The Token (#10): Shepard (12 page)

“Oh my God.” Shock trenches her face. She moves to sit up, away from me, and she winces as her tender parts touch the sheet.

I grab her around the waist and haul her close to my body.

“Let me go!”

“
Non
.”

“French fucker!” she screams.

I wince from the loudness of her voice but hang on.

She bites me.

The urge to react in violence is a default I resist.

I can abide pain.

Her teeth release the flesh of my arm as warm blood cascades from the new wound.

“My name is Léo Dubois,” I say quietly, not bothering to stop the flow of blood.

I remove my hands from her.

Marissa bounces up, whirls, looks at what she did to my arm, and her face crumples. “I'm sorry, Shepard.” Her eyes flick to my face. “I mean—Léo.”

I incline my head, ignoring the apology. “I am clean. You do not have to worry.”

Her eyes flick to the bite again. “I don't want to be pregnant with your child.”

The air punches out of my lungs. I don't show the hurt. Not a flicker of emotion. No one will ever hold my emotions over me again. Raw pain makes my smile instant, false and harsh. A baring of teeth. “You want to have the child of another?”

Tears roll out of her eyes, and I think I've caused more tears from women than any other man ever born.

It is not something I am proud of. I stand.

Marissa's palms fly up in front of her. “I don't want someone else's baby, Shepard.”

I take a cautious step forward, and she meets me.

The bite throbs with the beats of my heart. I take her in my arms.

Marissa sobs, but her words are clear and mean more to me than anything ever could. “I don't ever want a kid.”

I tighten my hold.

“Because kids get taken, Shepard.”

She is correct.

I tip her face up, meeting her eyes. “Not our child.”

Marissa's lip trembles. “I'm so afraid.”

I nod. I am too. However, fear will never rule me again.

Léo Dubois has not been careless in many years. Lovemaking without precaution
is
careless.

Unless one wishes for the result from his actions.

Thorn

Tag's finger runs over the map of a state I've never been to before. Not much happening in the Midwest. At least, I never thought so.

Shepard's happening.

Hopefully. If what Juliette told me is real, then the South Dakota cabin seems the most likely hiding spot.

“I'm thinking here,” Tag says, stabbing his finger at the Black Hills National Forest area that darkens that part of the map forest green.

“That's a big fucking area, Tag.” Thorn gazes at the sheer square footage.

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly, “needle in a haystack, definitely. But—it's logical. Juliette said central eastern. That's here.” His finger taps the area again, little upside down
V
s springing up within the green.

Hills.
Topography that's most likely rugged. Thorn's not an outdoorsy guy. He's a street-smart guy. He played with the wild animals in Yesler. Not the hills of South Dakota.
Damn.

“You can come along, Thorn—you know it. But you don't have the same privileges anymore. You can't gun down fucking Shepard.”

Damn—again.
Tag knows me too well.

“See”—he points a finger at me, studying my expressions—“told ya.”

Thorn plants his feet apart, crossing his arms and gripping his elbows. “I could nail him if I was in defense of my life.”

Tag spreads his hands away from the sides of his body. “Slippery slope, my man.”

Yeah.

A beat of time drums between us. “ʼKay, you've been cleared, and we're flying in. But it won't be easy to spot him. Maybe we'll get lucky and he'll be sloppy.” Tag pauses for a couple of seconds. “He's got an accent, right?”

Thorn remembers his manner, his accent. “He speaks English flawlessly, but he has the city-boy accent. Along with a taste for pricey duds.”

Tag smirks. “Can't blame him there. City boy, huh?”

Thorn scowls. He isn't feeling the humor. “This guy was married to Juliette. He farmed her ass out. He was the worst kind of trafficker. He made a woman he swore to protect his personal whore—and everyone else's who qualified. I want him caught, Tag.”

Tag gives him serious eyes, his laughter gone. “Dead—or caught?”

“Either—both,” Thorn replies, walking away toward the waiting plane. Mick, his rich-ass billionaire friend, has arranged private transport. And a bodyguard.

