The Token (#10): Shepard (5 page)

I nod.

I want what I cannot have.

“You kidnapped girls and used them?” Her expression is sickened, and I deserve every bit of what I see in her face.

“I did. But I was called a trainer—or some would call me a Handler. I taught the girls how to behave with clients—delegates. How to eat, handle themselves. Fuck.” My tongue clucks on the last word like a hollow drop hitting a full bucket of water.

Marissa flinches. “What else?” She finally whispers the question.

“Languages. Four different tongues needed to be mastered.”

She shivers in revulsion.

“There must be a demand for cherries from this country,” I say, mostly to myself.

“Cherries? You mean—are you referring to
hymens
?” Marissa asks, outrage flooding her voice.

“
Oui
.
You
are a cherry, Marissa.”

She does not confirm my statement. “
Pluck,
” she says slowly. “That's why that jackass said it was his ʻpluck.ʼ”

I don't answer.

Her hand lifts the door handle. “Are you still—with them?” she asks softly, her voice strained.

I shake my head. “I am free.”

Was free.

“Doesn't really sound like you are. That name you have—Shepard? Does that mean you watch the flock of girls or something?”

“It did. But I always understood that was not really representative of who I was.” The next part hurts to say, and I am surprised I can feel any kind of pain. “I did not protect the lambs.” My voice hovers above a whisper.

“Oh.” Her eyes latch on to mine in the gloom of the car.

Marissa slides out of the seat and bends inside the open door. The dome light stabs the soothing darkness away.

A look takes root in her eyes, a look that I put there with the truth.

That is also good. She does not need to ever see me again, unless
la famille
return.

I point at her phone. “Phone me if you see them again.”

Marissa puts her cell against her breast, and my breath stalls. Her gesture is vulnerability wrapped in steel, and the small act moves the mountain of my numbness.

“I don't think so. You've told me you're a wolf in sheep's clothing, Shepard. You're no shepherd. You don't protect anyone.”

That is mostly true. I could not even protect myself when I most needed to. “I protected you.”

We stare at each other, me leaning over the center console and Marissa's grip bleeding to white from the strain of holding the car door.

She breaks the eye contact, quietly shutting the door with a dull click, and I watch her walk into her apartment.

I stay in the stall for ten minutes after she is gone.

After starting up the car, I coolly drive away. But the emotion is not complete.

Marissa has begun to thaw me.

And
la famille
has found us both.

Marissa

I slide the worn drape away from my window.

Shepard's car remains in the stall we parked in. His face is hidden by shadows, but I know he's staring up at the very window I'm looking out of.

I tremble. I should be afraid of him. God knows, I watched Shepard kill one man with a silenced pistol and beat the snot out of another.

But somehow, I don't feel as though he wants to hurt
me.

He seems really crazy, though. All this talk of
the family
this and
the family
that. And if everything he's said is true, then where does that leave
him
?

If what Shepard says is real, he is worse than the man he murdered. Shepard helped take young girls—fuck them, by his own admission. Sculpted them into these little robots that screw, kill, and transport drugs, all while behaving in a way that blends in. Speaking the language of the people to be duped—or soothed.

And how does he know I'm a virgin? I never play victim or helpless, innocent girl.

How would
anyone
know it? I've guarded my secrets—and myself— very well. When my parents were killed, I was at a stupid age—thirteen. Just about the time a girl has her first menstrual cycle and technically becomes a woman.

I gaze out the smudged glass again, and his car is gone. It was an expensive model. Audi. But it's not flashy, just elegant and expensive. Like Shepard.

I don't have a car. Can't afford one. That's why I take the train.

Took.
I'm not sure if taking the train to and from work is the best choice anymore. Maybe I shouldn't even
be
in this apartment anymore. My apartment no longer seems like an anonymous oasis.

After releasing the drape, I go to my backpack and take out everything but my ID and phone. I remove my water bottle, then immediately refill it at the tap and stuff ice inside.

I know what to do next, but it's two in the morning, and my eyes are grainy with fatigue and lack of sleep. My adrenaline stores are spent.

All of what's happened occurred in less than five hours.

I open the fridge and break off a piece of apple muffin and stuff it into my mouth. I'm suddenly ravenous.

Filthy.

I look down at my clothes. My yoga pants are full of dirt from lying on cement.

After I set the second piece of muffin down, I move down my narrow apartment hallway toward the bathroom.

As I pass my door, I secure the chain. If they could find me on the train, they can find me here. Once in the bathroom, I stare back at my reflection. A red mark stands at the side of my neck as proof of Shepard's abuse.

I
can't
trust him. He's obviously capable of extreme violence. So why did I hesitate when he offered to keep me safe?

Because I'm stupid,
that's why.

I turn away from my image in the mirror. My face damns me. It centers me.

I walk to the shower, turn on the hot water spigot, and put my hand under the rushing water. I pop the metal stem on top of the tub spout, and the showerhead turns on. Water sprays above me like warm rain.

After stepping inside, I wash my body, my breasts, and between my thighs, which throb with only the memory of Shepard's hands holding me from Hugo.

Dangerous hands. Merciless.

Lust seizes me from those dark eyes that roamed my body as if I was special. As if I was worth saving—noticing. Marissa Augustine is not needy. Need is a luxury emotion, one I can't afford to have. I've never been able to.

I
will
go to the police.
Even
if Shepard saved me. Even if Hugo deserved to die.

Even though I have no proof.

I give a vicious twist of the faucet, and the hot water pours out of the tub spout. I shut it off.

Water drips, sounding like tears on porcelain.

I step out of the shower, brace myself against the wall, and rip off first a towel for my hair and then one for my body.

