Read The Token 8: Kiki: A Billionaire Dark Romantic Suspense Online
Authors: Marata Eros
When I reach his face, I see his head is partially covered by a cap made of nubby charcoal-colored wool, pulled on haphazardly, strands of dark hair curling around the rolled brim.
His eyes are warm when they meet mine and I blush as he gives a belly laugh at my perusal. “Like what ya see?” he asks, waggling his brows.
Dear Lord.
“Ah . . . I'm . . .”
Oh God.
“It's okay.” He smiles, letting me off the hook. “I hear your old Milli's niece . . .”
I nod numbly.
Don't ask, don't ask . . .
“Brooke Starr,” I say, my face heating again. I feel certifiably stupid.
Tucker grins. “How is the old girl doing?”
He's asked.
I give a small squeak and he says in a low voice, “Is she gone, then?”
I nod again and he reaches out a large hand, the whole of it swallows my shoulder. “It's all right, Brooke,” he says, his eyes moving to take in the vast property, the sweeping cliffs that hold jagged rocks that meet the sea. “She had a full life, y'know.”
I breathe out a sigh of relief, . I don't fool Tucker. He studies my expression then inclines his head, not questioning me further.
Suddenly, he grins. “I guess you want to see her.”
Her?
He chuckles at my expression. “Cars are always referred to as females.”
Not by me,
I think. The best I can do is think of my Scion as That Which Runs. A small giggle escapes me and Tucker glances over his shoulder with a cocked brow.
He moves to the back of the trailer that holds the three thousand dollars’ worth of metal. With a flourish he jerks off the car cover. My eyes widen, roving over the vintage VW bus. The car does me in. The photo he sent me over the Internet looked . . . different. A caption—
1967 VW bus, needs body work
—had appeared alongside an image of a gunmetal vehicle.
“What . . . how?” I stutter as I take in the huge rainbow-colored flowers over the deep cerulean blue paint, a low glitter winking as the fog departs the property and the sun edges in. I sigh.
“Beautiful, ain't she?” Tucker asks, running his hand over the psychedelic yawn of a paint job.
I want to blend in, exist unnoticed among the huge influx of migrant fishing workers.
This Scooby Doo bus is not going to fucking blend in.
I open my mouth to rake him over my blazing anger, but his sweet expression stops me. Tucker straightens. “What? Ya don't like it?” he asks.
The primer gray would have been perfect. I bite my lip and he waits.
“It's okay,” I say.
“Hell, yeah!” Tucker enthuses and I smile wanly.
“Okay, just let me unhitch her and you can take a look . . .”
Tucker backs the bus off the trailer. He gets all four wheels on the bare stretch of pastured driveway and gives it a start while I move to the side of the house, out of the way. It’s then that I catch sight of the outhouse around the back of the small cabin for the first time, and a laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.
Tucker exits the bus and walks around to meet me. He gives another smile. “That's the shitter?”
I stare at it in disbelief. “The necessary,” I reply primly, and he belly laughs.
“That too,” he winks
.
I step onto the broad porch as Tucker finishes tinkering with my new bus. It’s half as deep as the interior of the small cabin. Tucker notices me surveying the deep roof that covers the porch.
“Snow load,” he responds automatically.
I look above me, thinking about a seven-foot-deep porch and how much snow would accumulate to necessitate the size.
Only for the summer, only for the summer,
I chant in my mind like a mantra. I know the fishing job is temporary. I can figure out later where I'll go next—who I'll become.
Tucker is almost to his Bronco when he turns, his instep on the chrome running board that still clings to the dilapidated body.
“Heard you’re on Chance Taylor's crew,” Tucker asks like a statement.
I nod. “Yes, I'm a part-time deckhand.”
It's his turn to look me over. He shuts the door and slowly walks over to where I stand.
I try not to let anxiety rule me. But I've never been the same since my family's death.
It'll change a person. I'm no longer the free-floating and trusting girl of a few months ago.
Tucker sees my wary expression. “Let me see your hands.”
“My hands?” I ask, confused.
He nods solemnly.
I hold my hands out and he takes them, studying them.
“What did you say you do?”
I haven't.
I shrug a little, taking my hands back. I stuff them inside my low-rise jeans, shifting my weight on my feet.
Tucker waits as I stare at the ground.
“I was a student.”
“Yup.” He gives me a level stare, waiting.
I sigh. “I studied the piano.”
“Ah,” he says, his dark eyes move to my hands, hidden inside the denim. “They look like hands that have worked . . . but . . .”
I feel my brows rise.
He gives me a steady look. “You'll get beat up out there.”
“I need the job,” I say. Though not for the reasons he's thinking.
Tucker looks at me again, shaking his head. “It's tough work for a woman.”
My chin kicks up. “Yeah . . . well, the pay's good.” And the location—the distance. Not to mention that absolute divergence from classical music and everything that defined my life before, I mentally add.
Tucker nods, saying nothing more.
“How am I going to get beat up?” I can't help but ask.
He's almost in his car. “If it isn't the sea, then Chance Taylor will do a stand-up job.”
Tucker slams his car door as my stomach knots.
Translation: my new boss is a dick.
He backs up, turning around in the large part of the driveway. I watch his Bronco jostle over the uneven driveway as his hand pops out the window in a one-wave salute.
I lift my hand in return then slowly let it drop.
I have one week before halibut season begins. One week to get this cabin in order and get the tools of the trade and, I look around the dingy space—cleaning supplies.
And three months to forget,
my mind whispers.
#
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The Darkest Joy
I began
The Druid Series
with the encouragement of my husband and continued because of you, my Reader. Your faithfulness through comments, suggestions, spreading the word and ultimately purchasing my work with your hard-earned money gave me the incentive, means and inspiration to continue.
There are no words that are sufficiently adequate to express my thankfulness for your support. But know this: TDS novellas continued past HARVEST only because of you.
I truly feel connected to my readers. It is obvious to me, but I'll say the words anyway for clarity: a written work is just words on pages if they are not read by my readers. As I write this I get a lump in my throat; your enjoyment of my work affects me that deeply.
You guys are the greatest, each and every one of ya~
Marata
xo
Dear Ones:
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, without whom, there would be no books.
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Dark Romantic Suspense:
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In Broken Love-
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3500-5500 words each
(naughty & sexual, non-romantic encounters)
A Hard Lesson,
where Dara Nichols gets “schooled” by a few students...
To Protect and Service,
Dara gets pulled over by the cops and taken in hand...
The 13
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, Dara attends a professors' symposium and things heat up in the elevator...
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Dara takes a weekend getaway at a remote ranch and gets man-handled...
The Masquerader's Balls
, Dara and Zoe get nailed by a couple of masked men...
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, Dara and Zoe teach university president Craig Taylor a lesson in discipline at his own party...
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