Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1) Read online

  Lucky bitch. “What’s my budget?”

  “There’s no budget.”

  Of course not. In revenge, I pick out a ton of stuff. I just go down the racks and pick out one of everything. Well, not everything but most things.

  He’s following me and fingering a few items. His strong, tanned fingers look ridiculously sexy against the fragile satin bows. I squeeze my thighs together as I imagine those panties on my body and his fingers gliding all over them. You suck, I tell my body. Stop lusting after an unfaithful jerk.

  “You wouldn’t be willing to try a few things on, would you?” His eyebrow is raised again. I wonder if he practices these looks in the mirror. Each one seems perfectly crafted to make a girl want to drop her shorts right then and there.

  “You’re a dick, you know that, right?” I ask.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you are flirting with me and buying lingerie for another woman. That’s the definition of a dick. In fact, if you looked it up in the dictionary, your face would be there.”

  “They could be for my mom,” he says mildly. Jesus, does nothing offend this guy?

  “Then you’ve got a weird thing going on with your mom.”

  “Am I Oedipus instead of Batman today?”

  I stare at him blankly. I have no idea who the fuck Oedipus is. I haven’t ever heard of the guy’s name before. Better that way, I think. Safer.

  The sales associate is beaming at us. “So all of this?” Her arms are laden with tiny folded packages.

  “All of it,” Ian says immediately.

  As she is ringing it up, I start feeling terrible. The prices are so high, and while I knew it when I walked in, the enormity of my spitefulness is sinking in. “Wait,” I say. “I don’t think she needs all this.” I try to scoop away half of the loot.

  He places his hand on mine and I’m frozen. “No. This is just the right amount.”

  Both the saleslady and I are gaping at him. I’m completely torn now. Part of me is raging mad that some chick is getting this stuff, and then I feel guilty for being petty and sad that I don’t have anyone buying underwear for me.

  “Box it up,” he orders the clerk.

  She does, folding each piece into its own separate tissue. Another associate brings a big, white box. Every piece goes into the gold-lined box, and it takes three of them to wrap up the box with a bow and stick it in a bag.

  “Anything else?” She writes her name on a card and gives it to him. “Just give me a call. For anything at all.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not taking it. I want it delivered.” He writes down the address. She starts to say it out loud, but he reaches out and taps her lips. They fall open and I think I see her tongue creep out to lick his finger, but it falls away before she can get to it. I don’t blame her. I’d have wanted to lick the finger too. He’s a menace. He should be locked up.

  He taps the card he just wrote on and says, “These are all the details you need to know.”

  He leads me outside by the elbow and doesn’t let go until we’re in front of a nightclub whose metal gate is down and tagged with graffiti. He pulls out his wallet and hands me three crisp hundred-dollar bills.

  I shove it back. “I can’t take it,” I say miserably. “I bought way too much stuff just to punish you.”

  He folds the hundred-dollar bills in half and then half again. I look longingly at them and then force my eyes up to his striking green ones. I kind of hate that he’s so good-looking. I wish whoever was in charge of looks gave them out to reflect how a person was inside. There are so many good-looking people walking around who are absolute monsters. My stepbrother is Exhibit A and this guy is Exhibit B. Or vice versa. Either way, they are both prime examples of how karma never, ever works. What goes around never comes around. The next person who says “karma” near me will get a throat punch.

  “That’s a fierce look. I hope you aren’t directing it toward me.” He’s still holding the folded bills between us.

  “What were you doing here anyway?”

  “I have a couple of businesses I was checking on.”

  “Is that what we’re calling them now?”

  “There’s another word for business that’s been approved in the Oxford English Dictionary? I thought the only new words allowed were wassup and hashtag, neither of which is a euphemism for business.”

  I start laughing. Those words coming out of that elegant mouth seem hilariously profane. He smiles at me and then places a finger on my forehead. It’s like he’s pressed a mute button because my laughter dies immediately and saliva starts pooling in my mouth. He drags his finger down between my eyes and over the ridge of my nose. Time’s suspended now and I can’t move.

