Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1) Read online

  “This box is like paper.” I squeeze it and the sides nearly collapse.

  “Hey, I said it was fragile.” She reaches over the desk to slap at me.

  “Aren’t they all?” I roll my eyes but hold the box gingerly as I leave.

  Neil’s is a specialty delivery service. We specialize in the confidential, discreet, and fragile package delivery. Packages are delivered swiftly but not at the breakneck pace seen on television. This doesn’t mean I move slowly. I use my brain as much as my legs. Biking can be like playing a game of chess. You have to anticipate the other players’ moves before they execute them. Is the car at ten o’clock going to open its door in the next twenty seconds? How long will the bus stop before it pulls out into traffic? Can I squeeze through these two cars and make the corner before the light turns?

  Neil pays us hourly rather than by commission because he thinks it reduces his accident insurance premiums. If we aren’t required to go so fast and make so many deliveries at one time, we won’t get doored as often. Doored is when a car door suddenly opens and either strikes you directly or causes you to lay down your bike. Or, in the case of my ex, sends you into the windshield. He only needed twelve stitches after that one.

  The best thing Colin Carpenter gave me during our on-again, off-again relationship was a tip for Neil’s Courier Service. Or “Neil’s,” as it is known. He was biking, and I was looking for a new job because waiting tables wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be. While it was simple to remember everyone’s order, and I had no problem delivering the food, I couldn’t write an order fast enough because of my damn dyslexia. The restaurant owner was a decent woman and tried to accommodate me, but it was hell for the back of the house. I got the boot after only two weeks.

  Colin was delivering something to the shop next door and nearly ran me over. We exchanged numbers, and then later that night we exchanged bodily fluids, and I started delivering the next day. I’d borrowed a bike from a friend of his until I splurged and bought my current machine, a single speed Nature Boy that could accommodate larger tires for winter riding.

  Colin left after a few months because he didn’t like dating one person and I didn’t like being part of the crowd. He got a job that paid commission and kept him out of my hair. But once you sleep with someone, it’s awfully convenient to keep doing it even when you both know it’s bad for you. I kicked the Colin habit for good when my mom got the all clear from her first bout with MCL. We were getting rid of all the bad stuff in our lives at that point, and Colin was one of the unhealthy items I took to the trash.

  I hadn’t been able to install something better. Men in the city aren’t known for their fidelity or their staying power. At least the men I’ve met. But I’m twenty-five, so there’s still lots of time, I figure. Right now there are more important things for me to think about—like how I’m ever going to get enough money to pay for first and last months’ rent and pass a credit check for an apartment with an elevator.

  The phone call I made last night was the first step toward solving that problem, so long as I didn’t mind doing things that could get me fifteen years of incarceration if I got caught. At least I’d get free room and board in jail.

  I brood all morning long, and I’m not in the mood to have one of the last of my morning deliveries delayed. When I see the sign in the window that says, “Be back in 15 minutes,” I let out a little scream of frustration and kick the doorframe.

  “Bad morning?”

  The question comes from a rich, deep voice to my right. Some stupid actor. The notes of his voice are perfectly modulated, as if he spent years perfecting the tone and depth to reach the biggest audience.

  “Yeah, what’s it to you?” I challenge, because I’m not in the mood to be chatted up by some wannabe in an Off-Off-Broadway production who wants to try out some new lines on a messenger girl.

  My sneering gaze melts right off my face when it lands on the owner of the voice. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, the stranger gives me a slow smile as I take him in. He’s tall, much taller than my five-foot-four frame. My eyes have to trek upward to see the entire package.

  And there’s so much to appreciate—from his trim waist to the wide shoulders encased in a gray wool suit coat that fits him so well I wonder if he was sewn into it. Tiny stitches on the lapel mark its expensive provenance. A darkly tanned neck gives way to a firm chin and lush lips.

  “Bee stung” is the description that I’ve heard used to describe the same look on supermodels. Those lips are about the only soft thing on his face. Those lips and a hollow on the side of his face that appears when those plush lips curve upward. The divot is too shallow and wide to be termed a dimple, but it’s just as devastating.

  One hand is stuck in a pocket and his jacket is pushed behind the hand to reveal a flat stomach. No desk paunch on this guy. There’s an intense sexual aura about him. The nonchalant stance, the dark gaze, the lush lips are all an invitation to rip the buttons of his snowy-white shirt apart and see exactly what lies underneath all of those fabrics.

  In the guise of giving my chin a scratch, I stick a thumb under my jaw to make sure my mouth is closed. This guy? He can practice lines with me all he wants.

  His half-smile widens knowingly. “Kind of a beautiful day to be kicking doors down.”

  It’s obvious he’s well acquainted with his effect on women. Too bad I can’t sneak a picture for my mom. A verbal description is not going to do him justice.

  “If I can’t deliver my packages, then I won’t have time left to enjoy said beautiful day.” I lift the Wiggin’ Out delivery to show him.

  He nods and pushes away from the post he’s leaning against. “I’m in complete agreement. I say we blow our responsibilities off and head to the park.”

