Losing Control (24 page)

“Why aren’t you picking up? I’ve got four fucking angry customers that need their deliveries. Are you going to get your ass in gear and make deliveries of me, or do I have to get someone else?”

“Get someone else,” Ian barks because Malcolm is speaking so loudly that the people in the apartment next door can hear him.

“Is that fucking Kerr? Are you fucking him?” Malcolm is pissed off.

“None of your business, Malcolm,” I shoot back, but I’m up and moving toward the closet. Ian curses and heaves himself out of bed. His cock bobs angrily in the air as he wrenches on his discarded boxers and then his pants.

“I’m sorry,” I mouth to Ian, and he gives me a tight smile. His pants are tented out, and Ian grips himself and then heads into the bathroom.

“I’ll be there in thirty,” I say and hang up before Malcolm can shout any more obscenities.

“I don’t like that you do deliveries for Hedder,” Ian grits out while he begins shaving once more. I intentionally keep my gaze away from him because he’s angry and because he looks so goddamn sexy shaving. I kind of resent how intensely attractive I find him.

Ian stomps around some more, picking out a tie and then wrapping himself up tight. He picks up the same mother-of-pearl cufflinks that he wore the other day, which I find odd given that he has so much money one would think he’d have dozens of cufflinks. He seems to have a huge number of ties in my closet alone. Who knows what he has stored at his Bruce Wayne fuckpad.

“Yeah, well, I need the money.”

“You work for me.”

I ignore that and get dressed. Out of the bedroom, the living areas are empty. My mother has made herself scarce. Ian’s right behind me.

“I can get you a different job. A permanent one. You wouldn’t need to ride bikes in New York’s insane traffic where any number of cabbies are hoping to knock you off the street.”

“Like a made-up one?” I mock because there’s no job in the financial sector where someone like me could work. “Tell me what company. What would I be doing?”

He shrugs, and I know it’s a fake job. “I’m not sure. Let me look into it.”

“I don’t know.” I’m reluctant to give up the income that Malcolm’s drop provides. “I’ll think about it.” I grab my pack and make sure my headphones are inside of it.

“You do that.” He gives me a hard kiss and then pats my butt.

When I get to Queens, I’m ten minutes past the thirty I’d promised and Malcolm is seething. He throws the packages at me when I cross the threshold. “You are so fucking dumb, Tiny.” He paces in the living room as I unzip my bag and stuff the five envelopes inside. He recites the addresses to me, and I’m grateful that they are all grouped together over in Brooklyn. Park Slope moms who can’t stand their kids, I think.

“I’m dumb because I overslept?” I ask. I hate being called dumb, and Malcolm knows it.

“If you’re letting Kerr in your pants, it’s the fucking stupidest thing you’ve ever done. And you’ve done a lot of stupid shit in your life.”

The accusation stings because I rarely do stupid shit. I lived a quiet life with my mom before she got sick. I didn’t start doing stupid stuff like working with Malcolm until I had no other recourse.

“Screw you, Malcolm. What’s it matter who I sleep with?” I turn to go, but Malcolm grabs my arm.

“He likes to fuck around. I read up about him. He’s thirty-two and never had a single solid relationship. He’s the type who’s always got some new piece in his bed. Guys like Kerr think that women are good for one thing only. And you’re disposable to him. Like Kleenex. He’ll blow you once and then throw you away.”

I give him a tight smile, trying not to show how easily he’s hurt me. “You get all that from the Internet?”

“
Page Six
has a dossier on him. If you could read, you’d know.”

I gasp at his low blow. “You know nothing about us.”

This generates a mean laugh from Malcolm. “If you think there is an ‘us,’ you’re already done for. You want to be a toy for a rich man? Fine. Enjoy it but know that you’re one of a thousand plastic Barbies he’s sticking his dick into.”

“Jealous much?” I retort. Shouldering my pack, I roll my bike out the door. This time Malcolm doesn’t stop me. When I turn back, his expression is unfathomable. For a moment I think I see pain and then worry but a sneer and his next words erase that thought.

“Hope he’s paying you well. Might as well get double time on your back.” He slams the door in my face.

I don’t get why Malcolm is being so hateful. Is it jealousy? Like, he wishes he could get paid the money to lure Richard to his demise? I want to tell him that it’s no fun. The really disturbing thing is that Malcolm and Rich have both claimed that Ian is a lothario, but it doesn’t match what I’ve seen of him or what he’s told me.