  “If I ask you to have a meal with me, are you going to say no?”

  I nod my head. “Will you give me the job?”

  “You don’t want it.” His hand drops away.

  “I do.” I pause and clarify. “Or at least I want the money.”

  “Money’s easy.”

  “Only because you have it.” I walk back toward my bike and climb on. Ian is right behind me. With one hand on the top tube of my frame, he keeps me from riding away.

  “I haven’t always,” he admits. “Is that what your reservations are? You like a certain type of Joe?”

  I give him a once-over. Today he does look more like a blue-collar city worker than a white-collar one, but there’s still something about him that exudes wealth. His hair is so precisely cut and his plain cotton T-shirt fits as perfectly as if it were custom-tailored for him. “I can find any number of people to take me out to dinner”—though not really because I haven’t had an offer in months—“but I’m desperate for a job.”

  “Are you?”

  “Would I be working for Malcolm if I wasn’t?”

  “Good point.” His finger rubs along the tube and the side of his hand almost brushes the inside of my thigh. I nearly fall over and have to grab him for balance. He grips my upper arm and steadies me. The heat of his palm burns through the lightweight fabric in a nanosecond. When I get home, there will probably be an imprint there. That might be wishful thinking. I force myself back on topic. “And what’s your excuse? Why are you working with Malcolm?”

  “Malcolm has certain connections that I thought would be useful.”

  “But it hasn’t worked out.”

  “Not as well as I would have liked.”

  “Are you sure I can’t help you?”

  His fingers close around the frame and tip me toward him until I have no choice but to brace my hand against the hard wall of his chest. His hand leaves my arm and comes around me like a shackle.

  “Let me be perfectly frank with you, Victoria. There are lots of things that I’d like you to do for me. Some of them involve you on your knees. Others require you bent over a table. All of them require me to be between your legs. But I don’t pay for that.”

  “No, I wouldn’t think you would,” I say faintly. No one has ever spoken to me in such a graphic and explicit manner and I don’t know how to respond—at least not verbally. My body is reacting by getting hot and tight.

  He nods in confirmation that I’ve heard him. “I don’t dip my pen in the company ink. Nothing good comes of that. So let me ask you again. Are you certain you wouldn’t rather let me take you out to dinner and then home, where I would make you come so hard that you wouldn’t be able to remember your own name let alone that you have money troubles?”

  I’m finding it difficult to breathe normally and it’s hard to remember exactly why I’m resisting him so hard. His hand has moved from my waist to my hip and his fingers are curling around my ass and pulling me as close as possible despite the bike frame between us. I can even feel his erection against my hip. “The money troubles will still be there, regardless of my memory,” I manage to choke out.

/>   His eyes narrow because he doesn’t like my rejections. “You should know that when small prey runs away, it only whets the appetite of a predator. Someday, Victoria Corielli, I’m going to get you to say yes.”

  He pushes the bike frame upright and my body reluctantly follows.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he says, and then turns and walks away. I stare after him like a dumbass for at least five minutes.

  CHAPTER 6

  When I get home that night, there’s a package waiting for me in the super’s apartment. It was too big for the mailbox slots in the first-floor lobby.

  “If you can afford this, then I don’t think you’ll need that extension on your late rent payment. It’s ten days past due,” the super says as he points to the box on the table behind him. It’s big and white and has a gold B embossed on the top of it. It looks expensive and exactly like the box that Ian had told the sales associate to deliver.

  I stare at the box as if it contains deadly, hazardous materials because it does. If I open that box, something is going to happen that could wreck me. Slowly I back away. “Yeah, sorry about the late rent.” I pull out a small wad of cash from the payment Malcolm had given me the other day and hand it off to the super. “Two months there.”

  He grunts and counts it out slowly, not moving from the doorway. The box is calling to me, luring me in, or at least holding me in place as if Ian is here with his warm finger pressed against my forehead.

