Losing Control (22 page)

“Why’s that?” I ask, running a possessive gaze over his shirtless frame. He’s only wearing skintight boxer-briefs, which serve to emphasize the size of his package.
Mine
, I think.
All mine.

“Because you have a smug but very hot look in your eyes. I think anyone would recognize what it means.” His voice has dropped, and by now I know that means he’s thinking about doing dirty things to me and with me. Predictably my body responds with clenching and moistening. I’ll never get out of here at this rate. Dropping my gaze to my plate, I clear my throat and cast around for a safer topic.

“How’d you meet Malcolm?” I finally ask.

“Do you know what your brother does?” he asks.

“He’s a drug dealer. I mean, I’m not sure, but I’m delivering a lot of small packages for him and they aren’t all full of legal papers.”

“That’s not the only thing he does. I went to him because he’s got a certain reputation for dealing with a lot of very attractive women who’ll do about anything for money and are fairly discreet.”

“Are you saying he’s a . . . pimp?” My mouth falls open.

Ian presses his lips together for a moment. “You could say that.”

This news rocks me, and I drop my fork onto the plate.

“So you needed a prostitute? You thought I was a prostitute?” My voice is getting unnaturally high.

“No. I knew you weren’t right away.” He repositions his chair so that he is sitting closer to me. “The women in the business have a certain look in their eyes that you don’t have. Plus, you tried hard to piss me off and no working girl is that bad at customer service.” He shakes his head and chuckles at the memory.

“You thought I was naive and could be taken advantage of?”

He shakes his head again. “Why are you always thinking the worst about both of us?”

Good point. I drop my eyes to my plate. “Just checking.”

He folds his arms behind his head and leans back against the chair. “At first, I wanted to fuck you because you’re so adorable. The attraction we had on the street,” he pauses. “That’s not normal, Tiny.”

He plays with strands of my hair as he talks. “I didn’t want you involved in the Howe project, but your need for money was obvious. When I discovered the situation with your mother, I caved. I knew you wouldn’t accept straight-out cash from me and, frankly, you would be the perfect person for Howe to pursue.”

Taking a sip of his coffee, he pauses for a minute and then continues in a darker, grimmer tone. “I just didn’t realize that I’d want to smite him for even breathing the same air as you.”

Stirring the egg yolks with the tip of my fork, I recall the meeting when Malcolm gave me the contract to deliver to Ian. “Malcolm once said that I’d need to service a train of guys to pay off my debt . . .” I trail off at the memory. “I guess he wasn’t kidding.”

Beside me, Ian stiffens. “What debt? And I’ll kill him if he thinks he’s going to sell you.”

A pain, an unwelcome one, starts throbbing at my temple. “I had to borrow money from him after my mom got sick the first time. She thought she’d be able to continue to work even during her chemo treatments, but she couldn’t. We ended up getting evicted. To live in the apartment we are in now, I needed first and last month’s rent, which I didn’t have because I’d spent it all paying rent on the apartment we’d gotten kicked out of. Then I needed more money because my mom is too weak to keep walking up five flights of stairs. Malcolm paid off my back rent, provided me the first and last month for the apartment, and promised to do the same when I found a new place so long as I worked it off.”

Ian is seething. “He’s going to be peeing from his asshole when I’m done with him.”

“No.” I lay a hand on his arm. “This is Malcolm’s way.” I pick up my fork again. Malcolm has his own problems. Big ones.

Ian’s face is still rock hard, and I can tell he’s having difficulty reining himself in. I ask him another pressing question. “So why the hard play in front of Richard? That didn’t seem like part of the plan.”

The topic of the project shakes Ian loose from his fantasy of beating Malcolm bloody.

“I didn’t realize how angry and jealous it would make me to see you being held by another man, and when he dropped his hands to your ass and thrust his leg between yours I wanted to rip his fucking head off and then spin around the room holding it up like a warning sign.” He drew a hand over his face. “Kaga has always been one possessive motherfucker. He doesn’t like sharing anything. Not a room, not a cab, nothing. He’s got this thing for the younger sister of a friend of his. We all see it but the friend. And he doesn’t like any male to be within about five feet of her even though he won’t make his own feelings known. I used to harass him all the time. And now, look at me . . .” He spreads his hands wide inviting an inspection.