  He bends his arm and pulls up his suit jacket sleeve to reveal a thick watch with exposed gears. It looks expensive too. He’s too well put together to be an actor, and they don’t wear suits unless they’re on stage or being interviewed by a late night show host. His attire is more suited to the downtown financial district, where pin-tucked lapels and ice-blue ties covered in tiny white dots paired with white linen shirts are deemed normal. This guy’s outfit says investor, not poor actor.

  “Are you lost?” My mouth opens before my good sense can catch up.

  “It’s the suit, right?” He flips up the end of his tie and gives me a roguish grin. What is it that Pam from Archer says? Oh right, You could drown a toddler in my panties right now.

  “It’s the suit,” I confirm.

  “Not lost,” he says, “But if I was, would you have lent me a hand?” He lifts his own hand, palm up, as if to gesture for me to take it. I follow the thick line of his arm and am surprised at how capable that hand looks. Strong. Like it could hold you up if you stumbled. Not the hand of an investor. I want to grab it and clutch it to my chest. Because I’m not able to pigeonhole him, he’s all the more fascinating. I step closer.

  “Yes,” I say—because who wouldn’t? Random tourists would walk out of expensive Broadway shows if he announced that he needed help.

  My immediate answer is rewarded with an even deeper smile. It’s kind of magical. My bad mood, the worry about my mother, the stress over our lack of money all melts away like ice cream on the sidewalk on a sunny day. I want to stand here and bask in the warmth of this handsome stranger’s smile. We grin at each other as if we’re both happy to be sharing a moment. His hand is still upward, still waiting for me to take it. I lift my own hand slowly and reach toward him, already anticipating that it will be dry but warm, solid but not hurtful. He doesn’t move—not an inch—somehow knowing that I can be easily startled away.

  “Where will you take me?” I ask, hand hovering over his.

  “Anywhere you want to go.” His response is delivered in a low, husky tone as if he’s imagining an intimate moment. It’s a tone you hear on the beach at the end o
f a long day spent lazing in the sun and rubbing lotion over your lover. It’s the sound you hear when an invitation is issued to come to bed—and not to sleep.

  There is something between us. My eyes widen and I feel the pull, the inexorable pull of the universe drawing me closer. I couldn’t have stopped my feet if I wanted to. And the closer I get to him, the more I realize that he feels it too.

  We aren’t strangers. Somewhere, at some point, we must have made a connection and we’re now recognizing it again in this lifetime.

  “Hello there,” he says softly, as if we hadn’t spoken moments before. He isn’t saying hello to me. He is acknowledging that there is something special between us.

  I’m inches from him, and he’s bending toward me. He’s going to kiss me right here in the street and strangely, wonderfully, weirdly I want to be kissed. New York strangers don’t kiss on the street in broad daylight. We don’t even make eye contact willingly. We fold up our bodies into tight, compact containers on subways and buses so we can avoid accidental touching.

  Yet here I am walking straight into the arms of a guy I would never dream of dating. He’s too rich, too polished, too posh for me.

  My kind are the worker bees. This guy directs the bees from up high in the clouds. Yet he wants me. I can see it in his eyes, in the way that they’ve darkened with appreciation and even desire.

  “I want—”

  “I’ll take that package.” A body muscles swiftly between the stranger and me, breaking our connection. A petite woman with striking red hair plucks the box out of my hands and turns to the stranger. “Ian, why don’t you hold this?” Turning back to me, she asks, “Do you have anything for me to sign?”

  I nod and jerkily pull up the app on my smartphone. As she scribbles her name down with her finger, I meet Ian’s gaze over her bent head. It’s like he’s never looked away from me. As if everything he wants is right before him.

  Ian. I like it. I like him. Would it be so terrible to take him up on his invitation? To go over to Central Park, take my shoes off, and hold his hand as we walk down one of the wide sidewalks and suck in the fresh spring air? Wouldn’t it be absolutely lovely to check all my problems at the gate of the park and walk inside? We could stroll to the lake and he’d place those lush lips over mine and I could feel how truly soft they were.

  We’d kiss for a long time, and then he’d take me to dinner where we wouldn’t eat a thing because we would be too busy talking and laughing and falling in love.

  The woman takes the package and goes inside the shop, leaving the two of us alone.

  “Is this your last delivery?” he asks. “The invitation to the park is still open, now that you’ve divested yourself of your responsibilities.”

  “No.” My one word comes out with real regret because I’m staring down lost opportunity. I can’t go to the park. I can’t forget my responsibilities.

  I’m her shield.

  “I’m not a fan of that word.” He steps toward me, but the owner of the wig shop has broken the spell. And a good thing too, because I don’t have time for this man who whips up uncommon wants inside me. I know all too well that sick mothers and men don’t go together. All my energy should be focused on my mother and this minor god is too big of a distraction. Still, even knowing all that, I can’t look away from him.

  I hold up my hand to stop him. “Don’t.”

  Before he can say another word, I get on my bike as fast as I can and pedal away without a backward glance. There’s a sour taste in my mouth because another time, I would have followed him anywhere.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Sign this.” Malcolm slides me a piece of paper with lots of words on it. It will take me five years to decipher all the words and he knows it—the punk.

