The Token 9: Chet Sinclair: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense Read online

  It's classy, like something Chloe would wear. I scowl at the thought of being anything like her. My fingers go to undo the tie, then I stop myself.

  I can be whoever I want to be.

  My gaze flicks to the shoeboxes stacked seven feet wide by three feet deep. I find the size seven and a halfs and slip on matching bright white pumps. I don't hesitate with those. Five-inch heels with one-inch platforms? Bring it.

  I glide to the door, perfectly at ease in the ridiculous shoes. I stand at five feet ten now.

  I did have the forethought to pack some screaming red lipstick that was also a gloss. I roll my lips together, feeling the sticky goodness.

  My lips curl. I never leave anywhere without mascara.

  Have mascara and panties, will travel.

  I feel ready.

  I throw away my quivering thoughts of Chet as I balance my hand on the knob.

  I close Ax’s apartment door behind me, not looking back.

  *

  It's not as if the Crawl is hard to find. I just follow the beat of the music.

  Ax must have sound baffles or something between his apartment and the bar, because god damn—it's so loud my teeth ache.

  I navigate the steep steps that lead from his apartment, and the other three, to the bottom of the steps and a second door.

  This one is steel.

  When I move through it, it self-closes. I turn to give it a cursory glance.

  There's no handle on the side that faces the Crawl. Just a flat surface with what looks to be a key-card entry.

  I continue to stare, thoughts ricocheting around inside my skull.

  Clearly Ax has something going on.

  I re-cap the fucking weirdness. He and Shepard are acquainted. Ax has an entire wardrobe of women's clothing in his closet instead of his clothes.

  His apartment is a fortress.

  Why hadn't I noticed that he had security measures up the ass when we arrived at his place?

  Too deep in my misery, I guess. I'd seen but not really looked.

  My lip rolls into its favorite spot between my teeth, and I work it over.

  Get out of here, Kiki.

  Stay.

  I can't leave. I can't face Chet.

  Jesus, I'm a wreck.

  I throw my shoulders back and stride to the brightly lit exit sign. I'm not leaving though—I'm entering.

  I throw open the door, and the sound is like a physical slap.

  There are so many people I don't know where to look first. I can barely keep my mouth from standing agape.

  I scoot along the wall, hovering just above it without touching anything because I'm acutely aware that I chose white.

  Dumb ass. Should've gone with the pink flamingo hotness. But oh no.

  I scan the club for Ax.

  I see nothing but half-dressed men and women grinding against one another. Pretty standard.

  I move cautiously deeper into the mix, leaving my perceived safety of the wall behind me.

  Like a ship without direction, I walk through the sea of people, adrift and alone.

  Shepard isn’t here, and neither is Ax. My shoulders drop from the tension they've been holding, and I go to the bar.

  Liquid courage has never sounded so good.

  A guy with spiked blond hair saunters up to me. I gaze down the length of the bar. Actually, a team of two bartenders are playing drinky here.

  One dark, one light.

  “What'll it be, princess?” Light asks with a wink.

  I don't even pretend to tone down the booze love. “Long Island iced tea.”

  He blinks, clearly not expecting that drink from me. I feel my lips turn up. Surprise, surprise.

  I'm full of them lately.

  I watch him make the strongest drink I could think of.

  He slides it across the granite bar, and I down it and lift my finger for another.

  His eyebrows never fall from their position of surprise.

  I cover the hiccup that slips out of my lips. Oops.

  I forgot money. I have enough to pay the ridiculous price of almost twenty bucks a pop, but my money is in Ax's apartment. Damn.

  “I forgot my purse.” I shrug innocently.

  Boy-Toy bartender lifts a finger. “Mr. Axton says all your drinks are on the house.”

  He does, does he? And he already told this guy who I was? And the guy recognizes me in the middle of the club throng?

  The mystery deepens. Why do I somehow feel like a kept woman?

  Because you are, my mind whispers.

  An epiphany takes hold of me as the drink warms my insides, loosening my deepest fears.