Thorn said no to the bodyguard.

Can't protect someone with a death wish.

*

Marissa

I told Shepard the truth. I
am
scared.

Scared of him. Of loving him in less than a week. He's all wrong for me. A man with a past that’s scarred.

Like the flesh of his body.

I clench my eyes shut. What have I become? In only a handful of days, I've lost sight of my goals and trusted a man who has committed horrible acts.

But... he's been honest only since the moment I met him. Who can I say that about?

No one.

I guess I always knew. That's why I said yes to giving him my virginity.

The one thing I kept for myself through the awful years in the orphanage. I shudder.

I can't say the same about sodomy. I was the victim of that—as was Shepard or Léo—from the sounds of it.

I'm not ready to hear all that he went through, not yet. Maybe when we can be somewhere safe, then I can listen.

Relive my own terror.

“
Ma chérie
?” he asks from behind me, and I jump. My hand flies to my chest.

“You startled me.”

Shepard only smiles.

“I can't think of you as Léo.”

“No one has called me that name since I was a boy.” He carefully folds our clothes inside the small suitcase with tiny wheels. I stare at the scars running over the smooth muscles of his back.

“No one?”

His dark eyes lift from his task. “Not even the one to whom I was married.”

“You were married?” I ask. He turns to face me, and the wounds of his past mimic the ones on his back.

His eyes move back to what he'd been doing, and he answers the open suitcase, “Yes. But no more. I have set her free.”

I slowly lower myself to the bed. “What do you mean, ʻfreeʼ?”

Shepard sighs, fisting his hands. He punches the soft contents once, his jaw hard. “Do you wish to know all of what occurred to make me who I am, Marissa? Because the time grows as thin as my patience.”

I shake my head. We
will
talk. “I want answers when we get to the cabin.”

He closes the suitcases, the latches loud in the grave silence I started with my questions. “And you shall have them.” He tosses on a clean shirt of deep green, taking his time with the buttons.

When he is through, Shepard holds out his hand, and I stand. Go to him.

“Come.”

I slip my palm inside his, and we move out of the last hotel. Toward the cabin in Spearfish Canyon. A place I've never been.

Home for now.

*

“I can't just
not
show for work.” I cross my arms.

Shepard shifts the car into reverse and deftly backs out of the parking lot of the hotel.

His hands are strong and supple as he spins the wheel of the sports car. “Where do you work?” His eyes flick to mine, and a trick of the morning light colors them whiskey.

He's so beautiful it causes me a sort of physical pain. So I gaze out the window instead. Wyoming is in the rearview mirror, but low valleys and rolling mountains flank us as we merge onto I-90 once again.

“I work at a restaurant downtown.”

“Seattle?” I hear the question within his exotic voice, and it strums the strings of my libido. I clench my thighs together, and that sore part of me throbs for more of what Shepard gives. God.

“Yes,” I reply to the view through the glass, sighing. “I have a great boss. He's put me in for a transfer to the French store. I just have to be fluent in French.” I give a soft, sad laugh.

“You are not?” he asks in French.

“Fluent enough, but it's not that easy—I have to pass a specific test of their making,” I reply, also in French. “But I don't know if I can do it,” I add in English.

“I can take you to France.”

I swear I hear wistfulness and turn to study him.

I nod.
Sure.
“With what assurances?” I watch his minutest expression. “I have three years left on my French degree, which would have automatically made me eligible for the transfer. I have a job that I love—albeit it hardly covers the bills. My other grandmother was from France.” I don't do the sign of the cross at the mention of her name, but it's hard not to. Once a Catholic...

“So you have familial history,
oui
?”

I nod, biting my lip against the emotions so bottled up inside me. I can't give all that up when I'm running with a criminal who is an admitted trafficker of underage girls.

What was I thinking?

Oh yeah—
not
thinking. Just me and my vagina taking turns fucking my life over.

And the French mob up my ass.

Gah.
“Yes. My
grand-mère
was French. I guess”—I place my hand over my heart—“I always felt like I belonged there.”