I wrap myself in terry cloth and pad softly through my dinky apartment.

I pass by my tired but functional kitchen, moving back through the long narrow hallway to my bedroom in the very back of my space, and go directly to my high and narrow chest of drawers.

Selecting new panties, bra, yoga pants, and a tie-dyed T-shirt later, I toss everything on. My eyes move to the Converse tennis shoes lining the floor of my open closet, and I choose the scalding red ones.

I glance at my cell and see it's nearly three a.m. I rub my eyes and look at the time again. The witching hour.

No time like the present.

I sigh, sliding my backpack on. As I move through the quiet apartment to my front door, the water drips.

The vintage clock ticks, its Felix the Cat tail swinging endlessly back and forth. It's the only thing I was able to save from the orphanage. Seeing that black-and-white cat clock every day in my place is sad. It's also wonderful.

A thought occurs to me.

Shepard said to call him if I saw someone again. Someone from the family. The French mob.

Like what?
They have a sign on them: “French Mob coming to get you”?
Right.

I take my cell out of the front pocket of my pack, move my thumb, and press Contacts. Hit
S.

Shepard is not the first contact under
S
, but neither is he the last. The letters of his name softly glow at me. Mock me.

I shiver. He commandeered my phone—and who knows how many other details of my life? Though I keep my personal life to a minimum of distractions and relationships. It's safer that way. There is not much to know.

Shepard can't be his real name.
What is?
Why is he so cruel—
why
did he save
me
?

What kind of man hurts young women like that? What kind would rescue one from the people he used to be a part of?

Walking over to the door, I sling my loaded pack over my shoulder and grasp the handle. My hand warms the doorknob.

I remove my fingers. Indecision shakes me to my core. I should go to the police and let them figure out all this crap. There's probably someone there that would listen.

But I don't want to get in trouble, be suspected, get waylaid, and lose time from my job—my studies.

Lives are at stake. I bite my lip.
My life is at stake.

The hell with it.
A second later, I put my hand back on the knob and twist it open. The chain I forgot to unlatch jerks taut.

An eyeball stares back at me from the inches of space I created.
Shepard.

I gasp, instinctively trying to shut the door.

An Italian shoe inserts itself in the space.

My eyes rise to meet his.

“Would you have phoned me?”

His question robs me of breath, but I manage to answer truthfully because I'm so flustered by him reappearing. “I don't know.”

The chain bisects his throat, dividing us.

He smiles at my answer, and it's a real smile, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners. It's sexy and scary, making my female bits tingle.

“They have found me.”

Oh God.
“Who?” I whisper,
but I know.

A flutter appears at his jaw. “
La famille.
”

“How?”

The natural smile that was there a moment ago narrows, becoming something else.

Something less beautiful. Feral.

I realize the man he was, steals the man he wants to be. I hate watching it happen, and I've known him only hours.

“Where were you going?” His eyes shift to my pack, my bright red shoes tied and ready—my hand on the knob.

I laugh self-consciously. “The police.”

“
Non
,” he replies instantly.

I frown. “Why the hell not?”

“Because they have most likely been bought. It is akin to hanging a sign around your neck that says
Here I am
.”

“But it's the
French
mob—not an American outfit.”

His full lips thin. “That naïveté is what makes you weak.”

I'm
not
naive. He has no idea what I've done in my life. I sure as hell am not weak. I cross my arms, the locked door still between us. Shepard is not coming in here. “You've admitted to me that you were this ʻhandlerʼ guy. Why should I trust you?”

“I am no longer he.” His deep chocolate eyes bore into mine. I can't look away. Don't want to.

Oh my God.
Those eyes
. They're soulless. They're deep. They don't shift and even bother to maintain the pretense of courtesy.

I swallow back my unfamiliar surge of lust.

His hand moves through the gap in the door and cups my chin, his thumb rubbing along the side of my jaw. “
Ma chérie
. Let me help you.”

My eyes shut against the unexpected tenderness.
No one has ever saved me before.
I inhale deeply then ask, “Does helping me entail coming back to your place and being a sex slave?”

I slowly open my eyes, languid in his hand. Putty.

He laughs softly, deep throated and sexy. The sound causes a flood of warmth through my body. Ending between my thighs.

Great.

Real virginal, Marissa.

“Unfortunately, there is no
place.
La famille
has ransacked my space quite thoroughly. I have only the things of importance in my safety deposit box here in America, and what I wear on my back.” He lightly touches the tops of his broad shoulders. “And a single holding they could never know about.”

“Oh my God—they went to your
place
?” I breathe through the adrenaline that surges through me. My eyes search his face for deception, but his expression is bland.

“My flat, yes. In our absence—when I took you home—I returned to the spoils of their efforts.” He shrugs. “They did not seem to care about my suits or ties.”

My heart races as our eyes meet.

“Are they coming here, Shepard?”

Or whatever your name is.

“Almost certainly.”

“Oh shit—why didn't you
tell
me?”

“That is the exact point I have been circling this entire time. I want to gain your trust. When what I should have done was take you with me by force.”

By force.
Those words echo in my brain.

Run, Marissa. Do it now.

I can't leave.
I have a job—though my days off are now. I have my French studies. My gaze bounces to Shepard, darkly handsome and inches from me.

His hand warms my face.

He's dangerous. An unknown. But the known is the crazy French mob deciding to make me some kind of whore drug runner.

Maybe I am learning French, anyway. I give a shaky laugh, and Shepard's hand drops as he watches my expression closely.

My flesh cools with the loss of his touch.

“Let me in, Marissa.”

His words mean more than the surface question.

My hand shakes as I unlatch the chain.

But he doesn't enter my apartment. Shepard pulls me through the door and against his strong body.