Free The Token 7: Thorn (A Token Novel) by Marata Eros Page B

to atone. Period.
    I've got some girl I'm crazy for mixed up in something bad—I can smell it. She’s also a martial arts expert.
    But she wants to be an exotic dancer.
    Maybe “wants” isn’t the right word.
    Maybe has to works better. I think of Faren briefly, about how she was hiding in plain sight.
    “I don't know what's going on exactly,” I yell over the din. Giving up, I turn. I gotta get outta here, find Simone.
    If I'm honest with myself, which usually isn't a challenge, I'll just admit she's got me in knots of worry. Shepard is bad news.
    Bad for her. I'd stake my life on it, and
    I just might have to.
    Kiki jogs after me, her heels like spikes of noise between the beat of the music.
    “Thorn! Wait up...”
    I only think of Simone, consumed with her safety.
    She catches up to me striding out toward the exit. “Hold up, fucker!”
    I turn, and Kiki literally bounces into the wall of my chest. I grab her as she falls backward.
    “Gah!” she wails. “Don't just go off half-cocked! Use the big head, pal.”
    Half-cocked. Yeah.
    I drop my hands, and she rubs her arms where I held her.
    The sunlight hits me as I move through the employee exit at the back. She slowly walks through.
    It slams shut, and I glance back at the smooth door.
    Exit only, it's smooth where a handle would be. We can't have dickholes sneaking in through the back. That was my idea. Cut the security bullshit in half.
    It doesn't allow someone in without a code. My mind circles around Sinclair and Shepard.
    Kiki looks at me. “Okay.” She blows a curl out of her face, and it promptly pops back into place. “Simone has some bad ass French a-hole after her.”
    This I know. I twirl my hand to keep her talking.
    I want to get to Simone, like, yesterday.
    I scan the parking lot and see Simone’s vintage VW bug is missing.
    “Thorn... is he, is he French like you?” Kiki asks.
    I remember his voice, his accent.
    “No, not like me. Different countries. He's city, Paris. Haiti is another world.” A world of mixed cultures, ethnicity, Creole peoples, and voodoo.
    No, it's not like Paris; not like France.
    Just the same language, yet—not.
    Hard to explain that all to Kik.
    “Oh,” she says in a small voice. “I think Simone is running, and trouble has found her.”
    I level a look at Kiki. “I agree.”
    “What're you going to do?”
    I laugh bitterly. “Why is this my issue?”
    Kiki grins. “So you went blazing out of the Black Rose to catch some fresh air? You searched the parking lot for her car ‘cause you give less than a shit? Right—don't blow me, Thorn.”
    Right. I can't fucking believe this.
    I peg my hands on my hips, chin down, eyes on the ground. I'm so mad I could scream. The seconds slide by while Kiki waits for a response I don't want to give. “I fucking dig her, 'kay? Happy?” I growl.
    The silence pounds me like the heat of the sun above us.
    “That's why I asked you to take care of her. She's the ying to your yang.”
    I lift my head. “What kind of psycho-babble is that?”
    Kiki lifts a shoulder, pushing her hoop with it. “The kind that's true, dude.”
    I storm off, pacing the open asphalt between the cars. “Fuck!” I kick a tire that's close and plow through the rows of parked cars.
    I can't go after her.
    Too. Fucking. Vulnerable.
    Too much of a fucking pussy move.
    I lift my head, and Kiki's watching, her eyes solemn. She says, “Just go after her. That fucker's bad news. Isn't your cop gut telling you that?”
    I kick a rock, and it hits the building like a missile, popping a chunk out of the corner trim like a loose tooth.
    Hell no, it's not telling me. It's shouting it.
    I hate how goddamned smart she is. I stare at Kiki, daring her to say more.
    'Cuz she's Kiki, she does. “Just go.”
    I throw my hands down like pistons at my sides.
    “God!” I bellow, hands clenching into fists, the cords of my neck like ropes strung taut.
    He doesn't listen.
    It's time to listen to myself.
    I don't look