The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense (12 page)

The day comes in clear and cold, Christmas a promise only two weeks away. I spend way too much time primping in front of the mirror. I'm trying for that ultra-causal, I-didn't-try-too-hard look and getting nowhere.

Sometimes shit just doesn't come together.

I sigh, chucking my eye pencil inside the makeup caddy. I take a critical look at myself. My lips are blowfish big. Nude lipstick makes them look somehow Angelina Jolie perfect.
At least that's working.

I pucker and add a dot of gloss. I roll my lips together to spread it. Kohl liner borders my lids, and inky mascara rounds it out. My mother's dark skin gave my bio-scumbucket-dad a run for his money. My skin looks like coffee with a ton of cream. I've always embraced being exotic, and if someone doesn't like it, they can suck it.

I nod at my reflection and pull a fisherman knit sweater over my head, dumping my hair forward to protect my makeup. I leave my hair in a cloud of dark golden brown, but I tamp down its natural tendency to frizz with product. I roll on leggings and chunky black combat boots. I step back, close the bathroom door, and give myself a head-to-toe in the full-length mirror.

The full-length mirror is an underused tool, if people's outfits are any indicator. I smirk, feeling a little bratty with my thoughts.

I move to the kitchen and swoop up my handbag. It's the size of a jumbo jet, and I stuff my cell inside. I grab my gigantic wristwatch and slap on the hot pink goodness. I feel better already. Fashion, the ultimate mood-lifter.

I feel almost criminal running out to meet Ax with my parts still deliciously sore from Chet.

It's a little slutty and more than a little perfect. My dark secret.

The biggest challenge will be to not over-analyze shit.

The memories don't have a place to land if I'm thinking about something good.

Like Chet.

*

I trek up the steep knoll to the sundial. The grass is a dull green, faded like straw hanging onto the last luster of the season. The wind whips my loosely bound hair to pieces, and strands bite at my neck and jaw.

This is the spot where we met if I needed to get away. It was safe—our secret.

Gasworks Park has been around since forever, turn-of-the-last-century antique-y. It always makes me feel safe. Post-industrial parts tower in strangled stands of antiquated rust. They’re like sculptures of the past, watching over us like indifferent stewards.

I see Ax right away. He stands slightly off-center of the bronze-and-stone sundial. His feet rest on what looks like a blooming flower of granite.

He appears exactly how I remember him, reminding me a little of Thorn. Maybe it's an invisible survival shroud we three wear. I don't dwell on stuff though. Over six feet and tightly muscled, though he doesn’t have the definition that Chet has, Ax is bigger than Chet but not as tall. They’re a sharp contrast to each other, and I can't help but compare them. Ax's deep chocolate skin is a background to startling cat-like hazel-amber eyes.

He sees me, and a flash of white slices his dark face as he waves.

I'd been walking, but now I jog to reach him.

He opens his arms, and I sail into them.

“Kiki girl,” he says.

His arms feel just as safe as ever. Strong.

Ax strokes my hair as the other hand holds me tight.

I tip my head back and he kisses the end of my nose.

Chet.

My mind whispers his name and it's enough.

He's given me no promise, no oath of undying love. Yet, Chet Sinclair owns me somehow.

I know it, and maybe he does too.

I step away, and Ax releases me.

“What, Kik?” he asks, spreading his arms.

“I've met someone.”

“What?” Ax says, thumbing his chest. “Ya can't even say hi? How you doinʼ?” He makes a face. “It's just ʻI met someone.ʼ Maybe I just want to catch up.”

I stare at his face. It's harder and older. Ax is a deliberate person. There's always a reason behind what he does.

“I should have—sorry. Hi.” I give him a little wave.

He rolls his eyes. “Listen, Kiki, if I'd wanted to make the moves on you, I could have done it a million times before.”

True.

“Haven't I been there for you?”

I nod. “Of course. I told you I'm going through a thing.”

Ax folds his arms and gives me a look that says
spill it
.

The wind whips up, and voices of others in the park sound nearby. I move closer.

“Is this ʻthingʼ him being a douche?” He runs his palm over his short black skull cap of hair.

“No. I mean, he's kind of a dick, but… I don't know,” I say in a semi-truthful wail. “I care about him. He's just a different dude than I've ever been with.”

“Been with?”

I blush. Ax knows my vow.

“I guess I broke my promise with Chet,” I say.

“I thought you'd never do dudes. Like, after all that you've been through, you'd sworn ‘em off.”

“Yeah, I had. And it was easy. Before.” My chin sinks. “Before him.”

He cocks his head to the side. The wind takes the flaps of his jacket and makes it wings around his hips. “So what makes this guy different?”

My head jerks up. I don't have a good answer. I can't even
begin
to explain Chet and me. If I try, Ax might want to look him up and kick his ass.

Thorn would too.

God, what a mess.

“Not liking the pause here, Kik.”

I look at my black boots again. “I'm not sure. It's... he's kind of like a storm, and I'm in his path.”

“What?” Ax laughs, sees that I'm not, and his eyebrows rise. “Soooo, old Chet is like what, a hurricane, and you're trying to stay in the eye?”

I hadn't thought about it that way. “Kind of. I don't know. Let's not talk about me. What's happening with you?” Talking about Chet makes my armpits tingle with encroaching sweat.

We talk for an hour, sitting on the stone bench that borders the sundial. Ax loops his arms behind his head, crossing his feet at the ankle, as he animatedly tells me about the four-ish years we've been out of touch. He owns a bar downtown, not too far from the Market.