  “Any chance you have another place I could rent out? Somewhere with an elevator? Or a first-floor apartment?”

  The super draws back. “Think I’d be here in this shithole if I had some other place to live?” When he’s satisfied I’ve paid him correctly, the box is shoved into my arms. Before I can ask another question, the door slams shut. There’s nothing to do but take the box upstairs with me.

  The rest of the cash Malcolm paid me is in my bag. My thoughts flick back to the folded hundred-dollar bills that I stupidly turned down. When did my pride come before money? I should have grabbed those bills and ran.

  “Did you pick up your box?” my mom calls from the bedroom. The apartment is filled with the smell of delicious baked pastry dough and my stomach growls appreciatively in response. “The super called.”

  “Yeah. It’s from Malcolm,” I lie. “A package he wants me to deliver.” This second falsehood is told so she won’t open the package. I dump it on the other side of the pullout sofa that I have called a bed for the three years we’ve lived here.

  She comes out into the living room looking rail-thin under the velour sweatpants that I bought her, also from Malcolm’s money. “I made some dinner tonight.”

  “You look great, Mom. I’m glad to see you’re up.”

  “I went to church today. Louise picked me up.”

  “I’m so glad.” I give her a hug, careful not to squeeze too tight. In the kitchen, I see her homemade potpie. “You must be feeling better. I prescribe church every night.”

  “Yes, it’s good to get out.”

  The words are an unintentional dagger.

  “Dear, I’ve been thinking that perhaps I won’t go to treatment tomorrow.”

  I nearly drop the plate of potpie I’m about to place in the microwave. “What are you talking about?” I ask, pretending as if I don’t understand.

  She pushes my lax hands away and starts the reheat cycle on the microwave. The overhead fluorescent light illuminates everything in the tiny room and I can see how tissue-thin her skin is.

  “I’m just tired of it.” She sighs and looks out the window at the brick wall. “I’m tired of being sick all the time.”

  “I have some grass for you—” I start to offer, but she cuts me off.

  “Don’t you think I know what you’re doing?”

  That’s such a loaded question. It’s one of those trick questions moms ask to extract confessions of wrongdoing—like the time I was fifteen and had given my V card up to Jimmy Hostedder after the senior prom. I’d drunk liquor that night, smoked some weed, and had sex, all for the first time. When I came home the next morning, Mom was waiting up and the first thing she asked me was essentially that same question. I’d spilled out the sex thing and the drinking thing and the weed thing and when I was done vomiting my sins, she’d merely replied, “I was asking about why you didn’t call me last night like you promised, but now that I know you’ve done all that, I think it’s time for the pill.”

  Funny thing was that after I got on birth control, I had no desire to have sex with Jimmy or anyone else for a year. I’d felt so guilty about keeping Mom up all night.

  “Working hard?” I ask weakly, trying to feel her out so I can confess to the sin she knows instead of the one she’s fishing for.

  “I know you’re making ends meet by working for Malcolm, and I don’t want that. You could get hurt.”

  “Malcolm won’t hurt me,” I protest. Yeah, he’s got a temper, but he wouldn’t lay a hand on me. Throw a fork in my direction? Mash my nose against some papers? Yes. Actually do me harm? No way.

  “It’s not Malcolm I’m worried about.”

  The microwave dings and Mom turns to pull the food out. She picks up a napkin and fork before leading me to the small table sitting next to the sofa. I follow with a large glass of milk.

  “Eat,” she orders. “And just listen. I’m the one who foolishly let my insurance lapse, but even if I hadn’t, I don’t want to go out like this, Victoria. These drugs they inject into me are designed to kill my bad cells, but they kill good cells too. I’m weak and sick five days out of seven. It’s no way to live. I don’t want to go through this again.”

