The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense (2 page)

It's beautiful
. The almost-winter light glints off windows so dark, they’re black.

Wow,
I mouth to myself.

I'm not typically a car girl. I like my scooter. I spent my cash on my pad with the corner water view. It's safe, small, and luxurious.

Bought and paid for with cum and sex. Dirty but true.

I huff out a sigh and bend over, flicking the lever to move my seat forward. I heave my weighty pack into the tiny backseat, and I straighten, giving the spankinʼ car a final glance before I shoot outta here.

My breath catches.

Chet Sinclair leans against the outside, legs and arms crossed in an unassuming pose. His shaggy dark-blond hair frames his angular face in a tousled, choppy casual manner that never matches his affluent demeanor.

Sneaky fucker,
my mind hiccups.

I fight against wiping my hands on my skin-tight jeans, but I can't stop myself from doing a slow scan of Chet. He has an almost irresistible pull, as if he’s a magnet and I'm a goddamned Viking fridge.

I feel my face pucker at that analogy.

And here he is.
Showing up in the UDub parking lot. Wonders never cease. Fancy that fucking shit.

“Hi ya, stalker Chet,” I say with an offhand wave. My heart's in my throat and my palms tingle with the beginnings of sweat, but I've got the bravado in spades to cover my nervousness.

I can do this.

He says nothing. His glacial eyes are like a storm brewing, and I shift my weight.

God, he's gorgeous.

And weird
. How many texts has he sent me? Too many to count.

“Why haven't you returned my texts?”

I jump when he speaks. I cross my arms, immediately on the defensive. “Because of this”—I sweep a palm in his direction—“the whacko million texts and the follow-Kiki-around business.”

He surprises me with a grin. “I've followed you? Are you quite sure?”

I lean over my roof and glare into his eyes. “Hell yes, I'm sure,” I whisper-hiss.

As if on cue, the passenger-side door swings open, and a girl who’s so beautiful she has to be a model rises like cream to the top of milk. She has blond hair like a cloud kissed by gold and eyes so pale blue they look like water on a summer day. They gaze at me with aloof indifference.

There goes whatever good mood I'd been going for.

Her deep pink lips curl into a condescending smile.

I'm cool as a cucumber. Wasting a little finger flutter on her in greeting.

“Hi.”

Inside I'm dying.

Dying.

I assume my little confession to Chet was possibly heard by Blondie and I'm beyond embarrassed. I don't know what mental shelf to put it on:

Most Embarrassing Moment of All Time.

Wish I Where Anywhere but Here.

Or A Hole Opened and Swallowed Me.

Any of those brain shelves sound good. Instead, I just stand here as though I'm completed unbothered.

Ice Queen turns away and lifts her chin a fraction of an inch at Chet. Her long neck is attached to perfect shoulders that lift into an elegant little shrug.

I bet she practices that in the mirror, like, every day.

“Ready, Sin?”

Sin
? Oh my God. I want to punch her. I keep my smile affixed to my face like a frozen wart.

Wonderful.

Chet turns to Icy. “Quite.”

His gaze moves to me, and he gives a little salute-like wave.

I feel dismissed.

“I'll see you soon, Kandace.”

I can't help myself and will kick my own ass for it later, but I have to know. “Why are you here?” Since he so obviously was
not
following me—god.

Icy glances at her bejeweled wristwatch as though my one question puts her out.

I ignore her, my whole attention on Chet.

He jerks his jaw toward the building behind him. “Oh”—he smiles brilliantly—“we're attending a function for donors.”

I immediately think
organ
. Then I look at the frozen bitch next to Chet and think she might have a few to hand out. That makes me smile, and I hold back an auto-snicker.

Chet’s expression appears all-knowing, as though he’s aware of my uncharitable thoughts.

“Those who've contributed significant donations are invited for a Christmas luncheon.”

“Chet?” his bitch girlfriend says.

His eyes harden, but Chet turns away from me and takes her arm like a choreographed dance move.

“Good-bye, Kandace.”

“Bye,” I say.

The bitch smirks and loops her arm through his. She totters once on her high heels as she pivots to walk in the opposite direction.

A smile corkscrews my mouth. I'd have no problem maneuvering in those heels. People don't know that exotic dancers are really dancers, and every bit of our job is done on fish picks.

I slide behind my steering wheel and stare at the space just occupied by Chet and his date.

Girlfriend.

I press my forehead against the steering wheel.
Whatever.
Why do I give two shits about Chet anyway?

My head rolls against the textured cover, and I look at his sleek car again. A car that costs almost a million dollars.

I lift my head, and my eyes find the one-hundred-twenty-year-old building where a bunch of rich people rub elbows and talk about how cool they are because they tossed money at my university.

I get out of there before I feel like a kid with her nose pressed against the glass.

Chet

Chloe is yammering, and I use my finely honed I-don't-give-a-quasi-shit talent and tune most of it out.

It's all about her.
That bottom line means fashion: handbags, and what-so-and-so is wearing or thinking in their soft little brains.

God
. I sip my champagne and slide a glance at one of the waiters. His white-gloved finger gives a microscopic twitch as our gazes meet.

He's a smart one and begins to weave through the hob-knob crowd to gift me a fresh glass.

I must dull myself to survive Chloe.

“Sin?” She places slim, perfectly manicured hands on her non-existent hips.