  I won’t be kept by anyone. I've worked for what I have.

  Taken money for shedding my clothes.

  Worn the bruises of erections against my thigh.

  No man will own me.

  As if fate's been listening to my reckless wonderings, a man appears at my elbow.

  “Hey, baby, want to dance?”

  He's huge, dark, and perfect. Nothing like Chet. Dangerous but only on the surface.

  I know that Chet is dangerous beneath.

  “Sure,” I say with forced abandon and leave the stool I'm perched on.

  The bartender's eyes follow me and I get the distinct feeling he's been told to watch me.

  Watch away, pal.

  Hunk-of-love floats out before me, loosely grasping my hand. His dark eyes find mine and he instantly takes liberties, as Faren would say.

  His large hands fall on my ass like two missiles that have found their target. I grit my teeth and, trying to be subtle, move his hands up to my lower back.

  He leans his head in, smelling like mint and aftershave. “You're not going anywhere. Let Darrin take care of you.”

  Take care of me? I call bullshit, especially now.

  His hands move down again and jerk my hips against him. I reactively clutch his shoulders. Unless a banana's planted in his pants, he's got a healthy erection.

  I squirm a little to move back, and he takes that for encouragement.

  “That's it, relax, baby.”

  I hate him calling me baby. My mind is dull from the booze, and I'm more than savvy enough to know I'm over my head.

  I twist out of his grasp, and he slaps my ass as I walk away.

  I stride as hard as I can through the dancing, sweaty bodies. I catch my finger on a woman's dress strap, collide a hip against a man deep into cramming his front against a woman's back.

  God.

  Claustrophobia grips me.

  I gotta get out of here. I whirl around, and Darrin is right behind me. I feel my mouth make a little O of surprise. Then I'm being pushed back into a dark corner of the club, his erection spearing my front.

  My cry of alarm is washed away by the thumping music.

  Darrin blends in, dry humping me against the wall, and I move my leg between his.

  I look wildly around the dance floor for anyone who could help.

  Can't anyone see this guy's about ready to fuck me against the wall?

  I’m frantic, panic lodged in my throat like a piece of food that's choking me.

  Then I see someone who can help.

  The sight freezes my heart like a block of ice as Chet moves toward us like a locomotive.

  Eyes on mine, his fists heavy by his side.

  I can't wipe the fear off my face.

  Not fear for me, but for the hapless moron who thought he'd screw an unwilling girl inside a club for kicks.

  FOUR

  Chet

  “Tell me.”

  I hear Dean inhale over the clear connection of my ancient landline.

  “Richard Damon Axtonia; Haitian national.”

  I give a low whistle, plowing my fingers through my shoulder-length hair. Ax is like Thorn. And the plot thickens. I don't much care for Thorn being Kandace's half-brother, and him being a cop doesn't relieve me either. Thorn is a brutal specimen of man.

  Of course, water seeks its own leve
l, as the saying goes. Maybe there's just a little too much commonality between Thorn and me.

  I'm very aware of his story. I've had someone digging into Kandace's background as well.

  “What else?” I ask just shy of a bark.

  “Beside the anglicizing of his name? He's made himself a little empire of nightclubs.”

  “Illicit?”

  “Nope—above board.”

  My disbelieving grunt translates easily.

  “I hear that, boss. That's why I'm still digging.”

  My head swims with thoughts, but I voice only one, “Is she with him?”

  “I don't have that yet. He's got several residences. If she's in any of them—I'll be frank, it hasn’t even been a week. If she's holed up, none of my men are going to have anyone to see.”

  “I'll double your salary for a sighting.”

  The line emits a soft buzz.

  “Copy that. I can't complain about my pay, Mr. Sinclair.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fine. Spread the word to your people that I'll pay a bonus of fifty thousand for confirmation. I want a pic. Send it to me the instant you are in possession.”

  A pause then, “Yes, sir. For that kind of cash, some might be inclined to use methods that could be interpreted as illegal.”