“Now what?”

“Just hearing his name come out of your mouth makes me want to end his time here on earth.” He glares at me. “Eat your breakfast. Rich’s a work project and we’re not on the clock.”

W
E
PART
WAYS
SOON
AFTER
,
AS
I have to get to work. Ian explains he has a home office that he’s going to work in today, and I leave him to reviewing financial analyst reports or whatever it is that venture capitalists do.

Around noon my phone dings. It’s a text message from an unknown number. I hit the speech recognition button and the little phone spits out a garbled message.

Victoria it was so nice to meet you last night sorry we didn't get to finish our dad like to take you to the high top Brooklyn next weekend give me a ring.

Dictation software sucks. I figure out that Howe is telling me that he is sorry we didn’t get to finish our dance. I forward the message to Ian.

When I’m finished with that task, the phone rings again. This time it’s my mother.

“Victoria,” she chides.

Oh no, the full name. I’m in trouble. I brace myself. “Yes?”

“You didn’t come home last night, and if it weren’t for Ian calling me I would have been so worried.”

I smack my forehead. Ian has overtaken my mind. “Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I think I know what you were thinking,” my mom murmurs, humor palpable in her voice.

“Mom!”

“Don’t sound shocked, dear. How do you think you came to be?”

I mumble something like “virginal conception,” which elicits a full-throated laugh.

“I hope you’re practicing safe sex.”

“God, Mom, yes.” My womb might be baby safe, but my heart is hanging out there.

“Good.” Her voice softens. “I’m so glad, Tiny, that you’ve found someone. It’s been so long for you.”

“I’ve had you,” I answer.

“You need more in your life. I love you,” she concludes. “Stay safe.”

“Love you too, Mom.”

A beep sounds, and by the image I see it’s Ian calling. “It’s Ian,” I tell her. “Can I call you back?”

“No need. I’ll see you tonight.”

I flip over to Ian’s call. I’ve never been such a popular girl.

“Did you respond to Howe’s text?” he asks abruptly.

“Um, no. I don’t text. Besides, I didn’t know what to say.”

“He invited you to a nightclub in Brooklyn. ‘Victoria it was so nice to meet you last night. Sorry we didn’t get to finish our dance. I’d like to take you to Hightop in Brooklyn next weekend. Give me a call.’”

I hear something crack. “I hope you aren’t ruining anything of value.”

He expels a heavy breath. “I rarely miscalculate, but I’ve really fucked things up. Don’t text him back.”

“I won’t.”

“Bunny,” he pauses, “I’m sorry I’ve dragged you into this mess. I don’t want you dealing with him.”

“But I want to help you,” I protest. “And if I don’t help you, then I can’t stay in the apartment or anything. It wouldn’t feel right.”

“Jesus, after last night, you still can’t accept a goddamned gift?” He snarls.

“Especially after last night,” I reply firmly. “I’ve got to get going.”

Acid churns in my belly. If Ian doesn’t let me do this project for him, then all these things aren’t right. I can’t accept them, but shit does he have me by the ovaries because I am loathe to move my mother out of the apartment. She’s been in such a great mood lately and hasn’t once brought up quitting treatment.

The new location, the new freedom, the access to a car has made a huge difference. When I get to the Central Towers, it is around six in the evening and I’m starving and unhappy, having spent the whole afternoon brooding over my situation.

“Miss Victoria,” the doorman greets me with a nod of his head and tip of his cap. “May I take your bicycle? We can store it downstairs.”

I’m grateful that Ian had mentioned this, otherwise I would have reacted weirdly. The doorman’s name is Jeremiah, and he promises to take good care of it. I reluctantly let it go. That bike is almost part of me.

As I exit the elevator onto the fifteenth floor I see a woman wheeling a rack of clothing down the hall. Her hair is black and stick-straight, the kind that you pay a couple hundred dollars for in upscale salons, but I’m guessing hers is all-natural. If not for the fact that she’s toting a metal closet behind her, I’d think she lived here. Dressed in high heels and a black dress that accentuates her model-slender build, she looks like she stepped out of one of the apartments.

“Nice stuff,” I say to make friendly conversation in case she is one of my temporary neighbors.