Which, of course, makes me think of the charming Kandace. Now those are hips I'd love to sink my dick into. Not the hips, but in the general vicinity.

Makes me hard just thinking about it.

“Please call me Chet,” I say through my teeth so the words come out curt.

My attitude works, but I can't get rid of her. She's like a tick, burrowing.

Chloe smells blood and moves in for the kill.

“Chet, stop drinking all the champagne and answer my question.”

She doesn't stomp her foot, but I glance down to make sure. No, her shoe is firmly on the floor.

I smirk. “What question?”

I sip champagne, gazing over the fine crystal rim at her becoming-livid face.

“The one about you coming to Christmas dinner at my parents’.” Her blue eyes light with anger.

She’s probably pissed like a hornet because I ignored her question.

Twice.

“I don't know if that'll work out, Chloe.”

I see Mick making his way toward us with his wife, Faren.

Saved.
Deep relief floods me.

She does stomp her foot then. “Why is it always such a chore to get you to commit to anything?”

I give her the full weight of my gaze. “Perhaps because I don't want to. Novel concept, I know—however, very true.”

Mick McKenna stands before me. He’s just a touch taller, wider, bigger—but not faster than I.

He grins, immediately understanding my issue. He grabs my hand, and we crush each other in a good-natured embrace of who can hurt whose hand worse.

Our eyes tighten, and his free hand slaps my back. Mick releases me and wraps his arm around Faren. I waste a glance on her.

She’s beautiful: creamy skin that begs to be touched, fiery caramel hair that cascades down shoulders broad enough to visually narrow her waist but slim enough to appear fragile. She blushes under my scrutiny.

“Sinclair,” Mick almost growls.

I grin.

Mick’s so territorial. “Just admiring the wife, Mick.”

Faren's blush deepens.

Chloe makes a disgusted noise.

My eyes flick to Chloe’s face. Her face is cold with anger at my neglect of her.

I throw a crumb her way.

“Faren, this is Chloe. Mick, I know you're already acquainted.”

Mick nods. He's not a part of the Chloe fan club.

My parents are. They've imagined us married since primary school, but I'll never marry Chloe, or any woman for that matter.

I've told Chloe that every way possible without actually buying a billboard advertisement.

She makes me weary, but she has her uses.

Faren gives Chloe a shy smile and says hi.

Chloe looks as though she wants to squish her like a bug. “Are you Mick's physical therapist charity case?”

My neck heats with my embarrassment.

Mick's eyes tighten, and Faren looks crushed.

The bitch.

“Come on, Chloe.” I indicate the back door where we can argue with each other in private.

“No,” she says, crossing her arms. “I'm not going anywhere until you answer my question.”

I clamp down on my every emotion. “You're causing a scene.”

I couldn’t care less about a scene, but I know she does.

I'm just managing her.

Chloe lifts a shoulder in dismissal. I lustfully glance at her skinny, windshield-wiper arms, thinking how very pleasant it would be to tear one off like an errant drumstick and beat her with it.

Instead I inhale, look at Faren, and wince at her hurt expression. Mick's face says how he thinks I should handle it.

“Don't insult Faren because you're angry with me.”

Chloe leans forward, and although she’s tall, even with heels she's five inches shorter me.

“It's that trollop from the parking lot. I watched you pursue her while you’re with
me.
” Her delicate chin juts out, begging to be grabbed.

Hmm, and I thought I'd been subtle.

I don't defend myself. Mick hides his anger badly, and Faren's eyes narrow on Chloe.

Chloe shoots a frosty glare at Faren.

“Is Chloe talking about... Kiki?” Faren guesses, astonished.

I haven’t taken out engraved announcements of my intent to see her. So I've texted Kandace a few times.

Or more than a few.

She's a brand I've yet to try but yearn to. There are a hundred Chloes in the circles I travel. In my gut, I know Kandace King is something new,  possibly rare.

Of course, she's not a bit interested. Though today had a curious flavor. I’ll reflect on that later, once I’m out of my present miserable company.

“Kiki?” Chloe's voice raises a few decibels.

Ten made-up faces swivel in our direction.

“Any louder, and you'll be declared your own cheering section,” I mention casually, taking another sip of my champagne.

Mick says, “Chet can do whatever he wishes, date whoever he wishes.”

Touché.

Mick and I click crystal.

“Yes,” I say, staring into blue eyes like ice chips, “Miss King is who we ran into a few minutes ago.”

“What proper person has a name like Kiki?” Chloe sniffs.

Faren comes alive, and I settle in for a Ping-Pong match. Faren is deft, having actually mastered a few atrocities in her life. I smile at Chloe.

Faren steps into Chloe's airspace, though Chloe’s broomstick has been left behind. I smirk at my own humor, but it dies when I see Mick frowning. 

“Kiki is my best friend. I don't appreciate you adjective choice,
Chloe
. Kiki isn't a trollop.”

Go, Faren.
I take another sip, emptying my glass. The waiter appears at my elbow. He glances nervously between the two women.

Mick slides a hundred-dollar bill underneath the fresh glass he plucks from the ornate silver tray.

“Privacy.”

The waiter bows and backs away.

We've thankfully not entered the main room. French doors close, and suddenly, all the curious faces stare at opaque, hourglass curtain sheers.

“Is it so ridiculous that the truly wealthy of this town choose women within their own standing?” Chloe asks. “Or do we all have to stand in line behind the muddled lower class?”

I don't spit my champagne but just barely.