Losing Control (11 page)

The belt, the cape, the clothes are all magically dropped away and then he’s on top of me. His hands are palming my breasts and his mouth is leaving a heated wet trail down the side of my neck. If this is fear, I want to be afraid all of my life.

I hook my legs around his hips to draw his hardness down against me, but he’s immovable. All I feel are light caresses from his hand and his tongue and his lips. The need for more pressure, for the hard thrust of his cock against me, builds until I wake up gasping for relief. But Ian is nowhere to be found. It’s me and the sheets and the cool morning air. I roll over onto my stomach, close my eyes and see if I can recapture the fantasy—but it’s gone. I slide a hand between my legs and rub myself to a small release.

S
UNDAY
M
OM
AND
I
PUTTER
AROUND
the house. She doesn’t bring up Ian and I make inane chatter about how cute I thought the sea lions were. On Monday, we quietly prepare for the chemo trip. We’ll need to be outside for the bus in about twenty minutes. The blender whirls, mixing up the banana, strawberries, and protein powder that will be Mom’s breakfast. We’ve learned through trial and error that this is about the most that she can handle before her drip. Too much food and she’s violently ill. Too little and she’s weak and ill. Always ill, but Dr. Chen agreed that the protein powder and fruit in a drinkable form was our best option.

“I wish you wouldn’t take the morning off to sit with me,” my mom says as I hand her a hard plastic drink container full of her breakfast.

“I earn more today than any day of the week,” I say, my sound muffled as I pull a long sleeve shirt over my head.

“Because you’re riding at night, and that’s very dangerous.”

“Even if you didn’t have treatment, I’d still take this route.” Kissing her lightly on the cheek, I ignore her further protestations and pack up my supplies. Because I’ll be riding in the evening and it will get chilly, I make sure I have long biking pants and a wind-breaker.

“Because of the money,” she says with some disgust. The treatment, the illness, our circumstances, the whole situation is eroding our patience. I bite my tongue to prevent saying anything I’ll regret.

“Ready?” I ask. Before she can say another word there’s a knock on the door. We exchange puzzled looks, but I go to see who it is. It’s Steve.

Pulling the door open but not unlocking the chain, I ask with suspicion, “How did you get up here?”

“Trade secret.”

I can’t tell if this is a joke because Steve’s expression is no different than the last evening, but the two words do reveal something about him that I wasn’t aware of before: He has an accent. Then I remember Ian saying that it was expensive to fly Steve’s family over from Australia.

“So are you here to pick up the leftovers?” I think forlornly of the mounds of leftover Thai food that I planned to gorge myself on later tonight after biking around the city for hours.

This time he shows a real emotion—confusion. “Leftovers? No. Hospital.”

Ian. Sighing, I unhook the chain and open the door so Steve can come in. “We’re almost ready.”

There’s no fighting this, I can tell. Steve would pick my mother up and carry her down to the car. “Hey Mom, look who’s here.”

She looks at me puzzled, and then I remember she was asleep when Steve came to deliver the food. “Mom, this is Steve . . . um, I don’t know your last name.”

He looks like this is more painful than a root canal. He’s standing in the middle of our living room, legs slightly spread, arms straight at his side like he’s some soldier awaiting orders. Oh, holy crap. Ian said that Steve doesn’t like it when he can’t keep track of Ian. It hits me that Steve must be Ian’s bodyguard.

And then I wonder why Ian needs a bodyguard. I give Steve a frown and he glares back at me.

“Thomas.” He doesn’t even move to shake my mom’s hand, and my mom looks completely flustered.

I pick up my pack and then Mom’s handbag and steer her toward the door. “Jerk,” I mumble under my breath, but they both hear it. My mom gives me a reproving look but doesn’t disagree. Steve grunts like a Neanderthal. Why does it not surprise me that Ian surrounds himself with guys like Steve? There’s probably a whole bunch of grunting cyborgs back at the Bruce Wayne fuckpad ready to take Steve’s place if he utters more than three words or, heavens to Betsy, cracks a friggin’ smile.

The car Steve is driving is not the gunmetal gray one that idled outside Malcolm’s building but a black one, and it’s amazingly luxurious inside—even more so than Ian’s other vehicle. The interior is covered with sumptuous tan leather. In the back, there are two bucket seats separated by a polished wood console where glass tumblers rest in the cup holders. One is full of orange juice.