The edges of his lips lift in the ghost of a smile. “You do not like America?”

I shake my head and realize his eyes are on the road. “No,” I reply quietly and pull a stray indigo thread off my pants. “It's such a competitive nation, full of haters and negativity... I don't know. I feel like a gentler place might make me feel more alive.”

His chuckle is dark.

I swing my head in his direction. “What?”

Shepard's dark eyes find me, and the sunlight streaming into the car seems too dim for his expression. “France was never gentle.”

I cringe at what I said a moment ago, realizing I didn't think about his time in the orphanage. “What about when your parents were alive?” I dig around for some point of reference that's not violent, that's from before.

His expression goes from hard to nostalgic in a nanosecond. “
Qui
. My life was so much better when my parents were alive.”

“Do you think about them?”

His knuckles bleed to white, his grip's so tight on the wheel. A full minute passes. “Every day.” He says the words in French, and they pile on top of each other. As if he can't stand saying them.

As though he's been waiting his whole life to.

“Me too,” I say.

His hand reaches across the seat, his palm pointed at the roof. I slide my hand in his.

Shepard doesn't let go.

Shepard

I ask Marissa to wait inside the car. It was only a few hours’ drive from the hotel in Wyoming to Spearfish Canyon. From there, it was an additional half hour on a back road.

Marissa complained.

I smiled.

Safety comes at a cost, and maybe not being on a main, smoothly asphalted road is the price.

My eyes scan the area, always wary. The precaution is so much a part of who I am, it's second nature. I close my eyes and let my ears hear what would not fit within the expected noises of our secluded location.

Everything is as it should be. The cicadas are quiet this deep into a summer that ushers in autumn. But warm-season insects still buzz in the lull the quiet forest provides. In the far-off distance, I faintly hear a creek.

Opening my lids, I survey the homestead. Large pine logs, honed and heaved into place over a century ago for the cabin, keep vigil at the apex of a soft knoll. Square windows that have divided muntins fitted with antique glass appear to weep, the view through them distorted. The twin windows are like uninviting dark eyes looking arrogantly down at us.

The door is stout and solid pine, the fasteners hand-forged and still in good repair.

“Wow,” Marissa says in an awed voice behind him.

“It is nothing.” My voice is slightly hoarse.

“It is
not
nothing, Shepard—Léo.” She shakes her head, scattering her kinky hair. “I can't get used to the new name.”

“I told you who I really am, because I am no longer he. Shepard.”

A dragonfly floats between us, sunlight causing its wings to sparkle with luminescence. I turn, looking at Marissa over the roof of the car.

“I will look inside, then when I ascertain it is safe for you, I will come fetch you.”

“Fetch me? God—like what, a dog?”

My lips curl. “No,
ma chérie
. Dogs obey.”

I wink, wishing to kiss the pout from her lips. But first, I must see if this last oasis has been compromised.

I stride to the door, not waiting for Marissa’s answer. Or rebuttal.

I unsling my small satchel, where all important things are kept on my person. I extract a long, heavy key and insert it, twisting to the left as I slightly open the handle. Just the right maneuvering is needed to unlock the stubborn old door.

The tumblers click, and I sweep the nine-foot door inward.

Dust motes float past in the light stream through the filthy window, and breath slides out of me that I was unaware I held. My shoulders ease down, and I call out behind me, “Come.”

Marissa's footfalls sound louder as she draws nearer, and I feel her presence before she touches me. Almost as though the air we share is somehow knowledgeable of us, and we of each other.

Her arms slip around my waist, and I rest my hands on hers.

“This is so perfect.”

“Why are you whispering?” I ask, checking every surface for evidence of anyone having been here since I last visited a year before.

“I feel like I'll break the dream if I talk normally.”

I chuckle. “
Non
. We are safe for now. No one has been here in a year, save myself.”

“Looks like it.” Marissa moves around me, her hand trailing slowly. When her fingers leave me, I hold nothing but my stomach, and I let my hands fall.