  “I’m not signing anything. Give me the package, and I’ll deliver it.” I grab for the empty, dull yellow envelope that presumably is the container for these papers my stepbrother wants delivered. For the past four weeks, I’ve transported small packages for him all over the city and several boroughs. I don’t know what’s inside these packages and I hope to keep it that way. Plausible deniability and all that. “By the way, the actor guy that took the big package the other morning looked like he was going to shiv me. Maybe you oughta tell your customers that you have a new delivery girl.”

  He smirks. “Move a little faster. Isn’t that what sets you apart? Your speed? Double Rush? Triple Rush? I was watching that show on the Travel Channel. I think your ex started working there.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. We both know Colin is an attention whore.” Everyone has a reality television show these days, including bike couriers. While I wouldn’t be a fan of my life on display, and I certainly wouldn’t want to work for the barking, Ritalin-addicted dispatchers that Colin works for, I’d do just about anything for money—which is why I haven’t gotten out of my chair and left Malcolm Hedder’s apartment in Queens. “I move fast on the bike, but I’m not so sure how nimble I’ll be against some dude with a knife.”

  “Guess you’ll have to learn.” He smirks and taps the pen on the page near a straight line. I suppose that’s where I’m supposed to sign. I can’t believe we lived in the same house for four years and didn’t kill each other. Back then, we were teenagers trying to cope with the fallout of his father’s infidelity and my mother’s poor choice in partners. Not every blended family turns into the Brady Bunch.

  Since Malcolm graduated from high school, though, I haven’t seen much of him. Mom kept up with him, and I’d hear about him through her. He tried trade school, auto repair I think, and then left it. About two years ago, he contacted me to ask if I wanted to do some side deliveries for him, but I turned him down because I was rightly suspicious of what kinds of packages I’d be shuttling around the city.

  A couple of months ago, he’d contacted me again and said he had a high-paying specialty job, but his vague descriptions didn’t interest me.

  And now? Now I’ve been delivering packages for Malcolm for four weeks. And it’s been a shitty four weeks. The last good memory I have is meeting Ian, the Suit, outside the wig shop. Since then it’s been holding my mother’s head as she pukes after an eight-hour chemo session and trying to force-feed food down her throat during the intervening days because Dr. Chen chastised us both about her iron levels last week.

  It’s been spending every minute of every day worrying about her, and then trying to be cheerful when I’m home because she seems to have lost her smile. She talks about how she’s so done with treatment and being sick. Her eyes are often red and swollen, as if she’s spent the whole day crying.

  More red meat. More spinach. More beans. About all she can handle are blended shakes. At least the strawberries do a pretty good job of hiding the spinach taste, but I can’t turn a steak into a drink for her.

  The last four weeks have been nothing but pain and stress compounded by my illicit activities for Malcolm. Delivering Malcolm’s packages late at night and in between my regular duties throughout the day, my nerves are stretched thinner than a bike spoke, wondering if—no, when—I’m going to get caught.

  I don’t know what’s in the small manila envelopes, and I don’t want to know. Nothing good, that’s for sure, because I’m getting paid way too much money delivering these packages. I actually have dummy packages in my pack to make it look like I’m not running around delivering drugs.

  What else can be in these parcels? It’s not like my stepbrother is a lawyer and produces a bunch of paperwork every day. This is the first time he’s handed me something even remotely legal-like. I watch the sheaf of papers as if it’s a live snake and will jump up and bite my fingers if I get too close.

  “Drug dealers have NDAs now?”

  “If I’m a drug dealer, I guess that makes you a drug mule,” he says softly, but not so softly that everyone in the living room can’t hear. His friends, two of them totally blazed,
giggle like schoolgirls. “We’re going to exchange signatures. Want my help? Sign it, Tiny, or we’re done.”

  His voice never wavers, which signals the seriousness of his intent.

  When I called him four weeks ago, after Mom had collapsed on the stairs, he’d said the special project was filled but that he’d help me out with first and last months’ rent and pay me enough to afford a handicap-accessible building so long as I agreed to deliver for him, no questions asked, for a year. I said yes.

  But whoever was slated to fill the special project role washed out and he asked me again, telling me that I’d either do the special project or I couldn’t deliver for him at all.

  I gnaw on the side of my mouth for two seconds and then give an internal fuck it. There’s no real debate. I need the money, and I’m willing to do anything for it. If Malcolm doesn’t give me first and last months’ rent, there’s no way I can move Mom into the new apartment. The sooner I get her out of the dingy one-bedroom with all those stairs, the better it will be. Right now she’s like a prisoner because she can’t leave without me. And she hates that I have to carry her up the stairs after each chemo treatment. I’ve convinced myself that she’ll cheer up and return to her old happy self if only I can get us into a different apartment.

  No, there’s no room for debate, morals, or ethics.

  “And if I sign this, then you’ll help me get the new apartment?”

  “Sure,” he says easily.

  I’m not sure I believe him entirely. There’s a lot left unsaid, but I’ve no other options. I scrawl a few shapes on the line. I wonder if I can even be held to a contract I haven’t read. After shoving the papers inside the envelope Malcolm provides, I head for the door.