After my mom climbs in, Steve bends down and—with a flick of a switch—her seat reclines and a footrest pops up. Mom releases an audible sigh of comfort as she settles into the butter-soft leather.

Once again I’m overwhelmed with Ian’s thoughtfulness. It’s touching yet disturbing at the same time. He wants something, and it must be more than a quick roll in the hay. Surely he doesn’t need to be this . . . kind to get a fuck.

I’m sure the models who hang out in his neighborhood would pull up their skirts and ask for it on the brick-lined road if he seemed interested. Based on his body and looks alone, some would probably even be willing to pay for it. Add in his money and there’s just no way that he doesn’t have women—and some men—beating down his door. None of this makes any sense to me.

Mom rubs her hand along the creamy leather. “A recliner in the car. Have you ever seen such a thing, Tiny?” she asks in wonder.

“No, never.”

“Steve,” Mom calls up to the front. She has to raise her voice slightly because the distance between our rear seats and the driver’s seat is sizable. “What kind of vehicle is this?”

“Maybach, ma’am,” he answers.

“Your man, he’s very nice.” Mom picks up the orange juice and sips it. “Mmm. Even fresh squeezed.”

Of course it is. The oranges are probably flown in from a special orangery kept in some remote island that is full of dirt specially formulated to create the best juice in all the world. I can’t even be angry because Mom’s eyes no longer look dull and disinterested. She fiddles with various buttons, one raises and lowers her footrest and another flips open a panel and offers up a phone.

“Look at this, Tiny!” she coos.

It is so amazing that we are almost reluctant to get out of the car. “Maybe you could drive around the city for a few hours,” I joke when we arrive at the hospital. Steve ignores me and climbs out of the driver’s seat to open the door for us. The Maybach is left illegally idling at the front while he silently assists us into the waiting room.

Inside, we head to the nurse’s station to check in. Mom’s chemo is done in a room with other cancer patients. It’s fairly cold in the room, and I always ask for another blanket.

“Mrs. Corielli,” the nurse calls out, “I have a big surprise for you today.”

The staff at NYPH has always been great to us even though we’re criminally behind on our payments. Perhaps they’ve fixed the broken footrest on the recliner she normally sits in but we don’t stop at the main treatment room. Instead, the nurse leads us down the hall to the very end. Inside is a hospital bed, a comfortable chair, and a big-screen television. It’s a large enough room for four patients.

“What’s this?” Mom looks askance at the room. It screams “expensive” and that’s not a cost we can manage right now. Or ever.

“Your new room!” The nurse throws out her arms like she’s a game show host displaying one of the grand prizes.

“Um, didn’t realize Medicaid paid for private rooms now.” We’re on state aid, and I know it doesn’t.

The nurse drops her arms and looks flustered for a moment. Walking over to the bed, she picks up the chart hooked at the foot. “Sophie Corielli?”

Mom nods.

“No, no mistake.” She pats the bed. “Why don’t you climb up and we’ll get started.”

“Go on,” I say. “I’ll get everything squared away.”

It’s going to be a tiring day, so rather than argue my mother nods and climbs into the bed. With the help of the nurse, we get the head and foot of the bed raised so she’s comfortable. Once the drip is started, I follow the nurse out of the room. “What’s this all going to cost?”

“I’m sorry,” she smiles at me and pats my arm. “I’m in patient care. You’ll have to call billing.”

A young girl, likely in her teens, brushes by and enters the room. I hear her voice echo out in the hallway. “Mrs. Corielli?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Hallie Sitton, a volunteer. I was wondering if you might like to be read to today? I have
Emma
?”

“That’d be lovely, dear.”

While mom is occupied, I call billing with the number left me by the nurse. “Hi, um, this is Victoria Corielli, and my mother is a patient here at NYPH. She was moved into a private room today, which we never asked for or authorized. Can you explain this to me?”

“Sure, please hold,” the bored voice says. A few moments later, the voice returns. “The bills are being covered by your new employer, Kerr Industries, under their family plan. The transfer was made today.”

“Oh, okay,” I mumble.

