Losing Control (31 page)

Before bed, Ian draws me into the bathroom.

“Let’s take a steam shower,” he suggests. “You can make it smell good. There’s a little thing down here where you pour something in and then the heat makes it aromatic.”

“Aromatherapy.”

“Right.” He rummages around looking for something in the vanity. Triumphantly, he holds up a small brown bottle that looks about five years old. The letters on the label have started to rub off. “Eucalyptus.”

He pours a few drops onto a tiny metal dish only about two feet off the floor and then taps the LCD screen inside the shower. A low humming noise starts and steam pours into the shower space. Soon, the entire bathroom is redolent with eucalyptus. He sits me on the vanity and leans between my legs as we wait for the shower to fill up with steam.

“What do you think?”

“I can’t believe you still have that bottle. It looks like it was sold during the Stone Age.”

“I’m a big collector of things.”

“Am I a thing?”

“No, you’re my heart.”

Right there in the steam filled bathroom, we made love. Not “he made love to me”—that would suggest I wasn’t an active participant, just a receptacle. I kissed, stroked, and licked with every available body part. In his embrace, I tried to show through each touch the truth of my love and that he held my heart, too, although it was bruised. The words I couldn’t say just yet, I tried to express through my touch. Those words were weighted with too much sorrow.

As he carries me, damp and worn out, to the bed, I whisper, “Yes, I’ll marry you and be your wife.”

“Oh, Tiny.” He kisses me again. “You’ll never regret it.”

When I get up, the bed is empty. I hear music downstairs, a woman singing in Italian. Opera. Shrugging on a blue silk robe from the bottom of the bed, I float out. There’s a leather box with a big silver clasp on the table. Ian is leaning against the unlit fireplace with a drink in his hand.

I settle onto the sofa, tucking my legs underneath me, and stare at the box.

“My mother’s things are in there. Her wedding rings, a few pieces of jewelry she hadn’t sold. The clothes and other things I walked away from, but I packed this all up and haven’t ever looked at it again.”

“Do you want me to open it?”

“Would you? Or is it too painful?”

“No.” Even if it is painful, I’d take this for him. After all he’s done for me.

The box is lined in a beautiful white silk with a classic chain pattern. There are a few cards—anniversary mementos—and an envelope labeled “Ian.”

“It’s for you,” The envelope is yellowed and the ink is faded but still visible. The letters aren’t perfectly formed, as if the hand that drew them out wasn’t stable.

“I can’t read it.” He shakes his head and pushes away from the fireplace. There is only one sheet of notebook paper in the envelope; it’s soft in my grip. Because he’s not ready, I read it to myself. It takes me awhile to decipher all the letters. It might be the most reading I’ve done since high school.

Dear Ian,

I’m so sorry. For everything. I failed you time and again because I’m weak. Already at fifteen, you are the man your father and I had hoped you would become. No, you are something else. Something better. And if I remain with you, tainted and tarnished, it would only diminish you.

I bite my lip to prevent my scoff. Selfish is what this is. I don’t want Ian reading it, but I must finish.

I tried to redeem us. I tried so hard, but he laughed. He laughed at your father. He laughed at me. He said that your father shouldn’t have been so soft. That he did him a favor by taking him out as early as he did before someone else ate him up.

When I asked him to help us, even after he turned your father down, I hadn’t realized what I was giving up. One night was all. One night. But the help never arrived and the one night was for naught and it has haunted me ever since.

I saw him then at the Casino Grand. Flush and ruddy faced. He apologized. Said that he had been young and brash. He offered to make amends. All I needed to do was give him one more night. This time he did pay me. But he laughed again, and I hear him still every time I close my eyes.

You will be alone, but it is better this way. Better for both of us. I am no longer an anchor but a heavy weight dragging you into the dark depths. Be free. Live for all of us.

Your loving mother,

Joanna

Carefully, I fold the letter and place it back into the envelope. My hands are shaking with the effort not to rip it into a million shreds so that Ian will never be able to piece it together. Across the room he is grim-faced. His glass is full once more. He must have filled it while I was reading. He tosses back half of it, his face marked by utter despair.

“You know,” I croak.

He nods, drinks the rest of the whiskey. In two strides he’s at the sofa, pulling the letter out of my hands. “It was with the scarf when I went to pick up her things.”

I don’t say “I’m sorry” because those are the two most ineffectual words in the English language. They won’t take his pain away or bring back his mother. When he said he was alone in this world, I didn’t realize how deeply the ache of isolation went for him.

I am overwhelmed by the extent of his devotion to me and his willingness to sacrifice to make me happy.

But it is too much.

Far too much.

The scales will never be even.

I reach out my hand and pull his head into my lap.

“Turn out the light, Tiny.” The words are tight and clipped.

I reach over and the light is swallowed by the shadows. Hugging him against me, I cry the tears he won’t release. This matter with Richard Howe is not finished. For all that Ian has said that he wants to look forward, this horrible truth will always hold him back. Hold us back.

“Don’t leave me,” Ian shudders, soundless emotion shaking his frame.

“I won’t. Not ever.” And then I’m finally able to say the words. “I love you, Ian Kerr. More than anything.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

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Read on for an excerpt from
Last Hit
the love story of Nick, a Hitman, and Daisy, his farmgirl available now.

DAISY

I
HAVE
PLANNED
FOR
THIS
day in secret for six long years,
I think as I wake up and stretch, a giddy burn in my stomach that might be nerves.

Today, I will escape.

The day starts as any other. It's like the world can't see how excited I am inside, but I'm practically vibrating with anticipation. Freedom is so close I can taste it. I get out of bed and dress in a dark, floor-length skirt and matching blouse. I throw a sweater on over it, so every inch of my body is covered. Then I go to my mattress and pull out the disposable cellphone and the small wad of cash I have saved up.

