Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1) Read online

  “Because of the money,” she says with some disgust. The treatment, the illness, our circumstances, the whole situation is eroding our patience. I bite my tongue to prevent saying anything I’ll regret.

  “Ready?” I ask. Before she can say another word there’s a knock on the door. We exchange puzzled looks, but I go to see who it is. It’s Steve.

  Pulling the door open but not unlocking the chain, I ask with suspicion, “How did you get up here?”

  “Trade secret.”

  I can’t tell if this is a joke because Steve’s expression is no different than at our previous meeting, but the two words do reveal something about him that I wasn’t aware of before: He has an accent. Then I remember Ian saying that it was expensive to fly Steve’s family over from Australia.

  “So are you here to pick up the leftovers?” I think forlornly of the mounds of leftover Thai food that I planned to gorge myself on later tonight after biking around the city for hours.

  This time he shows a real emotion—confusion. “Leftovers? No. Hospital.”

  Ian. Sighing, I unhook the chain and open the door so Steve can come in. “We’re almost ready.”

  There’s no fighting this, I can tell. Steve would pick my mother up and carry her down to the car. “Hey Mom, look who’s here.”

  She looks at me, puzzled, and then I remember she was asleep when Steve came to deliver the food. “Mom, this is Steve . . . um, I don’t know your last name.”

  He looks like this is more painful than a root canal. He’s standing in the middle of our living room, legs slightly spread, arms straight at his side like he’s some soldier awaiting orders. Oh, holy crap. Ian said that Steve doesn’t like it when he can’t keep track of Ian. It hits me that Steve must be Ian’s bodyguard.

  And then I wonder why Ian needs a bodyguard. I give Steve a frown and he glares back at me.

  “Thomas.” He doesn’t even move to shake my mom’s hand, and my mom looks completely flustered.

  I pick up my pack and then Mom’s handbag and steer her toward the door. “Jerk,” I mumble under my breath, but they both hear it. My mom gives me a reproving look but doesn’t disagree. Steve grunts like a Neanderthal. Why does it not surprise me that Ian surrounds himself with guys like Steve? There’s probably a whole bunch of grunting cyborgs back at the Bruce Wayne fuck pad ready to take Steve’s place if he utters more than three words or, heavens to Betsy, cracks a frigging smile.

  The car Steve is driving is not the gunmetal gray one that idled outside Malcolm’s building, but a black one, and it’s amazingly luxurious inside—even more so than Ian’s other vehicle. The interior is covered with sumptuous tan leather. In the back, there are two bucket seats separated by a polished wood console where glass tumblers rest in the cup holders. One is full of orange juice.

  After my mom climbs in, Steve bends down and—with a flick of a switch—her seat reclines and a footrest pops up. Mom releases an audible sigh of comfort as she settles into the butter-soft leather.

  Once again I’m overwhelmed with Ian’s thoughtfulness. It’s touching yet disturbing at the same time. He wants something, and it must be more than a quick roll in the hay. Surely he doesn’t need to be this . . . kind to get a fuck.

  I’m sure the models who hang out in his neighborhood would pull up their skirts and ask for it on the brick-lined road if he seemed interested. Based on his body and looks alone, some would probably even be willing to pay for it. Add in his money and there’s just no way that he doesn’t have women—and some men—beating down his door. None of this makes any sense to me.

  Mom rubs her hand along the creamy leather. “A recliner in the car. Have you ever seen such a thing, Tiny?” she asks in wonder.

  “No, never.”

  “Steve,” Mom calls up to the front. She has to raise her voice slightly because the distance between our rear seats and the driver’s seat is sizable. “What kind of vehicle is this?”

  “Maybach, ma’am,” he answers.

  “Your man, he’s very nice.” Mom picks up the orange juice and sips it. “Mmm. Even fresh squeezed.”

  Of course it is. The oranges are probably flown in from a special orangery kept in some remote island that is full of dirt specially formulated to create the best juice in all the world. I can’t even be angry because Mom’s eyes no longer look dull and disinterested. She fiddles with various buttons; one raises and lowers her footrest and another flips open a panel and offers up a phone.

  “Look at this, Tiny!” she coos.

  It is so amazing that we are almost reluctant to get out of the car. “Maybe you could drive around the city for a few hours,” I joke when we arrive at the hospital. Steve ignores me and climbs out of the driver’s seat to open the door for us. The Maybach is left illegally idling at the front while he silently assists us into the waiting room.

  Inside, we head to the nurse’s station to check in. Mom’s chemo is done in a room with other cancer patients. It’s fairly cold in the room, and I always ask for another blanket.

  “Mrs. Corielli,” the nurse calls out, “I have a big surprise for you today.”

