The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense

“....Overall I love this book and the Token Series. I rated this book 5 out of 5 Purple Rant Hearts and would recommend this book to anyone that loves a romance that is an emotional roller-coaster that is full of action. This book has all the elements of a great story with a edgy twist. I will be adding the Token 4 to my favorites list.”
-
Crystal R. "Crystal R."

“I love this series and am on pins and needles waiting for the next installment. The story plot is wonderful with the twists and turns, not knowing what to expect next. Of course the hot parts mingle in so nicely. The series is a definite re-read in the future. The only draw back is how long it Takes for the next book to come out.”
- Sue

“
....Ms. Eros rivals JR Ward- author of the Black Dagger Brotherhood series, for her male POV writing ability! She has an absolute gift for it that resonates through all of her amazing books.THORN has been my favourite installment so far, in The Token series, although I can't wait to read Kiki's story which is next!”
-
Skylar Griffin

THE TOKEN 8: Kiki

Copyright © 2014 Marata Eros

Kindle Edition

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights are reserved.

Caryn Ferraro

Music that inspired me during the writing of TT8

Beth Hart

Baddest Blues

Christina Perri

Jar of Hearts

Thanks Girls, I couldn't have done it without you~

Kiki

I swipe Juliette's face from my now black cell screen and clutch my cropped coat over my boobs. Winter isn't here yet, but the season's all the up-in-my-face chilled damp shit I hate.

Seattle, gotta love it. Actually, I mostly do. I gaze around at the hundred-plus-year-old oaks dotting the University of Washington campus. Stubborn flames of color masquerading as leaves hang onto an autumn long gone.

I pat my front jeans’ pocket, feel my cell safely wedged there, and smile. Juliette and Thorn are safe in the east, jerking Mick's clubs back into shape.

Melancholy steals over me. I kick a leaf like discarded tissue paper across the broad concrete sidewalk, my backpack a comforting weight between my shoulder blades.

I should be happy for Juliette and Thorn. Hell, I practically coerced Faren into seeing the Mick debacle through. Now she's a little breeding machine, and baby Shane is almost a year old. They're already talking about having another spoiled heir.

I snort. Shane’s such a cutie pie, with Faren's bright red hair and Mick's dark eyes. They'll make gorgeous kids.

But there's no prince dude in sight for me. Not that I'm jonesing for a boyfriend. But... Thorn might be right. The words he spoke before he left for New York ring in my head like an echo that never quits.

“Listen, Kik,” he'd said. “Me and Juliette... hell, if I can make a relationship work, anyone can.”

I remember I was looking at my feet encased in stiletto boots just shy of the tip-over point.

“Look at me, Kiki.”

My chin raised.

“Don't listen to this.” He tapped his head with two long fingers, his dark eyes holding my gaze prisoner. “Listen to this.” Those fingers floated down to the approximation of where his heart lay.

I gulped, and he smiled. Thorn knew I wasn't Miss Intimacy.

I playfully punched his arm, and he grabbed my hand, holding it tight.

“I know it's a lot to negotiate, what with me being big brother and all.” His lips twisted in classic Thorn style.

I smirked back.

“Yeah, big boy.”

The DNA test had come back positive for a first-degree relation. Old French king pimp, Roi—he'd dished out the pain to a lot of people like nobody's business. But he'd given me Thorn, a surprise half-brother. Thorn doesn't feel half but whole. As shit deals go, it's wasn't a bad trade off.

Thorn's smile had faded as he watched my expressions morph. “I mean it. Don't let the bullshit baggage of what's happened to us rule you. If the right guy comes along, try not to see him as something to catch and release.”

I crossed my arms, the cold metal of my hoops tickling my neck. “What? Like a fish?”

Thorn grinned. “Yeah, just like that.”

I rolled my eyes. “I'll try not to do that.”

He hugged me.

I hadn’t cried until after he was gone.

That was maybe more truth than I wanted to deal with.

I bite my lip, thinking about the couple Thorn and Juliette make. My fingers had trailed out of his grip those few weeks ago, and Juliette had moved to his side. He tucked her against him as though they were two pieces of a found puzzle.

Juliette had just texted me to say she and Thorn would be back next month. They only had one club left to rehab.

Faren is super busy, and Juliette isn’t available.

I sigh, walking on—I’m
not
going to feel sorry for myself.

December should be colder. A breeze makes the barren day skate with leaves as though the concrete ribbon I walk on is an ice rink. I shiver inside my insufficient coat. It's cute though. Fashion matters, dammit.

I don't want to admit that without the go-go pace of the Black Rose strip club—where I've worked to pay my way through school and for my posh place in the Millennium Tower—I finally have time to think about my life.

I'm not into introspection shit. My mom's a drug user and former prostitute. My grandparents are unknown. What else is there to ponder?

Knowing who my real father is? Not a bennie. Who wants to lay claim to a guy who drugged young girls and basically raped them into pregnancy and a life of drug abuse and neglected children?

Like Thorn and me.

Roi's sperm-donor role gave us something beside each other: resiliency. Neither one of us is much for quitting.

Kandace King doesn't give up.

The class I just left was the last sneaky credit I needed to get my criminal justice degree buttoned up. It's officially over. I perk up. Christmas break begins now. It's been a long quarter with just one harpy class to survive. The future looms large.

My girlfriends are tied to their men. My grueling first run with school is over.

Loneliness snaps at my heels like a barking dog on a chain.

Alone for Christmas.

Shit.
I'm having a pity party.

I don't
have
to throw one for myself. I mean, Faren told me to come to their swank pad in Redmond for the holidays. I can drown my sorrows with prime rib and pink champagne.

I roll my lip farther inside my mouth, gnawing the soft flesh.

But I might see
him
.

Chet Sinclair, no E.

My heart rate speeds just thinking of him. I pause as I remember his fight with Thorn at the BR months ago. Chet's used to getting what he wants.

B
ut did he bring it with Thorn.

It
was
kinda hot
, I admit.

Thorn, a six-foot-three mountain of living muscle, and Chet, a sleek panther of rippling ivory. They'd been tangled threads of menace as they fought. Thorn doesn't like Chet.

A nervous laugh escapes.
I don't like Chet.

I think about his intense pale blue eyes, his dark-honey hair. It's enough to make a girl’s panties damp.

I know he might want to go out with me. At least, I assume that's what the twenty texts I haven't answered mean.

Actually, I'm sure he wants to go out, but
I've made it clear
I
don't.

Even though I desperately do. He's like a forbidden yummy piece of fruit.

Men like Chet Sinclair don't date girls from where I've been raised. Girls who aren't lily-white little rich princesses. He just wants his milk chocolate while he eats his angel food cake. Ah-huh.

I'm not anybody's novelty.

I release my lip, and my shuffling picks up to a stride of confidence. In the distance, I see the bright spot of my burnt orange Fiat and smile.

Fuck it,
I'll go to Faren and Mick's for Christmas. If I go home, Mom will have her mouth stuck around a pipe,
sans
all her teeth. I can't be there for the meth-fest anymore.

Won't.

I'm so buried in my thoughts I don't notice the sleek car parked beside mine. When I open my car door and happen to glance over the roof, I spot it.

My car's such a little toaster, I can see over it for a mile. Having a big car while living in downtown would be insane. Lots of Seattle-ites are hipsters: boat shoes, fake glasses, low-slung pants, and a penchant to green living that approaches zealotry. They don't even
own
cars.

I really go against that type. I like to be in charge.

Parked next to my Fiat is a silver Spyder

Not like a creepy crawly with legs and crap. Nah—as in a Porsche 918.