There’s no reason for Ian to tell me that he wants me, that he cares about me because he’s already gotten me into bed. I’m a
sure thing.
Yet he still keeps coming back. I can either buy into the negativity that Malcolm and Richard are selling or trust Ian.

Maybe it’s stupid and foolish, but I’m going to trust Ian.

There’s no bike lanes or paths from Queens to Brooklyn. Instead I have to take Atlantic Avenue, which is getting busy by the time I hit the road. Malcolm is right to be mad at me. It’s far more dangerous to be biking now than it would be earlier in the morning, but the first three deliveries go fine.

The fourth delivery is in Brooklyn Heights. The address recited to me by Malcolm leads me to a five-story Greek Revival townhouse. Its gorgeous all-brick exterior is framed by bushes on either side that are starting to flower. The lower windows are grated, but the upper windows are large and sparklingly clear. Shaking my head, I wonder briefly why anyone who is able to live in such a gorgeous place would need anything Malcolm is selling. Leaning my bike against the front stoop, I head down a short flight of stairs to the basement entrance. Deliveries aren’t usually made to the front door in homes like these. Not even the type of deliveries I’m making.

I knock and ring the doorbell but no one answers. I can’t very well tuck this envelope in the mail slot, so I head to the main entrance. The door is big and painted black. There are no sidelights, so I can’t even tell if anyone is home. I ring the bell and then try to lean over the side of the stoop to see if I can see any movement from the front windows. I wait what seems to be a long time but is likely only thirty seconds or so. Maybe I have the wrong address. I pull out my phone and am in the process of pulling up Malcolm’s phone number when the front door opens, revealing a husky man of indeterminate age, dressed in boxers and a short robe that hangs open.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snarls at me. I start to reach into my pack when he grabs my wrist. “Were you taking a picture?”

“No,” I answer and try to wrest my wrist away. “I was calling Mr. Hedder to see if I had the right address.”

“You can’t take fucking pictures.” he rants and squeezes my wrist a little tighter.

“Sir, you are hurting me. I promise I wasn’t taking any pictures.” But my words don’t penetrate.

He repeats his claim, only this time there is white spittle forming at the sides of his mouth. He grabs my other hand and yells again, shaking me hard. “You shouldn’t be taking pictures of my fucking house.”

My heart is pounding, but I try to stay calm. “I wasn’t, sir. Really. Let me get your package.”

I should’ve noticed the wild, dilated pupils. Maybe the flushed skin was a warning or his disheveled appearance but none of it registered, so when the slap comes across my face, I only respond with dazed surprise.

The first blow is followed by another and then another. I’m trying to pull from his grip, but he has both my wrists captured in one hand. My legs kick out, but he’s unmoved by it. There’s a ringing in my ears and my face is on fire. I try to hold my hands up to avoid more blows, but he’s relentless. Suddenly he releases me, and I fall backwards down the stairs. I try to catch myself, but I’m so so dizzy. The ground rises to meet me.

And then he’s on me again, bludgeoning me with his fists on my face, my body. The pain is piercing and pulsating and I can’t breathe. I curl up and try to avoid direct hits to tender organs and then suddenly he’s gone. There’s a shout and a scuffle. I hear thuds. He’s away from me, so I try to crawl in the opposite direction of the noises. If only I can get to my bike. My hands scrape against the concrete, and I feel as if I’m leaving bits of me on the sidewalk but I’m okay with that. I need to get to my bike.

Despite my blurred vision, I think I see the curved back tire maybe ten feet away. I pull myself up on my hands and knees and start forward until a big hand drops on my back. My immediate reaction is to collapse into another ball. Raising my hands to cover my head and drawing my knees up, I cower. “No more, please. I wasn’t going to take a picture,” I sob out.

“Victoria,” I hear a deep male voice say. “It’s Steve. You’re going to be all right, sheila. Ian is on his way.”

Steve’s voice, so distinctly not American, is comforting in its familiarity.