  The staff at New York Protestant Hospital has always been great to us even though we’re criminally behind on our payments. Perhaps they’ve fixed the broken footrest on the recliner she normally sits in, but we don’t stop at the main treatment room. Instead, the nurse leads us down the hall to the very end. Inside is a hospital bed, a comfortable chair, and a big-screen television. It’s a large enough room for four patients.

  “What’s this?” Mom looks askance at the room. It screams “expensive” and that’s not a cost we can manage right now. Or ever.

  “Your new room!” The nurse throws out her arms like she’s a game show host displaying one of the grand prizes.

  “Um, didn’t realize Medicaid paid for private rooms now.” We’re on state aid, and I know it doesn’t.

  The nurse drops her arms and looks flustered for a moment. She walks over to the bed and picks up the chart hooked at the foot. “Sophie Corielli?”

  Mom nods.

  “No, no mistake.” She pats the bed. “Why don’t you climb up and we’ll get started.”

  “Go on,” I say. “I’ll get everything squared away.”

  It’s going to be a tiring day, so rather than argue, my mother nods and climbs into the bed. With the help of the nurse, we get the head and foot of the bed raised so she’s comfortable. Once the drip is started, I follow the nurse out of the room. “What’s this all going to cost?”

  “I’m sorry,” she smiles at me and pats my arm. “I’m in patient care. You’ll have to call billing.”

  A young girl, likely in her teens, brushes by and enters the room. I hear her voice echo out in the hallway. “Mrs. Corielli?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Hallie Sitton, a volunteer. I was wondering if you might like to be read to today? I have Emma?”

  “That’d be lovely, dear.”

  While Mom is occupied, I call billing with the number left me by the nurse. “Hi, um, this is Victoria Corielli, and my mother is a patient here at NYPH. She was moved into a private room today, which we never asked for or authorized. Can you explain this to me?”

  “Sure, please hold,” the bored voice says. A few moments later, the voice returns. “The bills are being covered by your new employer, Kerr Industries, under their family plan. The transfer was made today.”

  “Oh, OK,” I mumble.

  “Anything else?”

  “No, thanks.” I end the call and walk into the room.

  “‘Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly twenty-one years in the world with very little to distress or vex her.’” Hallie’s voice is surprisingly soothing, and while I’d like to drop in
to a chair and give myself over to the story of the rich, spoiled, good-looking girl who tries to arrange everything in her life to suit her, I have my own Emma to deal with.

  I’m starting to feel like I’ve already accepted that million-dollar payment, and for what? I haven’t done anything. I’m unbalanced and the vertigo is making me sick.

  “I have to make a phone call,” I tell Mom. When she waves me away with a smile, a little kernel of resentment lodges in me at her apparent happiness. I can’t read to her. I can’t really support her. I feel so fucking useless. Stomping out of the room, I press CALL on the one number in my phone that I don’t know by heart.

  Ian answers on the first ring, and I unload. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing sending Steve, paying for a private room, and saying I’m your fricking employee!”

  “Bunny, I’ve missed you too.” There’s a creak, as if he’s leaned back in his chair and thrown his feet up on a desk.

  “I’m not joking,” I seethe.

  “Hallie is the daughter of a friend, and she needs the volunteer work so she looks well-rounded on her college applications.”

  “Seriously?” Forgetting my anger for a moment, I peek into the room and see my mother is completely enthralled. Hallie’s gesturing with her hands and using different voices to bring the story to life. “Is she some kind of theatre major?”

  “Not that I know of. I believe she wants to be a doctor.”

  “Can’t Hallie read to Mom in the common room?”

  “Too disruptive,” he says smoothly.

  “How am I going to pay for this?” I say finally, because I can’t deny Mom this pleasure, at least not today. Somehow I’ll come up with the money for one day spent in a private room.

  “I’ll send you a complete accounting when it’s all done.”

  “When do I start?” This is it, then. I’m going to do his secret job.

  “I can send a car for you immediately and we can go over to the warehouse where I’ll explain what I need from you.”

  His home. I think he’s asking me for sex, but I’m not entirely sure. I have nothing to lose by just asking him outright. I know that I’d do a lot of things for my mom but I can’t have sex with Ian for money. I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in the morning. “I thought you didn’t pay for sex.”

  I can almost feel the gust of wind through the phone when he sighs. With a touch of exasperation, he says, “I’m trying to do a good deed, and you’re making it out to be something nefarious. Can’t you accept a gift? That’s all that it is.”

  “Let’s just say you’re making it easy to resist you right now.”

  “Again with the challenges. It’s like you want me to chase you, bunny.”

  I hang up before the curse words spill out. I’m sure he’s laughing somewhere in Manhattan.