“Where's the cleaning supplies?”

I hike an eyebrow, slowly moving to where she stands.

“Are you going to be a guy about this?”

I frown.
Be a guy?
I grin, leaping toward her, and scoop Marissa against me and she squeals. The sound is music inside the dark corners of my ancestorsʼ house.

“I am a man,” I say in mock insult.

She's still laughing and squeezes her delicate fingers around my throat. “You are so a man—but you're not a cleaner.”

I shake my head, noting the sullied surfaces. “Guilty.” I shrug.

“Let me do something with this place.”

My grin is sly this time.

“What?” she leans back.

“Could you make the bedroom a priority?”

She smirks. “Can you hunt and gather in this place?” Marissa counters.

What?
Ah.
Food. Her mentioning it causes instant hunger, of course.  “Yes, but I'll need to go back into town.”

Marissa lays her hand over my crotch, and I harden beneath her fingers.

I feel my eyes hood. “Or maybe eating can wait?”

“Can't wait, hero. Get me food or I'm going to die.”

“Really? You will actually perish?” I spin her in a dance step and pull her in close. “Right here,” I whisper and kiss the soft area between her earlobe and collarbone.

She moans, tilting her head to make my kissing her easier.

I oblige.

“Go,” she says breathlessly. “I'll have the bedroom spruced up when you get back with at least a hundred bucks’ worth of groceries.”

I snort. “So demanding.”

Her eyes glitter into mine. “You have no idea, Léo.”

I like the sound of my name on her tongue. I move to the door before I change my mind and ravish her in a dirty bed while she's hungry.

Still, I pause with my hand on the doorknob.

Sunlight skates across the rough wood floor and travels halfway up her body, then shade takes over. A stray beam of light bisects her face, catching just one gray eye. It is like a gray pearl. Rare. Like her.

“What?” she asks softly, seeing my expression.

“You are beautiful, Marissa Augustine.”

She does not cry, but her eyes shine.

“You are beautiful too, Léo Dubois.”

Not looking back, I leave the little log cabin on the hill with a bounce in my step. I hop into the Audi and make my way to town.

However, I cannot sustain my buoyant mood. Unease fills me with dread.

I don't want this dream to end. The hope that we could be something together.
La famille
will keep coming.

Until I stop them.

The two men I killed will “speak” to the lawmen, with their advanced DNA and long noses.

The memories I safeguard will continue to butcher my psyche.

Despondent melancholy fills me, circling my small spot of happiness like a vulture after carrion.

*

Late afternoon sunlight slants off dirty and smeared mid-century architecture. The lackluster, slightly cantilevered windows glare back at me, and my exhale sounds defeated, even to my own ears.

I have never enjoyed anything ugly. And this building is no exception. But in a town the size of Spearfish Canyon, I do not possess the luxury of choice. This is their solitary market.

Marissa is hungry, and for the first time as an adult, I feel a sense of pride. I will feed this female I've come to care so much for in so little time.

Making my way toward the miserable view, I take a deep inhale of the pine, like a swimmer before they sink beneath the surface of the water. I cross the pockmarked asphalt parking lot, lifting my fob for the Audi and hitting the icon for lock.

The muted sounds of the woods—and the few customers who loiter at the facade of the building—are heavy in the otherwise silent space.

My hard-soled Italian shoes click as I walk to the front of the store, and I belatedly realize how out of place my wardrobe choice is.

Two old men lounge on folding chairs, staring as I make my way past them.

“Hello,” one of them greets me just as I place my hand on the metal bar of the store entrance. He gazes up at me from underneath a hat that reads
Mt. Rushmore's Pride.
Disembodied American presidential heads float on top of the hazard-orange brim that is fingered with grime from a thousand mounts atop a head not often washed.

“Hello,” I return easily. Courtesy was the cornerstone of
la famille
and not easily shed. Ill-tempered people are easily remembered.

His eyes sharpen on me, quickly running down my body.

“Not from around here?” he asks.