“What’s a sheila? Is that like a girl kangaroo?” I ask, catching my breath. My fingers run over my helmet, and I cringe at the long crack I feel on the top of the plastic. My bike helmet helped cushion my fall, but it obviously didn’t make it through unscathed. I’ll have to get a new one before I show up downtown at my job. Struggling to my feet, I fight back a wave of dizziness. In the back of my mind, the presence of Steve niggles at me but I can’t think about that. All of my concentration is on not puking my guts out. I try breathing through my nose.

“Nah, it’s like the opposite of bloke.” Steve answers. “Maybe you should sit down before you—”

My sudden retching interrupts his words of advice and I puke right into the front bushes I was admiring. Groaning, I lean forward and rest my hands on my thighs. Lying back down on the pavement seems like a good idea. My legs buckle, but Steve is there to catch me before I do a header into the plants. He presses a white cloth against my forehead.

“You hit your melon pretty hard falling down the stairs, so you need to stay awake, girl.” He snaps his fingers in front of me. I decide that I no longer like Steve and his nasally accent. Jerking my head away is a mistake, though, and I close my eyes hoping that the darkness will make the pounding go away. Wish he would let me go.

Is it okay for me to sleep on the sidewalk in Brooklyn Heights? There’s probably a homeowner’s association policy against that sort of thing, and really, I need to get to Neil’s. I can’t afford to be late.

Heaving a sigh, I try standing upright using Ian’s driver for support. “What are you doing in Brooklyn Heights?” I ask, trying to figure out why there’s two of him. “And stop moving,” I order. He’s swaying so much that the motion is creating a double vision.

A squealing of tires followed by the hard slam of a car door grabs my attention, but when I turn toward the sound, nausea rises up and I bend over to avoid another bout of vomit. Heavy footsteps slap against the asphalt as if someone is running and then I feel Steve move aside and a new, familiar body settle next to me.

“Ian.” It’s funny how much being next to him makes me feel better. He strokes my back in sure, comforting movements.

He lifts the white cloth stuck to my forehead and hisses. “Oh, bunny, what have you got yourself into?”

The tender concern in his voice threatens to break the dam that’s holding back my emotions. “I thought Batman and Robin traveled together,” I joke lamely. “How come you and Steve aren’t together?”

It doesn’t make sense to me but not much does right now. I take a few more deep breaths and then straighten up so I can get on my bike and go—only the sudden movement makes me stumble and my knees buckle again. Before I can take another breath, Ian lifts me into his arms.

“Put me down,” I say. “I have to get going. What time is it anyway?”

I had it planned so that my last delivery would allow me to get to my job in time. Too many late arrivals and absences due to my mom’s illness have put my once-secure courier position in jeopardy. Ian’s arms tighten around me as I struggle, but then the pounding in my head gets stronger so I give in. It’s easier to lay my head against Ian’s broad chest and close my eyes.

He curses softly. “What happened?”

“Guy attacked her. She fell down the stairs and he hit her a few more times before I could get to her.” Steve pauses. “Sorry, man. Parked too far away. She vomited when I tried to sit her upright. Probably has a small concussion.”

“Where is he?” Ian growls, like a feral animal. The harshness in his voice is in direct contradiction to the tender way he’s holding me. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Mate, we need to move her soon.”

He’s silent for a moment. “Get his details. I’m coming back once I have Tiny squared away.”

“Don’t go to sleep, Tiny.” Steve snaps his fingers in front of me again. When I have the energy I’m breaking those digits off so he can’t snap them again.

Ian shifts me higher in his arms. “Where’s the car?”

Steve must’ve gestured because I don’t hear any verbal response. “What car today?” I ask because I don’t feel like pulling my head out of the nice little nest on his shoulder. If I place my nose is the right spot, I get a whiff of lemon from his shaving cream. And the lemon scent makes me think of how great the morning started with Ian heavy between my legs before I came out here to this quiet family neighborhood and got the crap beaten out of me.

“Things went to hell in a hurry this morning,” I murmur into his collarbone.

“Should never have left you,” he replies tersely. When we’re at the car, Ian settles me against the side of the vehicle as he opens the car door.

“We should get a minivan,” I tell him. “In the commercials, the doors open and close with a push of a button.”

“I don’t think anyone in the city owns a minivan.” He sounds amused.

“We’ll need it for our kids.”

He sucks in a breath and then hugs me tight as he puts me into the back of the Bentley. I stretch out on the soft leather and fall into a light sleep. It’s not even sleep because I can hear Steve climb in and then another car door open and shut.