  I find my care level is in the negative numbers of the imaginary scale that balances between immorality and a lack thereof. “Do it.”

  “Copy that, Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Thank you, Dean.”

  I place the receiver in its cradle, and it swings into the false wall of books I've never read.

  I toss expensive scotch down my throat. My stomach burns from the liquor. It burns from worry.

  This is why I never gave a shit about anyone. Especially a woman.

  It'd been a good call.

  *

  Eugene strides into the exercise room, and I stand so quickly the blood rushes to my head.

  I grab my protein shake and down it. Weight has always been hard for me to build. I eat everything I can and stay at a lean one hundred ninety. I chug the thick mudslide while he talks.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” Eugene begins, and I withhold a sigh. All these years, and he sticks to the formality of my surname.

  “Ms. Sinclair and Vanderberg are here.”

  I don't let any expression form. “The elder or younger?”

  Eugene gives a small smile. “Younger.”

  Dammit.

  “Thank you, Eugene.”

  He nods and bows out of the expansive exercise room.

  That's just what I need, a surprise visit from Chloe—who I was convinced I had managed a successful reprieve from—and my slut of a stepmother.

  Yet here they are, like uninvited leeches.

  I stride past the floor-to-ceiling mirrors, take a brief glance at my outfit, and grin at my reflection. Perfect.

  I am certainly not prepared to receive guests. I plaster on what I know is an indifferently cruel smile and take the stairs instead of the elevator to the first floor.

  I jog down the broad spiral of marbled treads toward the wide foyer.

  No sign of the women.

  Clarice will be in the library as though she owns my house. The brazen bitch. Chloe will be her partner in tag-teaming my indifferent ass.

  Well I have a surprise for them both.

  I take my time, walking with a nonchalance I don't feel. Clarice never does anything without premeditation. I don't need her stopping by. My emotions, usually buried in the graveyard with the rest of them, are close to the surface since Kandace's vanishing act.

  I slide my cell into my loose black exercise pants and breeze into the library. Briefly I wonder if I shut the covert phone back in its hiding place.

  My eyes find it gone before they latch onto the offending twins.

  Of course, that's not a fair assessment. Chloe, I have exploited and used with her scant consent on numerous occasions. I doubt she knows the caliber of person Clarice Sinclair is.

  I do.

  Clarice's hungry eyes rove my half-naked body. I'm still sweating from what I put myself through. Exercise is a defense mechanism, a long-standing one. I'm sure a head doc would delight in my brand of dysfunction and naming the many things I have wrong with me.

  They could put any number of identifiers on my head.

  When a child is abused, they form barriers, dependent on the circumstance and the individual.

  I'd been hungry for a mother figure because mine was deceased. What I got was a sexual sadist.

  We are shaped by our memories, the finest teacher of all.

  Chloe opens her mouth, then shuts it with a snap.

  “Cat got your tongue?” I ask, inciting the female wrath of the ages. I find I don't give a shit. I have bigger things on my mind than a scorned rich whore and my criminally perverted step mommy.

  Like Kandace.

  I stride straight to the scotch and pour two fingers. I notice the clock reads five minutes after one and knock the drink back like friendly fire.

  “My God, Chet,” Chloe says, “you need help.”

  I whirl, and she flinches, her makeup is a clown mask that hides nothing from me. I raise the deeply pressed crystal high ball tumbler and raise my index finger like a small spear of accusation. “And you of the superior intellect and elite morals will judge. Excellent. Fuck off.”

  Clarice tsks me, and I turn to face her. She's wearing her uniform of tight silk and expert makeup. Chloe could take a lesson from her. There's an art to makeup. Mainly, applying it so it doesn't look as if you're wearing any. But then, Clarice is a master of disguise.

  “Not interested, Clarice. And for the record…” I tip the glass back, draining the last amber drops, and set the glass down hard on the lone island of marble in the center of the room. “A little forewarning is required. You will not just drop by at your leisure.”