“Anything else?”

“No, thanks.” I end the call and walk into the room.

“Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.” Hallie’s voice is surprisingly soothing, and while I’d like to drop into one of the chairs and give myself over to the story of the rich, spoiled, good-looking girl who tries to arrange everything in her life to suit her, I have my own Emma to deal with.

I’m starting to feel like I’ve already accepted that million dollar payment, and for what? I haven’t done anything. I’m unbalanced and the vertigo is making me sick.

“I have to make a phone call,” I tell Mom. When she waves me away with a smile, a little kernel of resentment lodges at her apparent happiness. I can’t read to her. I can’t really support her. I feel so fucking useless. Stomping out of the room, I press “Call” on the one number in my phone that I don’t know by heart.

Ian answers on the first ring, and I unload. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing sending Steve, paying for a private room, and saying I'm your fricking employee!”

“Bunny, I’ve missed you too.” There’s a
creak
, as if he’s leaned back in his chair and thrown his feet up on a desk.

“I’m not joking,” I seethe.

“Hallie is the daughter of a friend, and she needs the volunteer work so she looks well-rounded on her college applications.”

“Seriously?” Forgetting my anger for a moment, I peek into the room and see my mother is completely enthralled. Hallie’s gesturing with her hands and using different voices to bring the story to life. “Is she some kind of theatre major?”

“Not that I know of. I believe she wants to be a doctor.”

“Can’t Hallie read to Mom in the common room?”

“Too disruptive,” he says smoothly.

“How am I going to pay for this?” I say finally because I can’t deny Mom this pleasure, at least not today. Somehow I’ll come up with the money for one day spent in a private room.

“I’ll send you a complete accounting when it’s all done.”

“When do I start?” This is it then. I’m going to do his secret job.

“I can send a car for you immediately and we can go over to the warehouse where I’ll explain what I need from you.”

His home. I think he’s asking me for sex, but I’m not entirely sure. I have nothing to lose by just asking him outright. I know that I’d do a lot of things for my mom but I can’t have sex with Ian for money. I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the morning. “I thought you didn’t pay for sex.”

I can almost feel the gust of wind through the phone when he sighs. With a touch of exasperation, he says, “I’m trying to do a good deed, and you’re making it out to be something nefarious. Can’t you accept a gift? That’s all that it is.”

“Let’s just say you’re making it easy to resist you right now.”

“Again with the challenges. It’s like you want me to chase you, bunny.”

I hang up before the curse words spill out. I’m sure he’s laughing somewhere in Manhattan.

When we exit the hospital it is no surprise to me that Steve is sitting there in the emergency lane. He immediately jumps out of the car and hurries over to help my mom into the car. When the numbers of the cross-streets get below eighty-six, I lean forward, “You’re going the wrong way.”

He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror and they tell me that I can’t be that stupid. I slide back into my seat. Ian’s taking over my life. We stop outside a new condominium tower in Midtown that was completed last year. I remember hearing about it because it was one of the new developments that had views of Central Park. Steve lifts my mom out of the car and helps her into the elevator. There’s no point in objecting now. I’ll let my mom sleep before I take her home.

The lift stops on the fifteenth floor and we walk to the end of the hall. There are only six doors on this floor. The door to the end unit opens before we reach it—Ian’s just inside the entrance. He’s not wearing his usual uniform of boots and jeans. Today he’s attired in another perfectly-tailored suit. This time, it’s a staid navy-blue paired with a red-and-white checked shirt and a blue-and-white polka-dotted tie. His welcoming smile dies out as we march past him, a row of surly, unhappy soldiers. Well, Steve and I are surly and unhappy. Mom is out of it.

“Where to?” clips Steve. Even Ian only gets a few words. Steve is directed down the hall to the last door. Inside I find a sizable room with a huge bed and a window overlooking Central Park. The view is incredible, but I’m too angry to appreciate it. I help my mother get into bed. She looks bewildered.

“Where are we, Tiny?” Her frail hand grips my arm, and I shoot Ian a furious look. He’s wearing Steve’s default expression now. Impassive, unyielding. I’m thinking that’s his guilty look, the one where he knows he’s gone too far but can’t—or won’t—acknowledge it.