I know when I cannot win. The man is without intellectual acumen. And I have been tasked to survive the encounter.

At that exact moment, my stomach growls as he spits tobacco in a practiced stream about five feet from where we stand. My eyes tag the disgusting move and note the stain from many times of the same treatment in the parking area.

“No, I'm not from the area.” I smile politely, the expression stretching in a tight slash across my face.

All pretense of courtesy leaves him. “We don't like foreigners here.” His upper lip turns up.

Really. “I am only buying groceries.” I shrug casually.

“Looks pretty determined, Ralph,” his companion says.

Imbeciles.

“What are ya?” the man who is not Ralph asks.

“A man.” I raise my eyebrows, a clear signal that the conversation is over.

Ralph jabs another giant wad of tobacco inside his lip, and it bulges obscenely where he stuffed it.

“A smart-ass one.”

I turn away from them and open the door to the store. Chilly air-conditioning blasts me, and I shed the distaste of the pair of disasters at the door. They are not worthy of my wasting time. Bigoted without knowing the reason. All I needed to be was different. That is enough.

I grab a cart before scanning the aisles and making slow progress through each one.

When I've stocked the shopping cart full enough for at least a week, I see something at the register.

I must stand a full minute staring at it because the cashier barks, “Ready?”

Gum snaps, and I turn my head to look at her.

She's about the age of the cherries I used to pick for
la famille
. But not exotic at all. Or bright. It's as though the newness has been rubbed off her until only a dull shell remains. She is Caucasian. Lackluster blond hair that is obviously bleached to maintain the falsely platinum color is stuffed into an unattractive “infant band” that circles her head at the temples. Her dull hazel eyes stare at me with carefully cultivated indifference, and I take the item that had captured my attention and place it on the conveyer belt that takes the groceries away.

She grunts when I begin putting the groceries on the belt. “Paper or plastic?”

Why is that important?
Ah yes. Environment. Americans are gripped by it. Of course, in France, we shop almost daily and use cloth bags for our fresh food. Here in America with their Costcos, they must buy a hundred years’ worth of food.

“It is not important,” I answer quietly.

The hot pink bubble obscures her face. She sucks it inside of her black lipsticked mouth with a startling crack.

I think of a gun being fired and smile.

Her nonchalance falters with whatever she sees in my expression. “ʼKay, paper.”

I lift a shoulder, placing the last item on the belt, and take the plastic bar alongside the belt and put it behind my purchases.

The girl tells me the total, and I hand her two one-hundred-dollar bills. She inspects them, gifting my face with a lesser scan, and gives me the change.

Emily, according to what it says on her nametag, loads my bags badly. When her eyes rise to give me the expected goodbye, she stalls.

I know that hesitation.

Something has surprised her. Badly.

I subtly pivot on my heels. Two burly men stand behind me in line, nothing but a pack of chewing gum between them.

Trouble
, my gut says. My instincts are rarely wrong.

I turn back to the cashier, as though the two appearing from thin air behind me only to buy chewing gum is of little consequence.

Of course, I know better.

I hike the bags into my hands, noticing she gave me two-handled plastic bags instead, and grab three in each hand. Jiggling the bags, I subtly shift the heavier items to the bottom and walk back through the doors into the waning daylight.

The door flaps closed behind me, and Ralph and his friend are low in their seats, caps slung over their eyes to shield them from the red heat of the setting sun.

Shadows spread behind the parked cars like seeping black blood.

If Ralph had not given me a sideways glance of satisfaction, they might have been able to take me.

But he did.

I swing like a human tornado, loosening my shoulders and using the bags like huge, loaded plastic flails.

My arms rise, and the first man who'd been behind me in the que feels the weight of gourmet pickles as they plow through what had been his nose.

He falls hard on his ample ass, and I never slow, swinging the second bag down low then twisting it hard as I use the momentum and place it exactly between the other man's legs. He drops to his knees, a silent scream perched on the edge of his lips, his eyes bulging and his hands covering his pathetic prick.