  I want to put my fingers in my ears and pretend like I can’t hear her. “You’re going to beat this. A round of chemo. A stem cell transplant. It’s all going to work out.” The potpie that I love so much tastes like dust, really dirty, awful dust, and it’s coating everything inside my mouth. I take a huge gulp of milk, but even that threatens to come right back up.

  “There’s a one-in-five chance of surviving more than three years. The odds go down dramatically with reemergence.”

  “Dr. Chen wouldn’t have recommended all that treatment if he didn’t think you would have a chance. You beat it the first time. No doubt in my mind you’ll do it again.” I give her a big smile.

  She looks at me sadly. “All right, dear. We won’t talk about it again.”

  I don’t know what to say so I just squeeze her hand, afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll start crying. “You just wait and see. You’ll be the survivor that everyone looks to for inspiration.” You have to because you’re all I have left.

  I give her a quick peck on the cheek and then pick up my nearly full plate. Dumping the contents of the pie into the trash, I pretend like the conversation never happened. Mom retreats into her room, and I make up a new playlist for tomorrow’s ride.

  I’ve got courier jobs for my real employer and then maybe an end of the day run for Malcolm. After I make my playlist and make sure my phone is charging, I pull out the sofa bed and prepare for the night. I kick the box to the side and the cardboard wall gives way, making it look crushed and kind of pathetic. Like how I feel right now. I’m not opening that box, though.

  The lumpy mattress and the metal bars don’t make for a good night’s sleep, but the soothing sound of my mother’s gentle snores? That’s a lullaby no one can reproduce. Tomorrow I’m going to talk to the doctor and see if I can’t get my mom some extra drugs either to stop her nausea or alleviate her pain. And if I can’t get them from her doctor, then Malcolm will help me out. One in five are good odds. They are. I just need my mom to believe. I fall asleep gripping my blankets.

  The next morning I get up extra early and check on Mom. She’s not awake yet and chemo won’t start until ten. I tiptoe out of the apartment, taking the big box with me. It’s almost too big to strap to the back of my bike, b
ut I manage. The stretchy cords, however, squeeze the box tightly, making it look almost like a weird bow.

  I’m not even going to knock. I’m just leaving the box at the back door because it holds too much temptation, and I don’t have the emotional wherewithal to deal with a man like Ian. He’s too . . . too much of everything. Too tall. Too good-looking. Too confident. And too rich, apparently.

  A small mechanical whoosh sounds and I see a camera protruding from the doorway, a camera that was formerly recessed. It looks almost alive and kind of freaks me out. I stick out my tongue.

  He responds immediately. “That’s pretty close to a yes, Victoria. You better run while you can.”

  This time I do. I get on my bike and pedal as fast as I humanly can. I’m scared now. Because I want to go back so much.

  CHAPTER 7

  Chemo is as terrible as we both anticipate. The IV drips always take so long. There are two televisions in here and Mom has her old laptop, but she’s abandoned both at hour two, saying that the chemo is making her queasy and she wants to rest. I’ve sat here looking at the two apartments I’ve picked out. They’re both in the same neighborhood we currently live in and close to the hospital. I can cover the rent so long as I continue my side deliveries, but since my on-paper salary isn’t going to pass the application review, I need Malcolm’s help even more.

  Dr. Chen comes to check on us at the halfway point, four hours into the eight-hour-long drip.

  “Everything looks good, Sophie.” He gives her a pat on the shoulder. Mom barely opens her eyes, lethargy making her almost non-responsive. Dr. Chen frowns and gestures for me to step outside.

  “Found a new place yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  He shakes his head. “Don’t forget her mental well-being. She can’t stay cooped up in that apartment of yours.”

  As if the thought had ever left my mind.

  The next four hours I spend in silence, playing solitaire and flipping through magazines to look at pretty clothes and shoes I’ll never be able to afford. At the end of the day, I carry my mother up the five flights of stairs and place her in the lone bed. She rolls over immediately and faces the wall. I can’t think of anything to say to comfort her. It’s time to go down to Neil’s anyway and take up the afternoon and evening shift.