warring on her expression.

I want to hit her so much my palms sweat with it.

Her pupils dilate, eating up all that blue iris like ink spilt on water.

“And who is responsible for that?” My hands shake, and I clench them into fists.

“Please, Chet, I miss you.”

“Fuck. Off.” I say the two words through my teeth. I set the empty tumbler down and hear the crystal chip.

She rubs against my front, the silk of her dress sliding easily against my clothes. Her fingers stroke the lapel of my suit jacket.

My dick twitches.

I'm conditioned like Pavlov's dog. It doesn't matter that she raped me, that she wants me to perform things against her person that even I find vile.

My body remembers the punishment for not being ready.

Clarice's presence is the trigger.

I shove her with my palm. I'm expert at not leaving marks if I don't wish to.

Clarice stumbles. The beautiful, rich wife of my natural father. Her spiked heels carry her a few staggering backward paces through the plush pile.

Her chest heaves as she catches herself on the back of a heavy, leather-studded chair. I stare at the wrinkle I made in the low V of her periwinkle silk dress.

“How dare you?” she seethes.

I smile like a shark smelling blood. “Oh, I do dare. I dare very much.”

She huffs, indignant. “I can't get the thought of you fucking Chloe out of my head. You using her.” She licks her lips with barely contained lust.

I turn away from her and close my eyes.

“I don't know why Elanor felt it necessary to discuss details of my... interlude with Chloe.”

“She didn't. I told her if she didn't tell me every scrap of what she knew, I'd pull my husband's funding.”

I whirl, my eyes narrowing. “You are such a cunt.”

Clarice's smile stretches her face. “Yes.”

She doesn't defend herself. Admittance is key with Clarice.

“I'm not eleven anymore, Clarice.”

Her chin kicks up. “And I'm not a naïve twenty-five-year-old, Chet.”

She moves toward me again.

I put up a palm, warding her off like the grim reaper. “Don't.”

She comes anyway.

I hear footsteps in the hall, but Clarice is undaunted. She trails a finger down my bicep underneath my silk shirt.

“I'll find something else... something else you care for so I can have my Sin back inside me.”

I jerk my arm away from her.