Seven hundred dollars from six years of saving. It has to be enough. I tuck them both into my bra to hide them.

I go to the bathroom and pull my dark hair into a ponytail and then splash water on my face to cleanse it. I stare at my reflection. My face is bleach pale, but there's a flush on my cheeks that betrays me. I don't like it, and I wet a cloth and press it to my cheeks, hoping the color will fade. When I can't delay any longer, I leave the safety of my bathroom.

My father is seated in the living room. The room is a dark cave. No light comes in. There's a chair and a sofa, and a TV. The TV is off, and I know it's only programmed to broadcast happy, chaste channels like religious TV or children's shows. If I'm lucky, I get to watch PBS. I long for something edgier, but my father has removed everything else from the channel list, and I'm not allowed the remote.

As usual, the only light in the room is a small lamp beside his chair. It halos his recliner, and my father is seated in an island of light in the oppressive darkness. He reads a thick hardback—Dickens—and closes it when I enter the room. He's dressed in a button-up shirt and slacks, his hair neatly combed. It is ironic that my father dresses so well, considering he doesn't leave the house and no one will see him but me. If I ask, he will simply say that appearances are important.

Our entire house is like the living room: dark, oppressive, thick with shadow. It's sucking the life out of me, day by day, which is why I must do what I can to escape.

"Sir." I greet my father, and wait. My hands are clasped behind my back, and I'm the picture of a dutiful daughter.

He eyes my clothing, my sweater. "Are you going out today?"

"If the weather is nice today." I don't look at the windows in the living room. Not a shred of light comes through them. It's not possible. Despite my father's pristine appearance, the house looks like a construction zone. The arching windows that once filled the living room with light are boarded up with plywood, the edges smoothed down with yards of duct-tape. Father has made the living room into a fortress to protect himself, but I have grown to hate the oppressive feel of it. I feel like a bat trapped in a cave, never to see sunlight.

I can't wait to escape.

He grunts at my words and hands over a small key. I take it from him with a whispered 'thank you' and go to the computer desk. It has a roll-down top that my father locks every night. He doesn't trust the Internet, of course. It's full of bad things that can corrupt young minds. He has a filter set up on the websites so I can't browse explicit websites, not that I would. Not when the only computer in the house is ten feet from his chair.

I calmly go to the computer and type in the address for the weather website. Today's forecast? Perfect. Of course it is. "The weather looks good."

"Then you will run errands today." He pulls on a pair of glasses and picks up a notepad, flipping through it. After a moment, he rips off a piece of paper and hands it to me. "This is the grocery list. Go to the post office and get stamps as well."

I take the list with trembling fingers. Two places today. "Can I go to the library, too?"

He frowns at my request.

I hold my breath. I need to go to the library. But I can't look too anxious.

"I'm already sending you to two places, Daisy."

"I know," I tell him. "But I'd like a new book to read."

"What topic?"

"Astronomy," I blurt. I'm only allowed to read non-fiction around my father. It's a harmless topic, outer space. And if he presses, I can say I'm continuing my education despite finishing my homeschooling years ago. Father won't relax his grip enough for me to go to college, so I have to continue my learning as best I can.

He stares at me for a long moment, and I worry he can see right through me, into my plans. "Fine," he says after an eternity. He checks his watch. "It's eight thirty now. You'll be back by ten thirty?"

It's not much time to go to the grocery store, the post office, and the library. I frown. "Can I have until eleven?"

His eyes narrow. "You can have until ten thirty, Daisy. You are to go to those places and nowhere else. It's not safe. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir." I close the computer, lock the desk, and hand the key back to him.

As I do, he grabs my arm and frowns. "Daisy, look at me."

Oh, no. I force my guilty eyes to his gaze. He knows what I'm doing, doesn't he? Even though I've been so careful, he's figured it out.

"Are you wearing make-up?"

Is that all? "No, Father—"

His hand slaps my cheek in reproach.

We both stare at each other in shock. He's never hit me before. Never.

My father recovers first. "No,
sir
," he says, to correct me. I stare at him for so long that my eyes feel dry with the need to blink. Resentment burns inside of me, and for a long moment, I wonder what my father would do if I slapped back. Or if I marched down to the basement and shot off a few rounds into the wall of phonebooks that acted as the backstop for father's makeshift (and probably illegal) indoor shooting range.

But I can't think like that. Not right now. I'm not yet strong enough. So I swallow my anger.

"No,
sir
," I echo. Calling him "sir” is a new rule. Now that I'm twenty-one, I'm not allowed to call him "Father" anymore. Just "sir." My heart aches at how much he's changed—as if every year the terror in him grows stronger and if I stay here, it will overtake me too.

He grabs my face with his other hand and examines it closely, though I know it's dark enough that he can't see me all that well. The festering resentment continues to bubble in my stomach, but I permit this. It won't be much longer. After today, I won't have to deal with this ever again.

After a moment, he licks his thumb and rubs it on my flushed cheek, inspecting it under the light. No makeup. He makes a "hmmph” sound. "Fine. You can go."

"Thank you, sir," I tell him. I take the list he hands me, and the cash, and rush to the front door.

There are six locks and four deadbolts on the door, and it takes a moment for my trembling fingers to undo all of them. I get to go out.

I get to leave.

I'm never entering this house again.

Once the door is unbolted, I carefully shut it again and then wait a moment. The sound of my father locking and turning all the bolts again reaches my ears. Good. I stand on the covered porch for a moment and stare out at our yard. Our small house has a rickety fence in the front that is falling down, but we don't repair it. The grass is knee high because Father won't let me mow it but once a month. Surrounding our house are acres and acres of farmland that we let out to neighboring farmers. We don't grow anything ourselves, since that would entail being outside.