Free THE TOKEN by Tamara Blodgett Page A

myself out. Mick presumes I act like a virgin in affectation.
    He can't know that's the only real part of me. To assume it's not possible is a blow I'm not sure I can overcome.
    But Mick is also right; I am some kind of whore.
    If he only knew.
    These thoughts race through my mind in those brief transparent moments of introspection as his gaze finally lifts to meet mine. I see many things contained in his tight expression.
    I latch on to the one I want to see, dismissing all others.
    Disappointment.
    Kiki looks between us as if we’re a ping pong match, having not gotten a word out of me post-Mick date. “Well”—she looks at me with wide eyes that say, you're so talking about this later— “I can see the two of you have to discuss… stuff.”
    I want to hurt her.
    Kiki looks into my face and gives a subtle shake of her head, her eyes brimming with thoughts of matchmaking, cupid's bow strung taut.
    “Stay,” I beseech. I keep the pleading out of my voice by the slimmest of margins.
    “No, you're right, Miss...”
    “King,” Kiki says with a purr and eyelash flutter.
    Forget hurting . How about murder?
    “You're an insightful friend to understand that Miss Mitchell and I need to straighten out some misconceptions.” His dark eyes tell me how he likes straightening those out.
    That gaze holds a hunger only a banquet of food would satisfy.
    I'm the first course.
    Kiki swipes her keys out of the bowl and grabs her jacket. I follow her to the door as a swarm of butterflies inside me vies for escape. Their fragile wings glide and sing beneath my skin. My nervousness is a living thing.
    She hugs me. “Whatever the hell your problem is, solve it,” she whispers. “Don't play this stupid!”
    What she doesn't realize is I'm not playing. I'm slowly losing.
    Everything.
    Kiki releases me and tosses herself out the door. I close it behind her, touching my forehead to the solid wood. I wish that when I turn around, Mick won't be there. I can't bear any more of his assumptions.
    I can't stand to be near him and not touch him.
    “Are you ever going to turn around?” His voice, a gravel-threaded melody, commands that I answer, and I turn slowly. He rakes a hand through his neat hair, sending it into disarray. “Jesus, Faren, don't tell me you're going out in that?” His voice sounds as if he's in physical pain. That is so not the real issue.
    “Why do you care, Jared?” I walk into the kitchen, slam the tea kettle on the burner, and light it carefully. Let him get an eyeful. I don't give two shits. My hand trembles around the kettle, and I switch to my good one. Great, my hand was good through work with six patients, and it decides to stop working in front of him.
    I have lap dancing in four hours, I remind myself. I hunch in on myself.
    Don't let him see how much he hurt me. How much I'm hurting myself.
    Don't.
    I'm so deep in my thoughts I yelp when I feel him slam into me. He triggers every bad memory of what I've gone through, and I get so scared I stop breathing. Gooseflesh springs up everywhere.
    “What are you doing?” I yell.
    Mick doesn't answer. He tears me away from the stove with a smooth spin and slams me against the wall. Only his palm holding my back keeps me from ricocheting off the surface like a broken doll.
    I look up into rage-filled eyes, and he scares me.
    My emotions betray me.
    I feel him through the thin material of my dress, ready for me. For all of it.
    “I'm sorry, Faren... I shouldn't have assumed,” he says, his knee pushing my legs apart, pinning me.
    My wrists are buried against the wall above my head, and my bad hand starts to twitch. I can't take anymore: the sexual tension, my mom's situation, the impending job I hate.
    The prognosis I can't escape.
    The tears scald and burn their pathway down my cheeks and I turn my face as my hand continues its spasmodic jerk and dance inside his hold.
    His eyes flick to my captive hands, and then our gazes lock. “What? Why are you