The Token 7: Thorn (A Token Novel) Read Online Free Page A

you say it like that.”
    I bristle. “It's French.”
    “Ooh la la... and oui oui!” she says in a horrible French accent.
    She notes my sour expression. “What? Thorn!” She laughs and points at me. “Don't tell me you speak French?”
    Her disbelief kinda pisses me off.
    I don't answer. I just walk to the door. I'm frustrated and can't seem to redeem myself from the ego splat I took.
    From a lap dancer.
    A very hot, hard-fighting chick with a French name and a body like Venus.
    I decide she makes my dick hurt as I flinch when my tongue runs over the bite she gave me.
    “What are you smiling about?” Kiki asks, running after me as I swing the door open.
    “ Les possibilités ,” I reply.
    “What did you say?” she asks, her eyes narrowing at me.
    I don't translate the French.
    I leave Kiki in a huff. I have something to think about besides looking for the man who's my real father.
     
    *
     
    “God, Ty, no. I'm not going to help you find some chick you're jonesin' to tap. No.”
    “Tag, don't be an ass. Look at my mouth, pal.” I spread my palms wide as his hazels laser in on the wound.
    Detective Lance Tagger, fearless partner of lots o’ crime busts with yours truly, folds his arms.
    “You let a chick beat you down while some guy did a baby move to your gonads?”
    I grunt. “Yeah, you got me. Dumb move.”
    “Elementary move, Watson. Cover the nutsack. Don't leave the family jewels hanging like a bull’s-eye.”
    I sigh and lower my chin, digging for patience. Which I suck at.
    Tag studies my face with a perma-smirk slapped on his. Asshole. “Is she really that much of a distraction?”
    “It's not just that, Tag... I messed up. I was late. Kiki asked—”
    His eyebrow rises. “I thought she wasn't doing poles? Grad school or something?”
    I nod, not really listening. “Yeah.” I wave his question away. “I guess Kiki was leaving that day and ran into Simone...”
    “Simone?” Tag's lovin' this shit: the bitten lip, the hot girl who kicked my ass. Yeah, this is right up his fuck-with-Thorn alley.
    Play nice, Thorn . “Yeah, man, Simone.”
    “God, okay. I'll look her up.” Tag rolls his eyes at me. “Don't fuck it up. The department finds out I'm lifting a name from the system, it'll be my wiener on a stick.”
    I nod. He plops down in his computer chair, and his fingers fly over the keys. I lean over his shoulder, one hand gripping the side of the desk.
    “Hey, Simon,” a beat cop greets me from across the room, and I lift my chin.
    “Surname?” Tagger asks.
    I tell him.
    “What? Say it normally.”
    “That is normal.”
    He gives me a sidelong glance. “Oh. Is—is it foreign?”
    I nod.
    He turns back to the screen. “Spelling.”
    I spell it out.
    “Oh—the D is silent. Here she is. Simone Angeline Balland. Age: 23. Five feet seven, one hundred thirty-five pounds. Race: mixed.”
    “What mix?” I know so little about my own roots that I want to know hers. And maybe curiosity killed the damn cat.
    “She's French, Ty. Dual citizenship.”
    Now I'm intrigued. As if I wasn't before. I snort, and Tag gives me a look.
    She didn't have a trace of an accent. Of course, neither do I. Welcome to America, where no one is what they seem.
    “No shit, bright one,” I answer.
    His lips thin. “Like you?”
    I shake my head, gazing at her photo.
    It's not a great one, like all driver license pics. Full, kiss-me lips, long kinky jet-black curls, pale skin with a spray of freckles over the bridge of a refined nose, and wide-spaced, slightly almond eyes.
    Brilliant green.
    They appear to see me, to follow me. Not the Thorn I show people, but the dude I hide.
    Simone Balland looks as if she can see my secrets. I don't know if I like that.
    Maybe it doesn't matter.
    I tap her addy into the contact list on my cell. She can't know I'm a cop. I'm still undercover, just not operational. But I've got to make this right.
    It would be so wrong to just show up at her door.
    I go