“So what, it's literally a hole in the wall?” I laugh.

“Yeah.” He hops to his feet and paces away from me, flinging out his arms. “It's like, you could get a Mac truck through but not park it sideways.”

“And it's called The Crawl?”

He grins, nodding enthusiastically.

“Ooh, I like.”

His smile is contagious. Before I know it, I'm grinning back.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do too.”

He takes my hands, looking like the boy he was all that time ago.

“You come anytime, Kik. Say the word, and the first round's on me. Or the fifth.”

“I think I
would
be crawling if I had that much booze!” I laugh and stand to give him a big hug.

“Listen, Kik…” His eyes grow serious. “Text me anytime. If this guy, Chuck—”

“Chet,” I correct automatically, though my mind unhelpfully echoes
Sin
.

His brow puckers. “Whatever. If slick Willy decides to be a player, you come running to Ax, and I'll chop his dick off.” He winks, and I laugh.

“I don't think anyone can chop his dick off.”

Ax's chin pops back. “Really?”

I nod. “Chet can take care of himself. Trust me on that.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Ax says with more testosterone than should be legal.

“No-oh, back down, cowboy.”

He laughs, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. “No prob! You come by The Crawl, and I'll mix drinks so stiff they'll have Chester filling the curb outside.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“Nice, ya jerk. It's Chet.”

His shoulders lift to his ears. “Whatever, get at me!” He lifts his cell.

I hug myself against the wind, against my old friend leaving. My feelings are so mixed I can't sort them out, so I give up.

Ax walks away backward. “Don't you forget it, babe.”

I shake my head a little. The breeze blows my long hair forward, making Ax look as if he's disappearing into a tunnel.

I watch him until he's a dot in the distance, then he winks out of my vision.

But not out of my life.

I need all the friends I can get.

Chet

“You don't just show up here, Chloe.” I regard her through slitted eyes.

Even with gorgeous Chloe in front of me, my mind wanders to Kandace King. How Mick knew, on some instinctive level, that she would trip my trigger, as he calls it, is thought-provoking to say the least.

Chloe's been bantering on for ten minutes.

I've heard a string of I-I-I and find myself deaf to her.

“Are you listening?” she screams a little.

“Actually, no.” I give an exhausted exhale and stand from my desk. My mother's company is in a fortress of a high-rise filled with mirrored glass windows and sleek lines. No expense was spared in the construction. My office furnishings appear to float like abandoned ships in the sea of slate flooring.

Chloe sweeps her palm at the windows.

The Puget Sound crashes in the distance with a typical storm of angry sleet. It’s too cold to rain, too warm to snow. Pacific Northwest winter at its finest.

“You have all this, Chet, yet you can't give me the time of day. I'm just as rich.”

My face hardens. “Not quite. And for the record, it's your family who is wealthy, not you personally.”

She waves that away. “Whatever. Let's combine our incomes. We'll be rich beyond our imaginations.”

I roll my eyes. Chloe is tiresome. I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I am rich without you. Your desire to what—is this a marriage proposal? It's well-known in our circle that in a few short months, I stand to inherit all this. That must be why you have this sense of urgency.”

Chloe gives a vigorous nod as though I'm finally seeing things her way. Unfortunately, I do. Her perfectly coiffed blond hair slides over her bare shoulders as she bobs her head.

Even if she lived in the arctic, Chloe would have to show the wares. In this case, her pressed cleavage nearly brushes her diamond-encrusted throat. Her cobalt wrap dress brushes mid-thigh.

“Good. So we're in agreement,” she says.

I lean forward. “I loathe my stepmother with an unending passion. A little like the ocean.” I sit in my comfortable desk chair. “It's she who continues this little pretense of the two of us getting married. Her and Elanor. I have dated every rich debutante. I have no favorite.”

I glance down then meet Chloe’s expectant gaze. “The truth is, and believe me, this is harder to say then you know, but I've met someone.”

“You don't
meet
anyone.” She folds her arms, pressing her plastic tits to her eyeballs. “You're Chet Sinclair.”

I say nothing, hating that I am giving a woman—any woman, this much power, but it is a means to and end. A financial end. Keep the status quo in the important social circle and don't rattle the cage.

Chloe stands so suddenly I grip the edge of my desk.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Wait a second.” She steps toward me, extending a shaking finger of condemnation. “Is it that trollop from the donation luncheon?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that,” I quip.

“That's a goddamned confirmation, Sin!”

“Chet.” No one gets to call me Sin except Kandace. Or when I'm supremely pissed and ready to let all hell loose.

She moves toward my desk, and I stand. I walk to the door and turn the knob. I sweep a hand in front of the open doorway. “You can see yourself out.”

“I looked into Kandace King.”

I frown. I don't like her knowing anything about Kandace. Chloe is a good screw with a petty brain—a small one.

“You can't take her anywhere in our circles, Chet. She's not one of us. She's a pre-law graduate, a former stripper straight from Yesler, for God's sake.” Chloe shivers. “And from what I understand, she's one of the bio-children of that French flesh peddler. Nice lineage.”

I stalk to Chloe, grab her elbow, and herd her out.

“I guess those pieces of garbage fuck like you need, right, Chet?”

Her eyes feast on me, glittering with all the crap that motivates an empty person like Chloe.

Like I was.

But Kandace has melted the ice of my heart. I feel for once.

I want.

I'll take.

“Yes,” I say, plunging the knife deep. “She fucks much better than you.”

I give her a gentle shove out the door and slam it in her face.

I wanted to give her more than a gentle shove.