“Whoever lives in 1525 is one lucky bitch. You making a delivery there too?” It’s a natural assumption from my bike uniform, helmet, and pack. Shifting awkwardly, I nod. My living arrangements are too complicated to spell out to this stranger. “Guy bought about fifty grand worth of clothes like it was a tall coffee at Starbucks. No change of expression. Not even when I told him one dress was five grand. He looks at the woman to his left and is all ‘Will she like it?’ If she nodded yes, it was a sale.”

1525? My eyes zero in on the end of the hall. I’m transfixed by this rack-toting woman and her tales of selling clothes door-to-door. She eases out of her nude sky-high heels with a red sole and dangles the back straps on one of her fingers. Leaning down, she rubs her feet.

“But a good day for you?” I ask.

“Yes, a great day—but fuck me, I’d like to be the recipient of all that,” she waves toward the apartment door, “instead of earning a commission.”

“I hear you.” But inside I’m a churning mess because I suspect that I am the recipient of “all of that.” If I were still working the project, then clothes would be part of the gig. Now? I don’t even know what to make of it other than I’m quickly losing my appetite.

The elevator door dings and she boards, flexing her feet into the tiled floor and appearing to not care at all that her feet are going to get grimy. She notices that I’m staring rudely at her feet and winks at me. “I can wash my feet off when I get home. Make sure you get a good tip. He can afford it.”

I find my mom and Ian sitting in the living room enjoying a glass of wine.

“Tiny,” my mom cries as I enter the room. I set my bike helmet on the kitchen island and survey the scene. Ian is sitting on the sofa, one ankle propped up on his opposite knee. He’s turning the pages of a bound scrapbook that looks suspiciously like the ones my mother made before she was ill. She’s in a chair at a right angle to the sofa, her recently-held wine glass sitting on a rolling tray beside her. Clothing is draped across the rest of the living room furniture. There’s a splash of orange and red along with several black pieces of cloth. There are about eight shoeboxes on the dining room table, along with a number of felt drawstring bags.

And all of this largesse actually angers me. Oh, I know I should be thrilled, and I wish I could go into the living room and sit down beside Ian and drink wine with the two of them. There’s something that bothers me about the two of them being so cozy and making plans. And my mom. I feel betrayed either by her or for her.

Knowing that this is irrational, I try to hide my pique by burying my head in the refrigerator. I see a plate of pasta and stick it into the microwave, hitting the popcorn button because the thing is too complicated. I tried to figure it out before, and at some point I thought I’d learn how to use all of the buttons instead of just one, but now I’m wondering why. I don’t feel right about staying.

I guess that’s why I’m angry. Ian is acting like he intends to be best friends with us for a long time, and my mom is eating this up. It’s as if all my decisions are being made for me. Plus, I can’t even protest without looking like an utter jackass.

I tug out the plate, cursing that it’s so hot and then carry the food into the dining room. Shoving aside the boxes, I fall into my food. I guess my surly mood is fairly evident because the laughter and chatter from the two magpies in the living room has shut down. I’ll add “mood killer” to my list of sins.

Mom bustles over, showing more energy than I’ve seen out of her in weeks, and gives me a little hug. “Glad to see you’re home safe, dear. I think I’ll go into the bedroom and read before I turn in.”

“‘Kay,” I mutter sullenly. She hesitates and then squeezes me again before disappearing down the hall.

“I think you’ve hurt your mom’s feelings,” observes Ian as he drops into a seat opposite of me. It is the same chair where he asked me how much to suck his dick. And while no money was exchanged, the sum that he’s spent on me in the form of clothes makes it seem like it is payment in kind. When I don’t respond, he heaves a sigh and then kicks out his long legs.

Because I don’t know what to say that would sound rational at the moment, I continue to eat my pasta until every last noodle and vegetable is gone. The popcorn setting is surprisingly good for heating up food so long as I take it out after the two minute mark. Maybe I won’t have to learn how to use the microwave.

I drop off the dirty plate in the dishwasher and then drain a bottle of water. I dispose of the plastic bottle in a recycling bin that I noticed under the sink this morning.

“Not talking to me?” Ian has followed me into the kitchen and is leaning against the island.