  She puts her slender hands on her hips. “I shall any time I wish.”

  I've had enough. “Get out.”

  “No.”

  I move into her space and ignore Chloe's gasp. I've heard plenty from her.

  I purposely shelve my rage, but can't keep my hands from fisting. “Leave now and I might not cause a scene with Chloe as witness. I know you don't want that.”

  She smiles secretly. I recognize the tenor of her expression and my stomach swamps with heat.

  “Chloe's pregnant.”

  I step back as though burnt. A punch to the gut would have been more subtle.

  I feign nonchalance through sheer practice and shrug. “It's not mine. She'll sleep with any swinging rich dick.”

  My words don't faze Clarice, and I hear Chloe begin to cry softly. I force myself not to look at her.

  Clarice tips her head back, tapping her elegant chin with a nail tip. “Do you think me stupid, Chet?”

  No. “Yes, as dumb as a box of rocks,” I lie easily.

  She nods with that vague smile still ghosting her face and casually moves to a one-hundred-year-old fainting couch. She gracefully floats to the cushion and crosses her legs, glancing at Chloe with clear loathing.

  “Stop blubbering and tell him.”

  I turn my full attention to Chloe. “I've never had unprotected intercourse with you, even once.” I cross my arms, waiting for her bullshit reply.

  What's alarming is her resistance to meeting my gaze. For once, Chloe seems genuine. That's not typical.

  Wide blue eyes, swimming with wet remorse, look up at me from her knotted hands. “I sabotaged your condoms.”

  Cold sweat breaks out in all the regular places, and my hands shake as I toss damp hair out of my eyes. “What did you say?” I ask because I can't believe it.

  “You heard her quite well, I believe,” Clarice says, methodically perusing her manicure.

  “She fucks everyone,” I state in a hollow voice.

  “No, Chet. I think I remedied that when I told her what must be done, that Chloe was to have sex with you and only yo
u. And what to do to make this little baby experiment pan out.” She speaks right over Chloe as though she's not here.

  Adrenaline makes my extremities numb blocks at the ends of my body.

  The fantasy that jumps into my head is so dark and apparently so transparent Clarice stands and retreats a step but goes on regardless. “I wonder if Rylan has seen fit to give you a little peek at Mommy's will yet? Hmm...?” she singsongs.

  Poisonous rage surges through me, making my fingertips feel as though they're on fire.

  “I won't marry her. I don't want children. She's stuck with a bastard.”

  Inside I feel sick but I must show strength to Clarice. If there's even a whisper of weakness, she'll smell blood and move in like a shark on feast day.

  My mind is floating apart from my body. This can't be happening.

  Clarice stands and glides to me on her high heels. She chucks me beneath my chin and I capture her hand. I tighten my grip until her bony fingers seem on the verge of breaking.

  She's breathless, her pupils dilated.

  Clarice Sinclair makes me sick. I throw her hand away and step back before my wish to strangle her suddenly comes true.

  “We'll be in touch, Chet,” she whispers, sliding a finger down my forearm.

  I slap it away, and she laughs softly, leaving Chloe to face me.

  I turn on her like a swordsman in a duel, and she shrinks back. Rivulets of mascara run down her face like diluted black worms.

  “Is this bullshit, you bitch?”

  She shakes her head too quickly. “Clarice said if I didn't do it, she'd make sure every dirty secret she knows about my parents goes public. She'd make it look like I had been the one to talk. They'd disinherit me, Chet.” She covers her beautiful face with her hands.

  I almost feel a pang of pity for her.

  There's an innocent life held in the chasm between all the manipulations.

  Maybe a child of mine.

  “You got pregnant without my consent?” I'm so livid I walk away, because I know if I'm too close to her, I might act on something too horrible to ever take back.

  She gives a shaky nod.

  “You knew I didn't want you.”

  Chloe just stares.

  When a text message alert goes off on my phone, I don't break eye contact. Before today, I would have thought it was impossible to ruin a life that quickly.