  When we exit the hospital, it is no surprise to me that Steve is sitting there in the emergency lane. He immediately jumps out of the car and hurries over to help my mom into the car. When the numbers of the cross streets get below eighty-six, I lean forward. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  He meets my eyes in the rearview mirror and they tell me I can’t be that stupid. I slide back into my seat. Ian’s taking over my life. We stop outside a new condominium tower in Midtown that was completed last year. I remember hearing about it because it was one of the new developments that had views of Central Park. Steve lifts my mom out of the car and helps her into the elevator. There’s no point in objecting now. I’ll let my mom sleep before I take her home.

  The lift stops on the fifteenth floor and we walk to the end of the hall. There are only six doors on this floor. The door to the end unit opens before we reach it—Ian’s just inside the entrance. He’s not wearing his usual uniform of boots and jeans. Today he’s attired in another perfectly tailored suit. This time, it’s a staid navy blue paired with a red-and-white checked shirt and a blue-and-white polka-dotted tie. His welcoming smile dies out as we march past him, a row of surly, unhappy soldiers. Well, Steve and I are surly and unhappy. Mom is out of it.

  “Where to?” clips Steve. Even Ian only gets a few words. Steve is directed down the hall to the last door. Inside, I find a sizable room with a huge bed and a window overlooking Central Park. The view is incredible, but I’m too angry to appreciate it. I help my mother get into bed. She looks bewildered.

  “Where are we, Tiny?” Her frail hand grips my arm, and I shoot Ian a furious look. He’s wearing Steve’s default expression now. Impassive, unyielding. I’m thinking that’s his guilty look, the one where he knows he’s gone too far but can’t—or won’t—acknowledge it.

  “Shh, Mom, rest. We’ll be back home soon.” I cover her in a soft down comforter with teal and yellow embroidered accents. The whole room looks fresh and inviting but the glare from the windows is too much. After she’s comfortable, I head toward the windows to pull the drapes, but I can’t find a dang cord. I feel along the edges because I can see the shades hanging beneath the curtain valance. A whirring sound startles me and I jump back. The shades start to close, and I turn to find Ian pressing a remote control, which he lays carefully on the nightstand.

  “Of course,” I fume. “Of course there are fucking automatic blinds. Everyone has them.”

  “Language, Tiny,” my mom says in a scolding tone.

  I stomp out of the room and both Ian and Steve back away from me. Steve slaps Ian on the shoulder, says, “Good luck, mate,” and leaves.

  It’s just the two of us now. I stand at the other side of the starkly modern living room furnished in whites and blacks with splashes of yellow. A long, low-slung sectional sofa is arranged in front of the windows. A large TV hangs to the right, and in the corner to the left is a large chair that looks like a giant, scooped-out egg. Upon closer inspection, the windows are actually French doors that lead onto a small balcony. The apartment is good-sized for the city, but it’s cold and impersonal. I can’t be bothered with what it looks like or how it feels because right now I am royally pissed off and Ian knows it.

  “I don’t know who you think you are, but you don’t get to appear in my life and then dictate what I eat, where I live, and how I spend my time.” I actually have my mom finger out and I’m waving it at him. I fist my hands and fantasize about popping him one in the arm.

  He holds out his hands as if he can stem my barrage of complaints. “I’m trying to make things easier for you. That place you live in now, Christ—” He rubs the back of his neck, one hand on his hip pushing his jacket back and exposing his shirt-clad flat stomach.

  “You’re a jerk, Ian Kerr. A presumptuous, I-get-what-I-want-no-matter-what jerk.” I stomp down the hall with my pack. I need to change and get ready to go. He’s right behind me. Fine. He wants to watch me change, then fuck it. I drop my pack on the floor and kneel down, pulling out my shoes, athletic socks, and leggings. I pull off my jeans, acutely aware that Ian hasn’t moved an inch and that his eyes are all over me. Well, he can look all he wants, but he’s not ever getting in my pants. And I tell him that. “You might as well take a good look because this is the closest you’ll ever be to seeing me naked.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Leaning one shoulder against the wall, he sighs like I’m some tiresome child. “Bunny, what did I tell you about challenging me?”

  “You can shove your hunter metaphors up your tight ass, Kerr.” I hop around, pulling up the leg of my pants.

  “I’m glad you’ve noticed. I had started to think I wasn’t making an impact. My huge ego was being crushed. By the way, I like the rose panties you have on,” he comments. “I particularly like how there are tiny bows right under the dimples in your back.”

  Is that a smirk in his tone? Is he fucking smirking at me because I wore some of the underwear he bought? Then fine. I don’t need this stupid underwear either.

  “You think you’re so cute, but what happens when
you’re done with me? When I’m no longer interesting prey? When your little project is over? You must think my pussy is lined with fucking gold if I’m worth a million-dollar apartment overlooking Central Park.” I hiss at him, pulling at the sides of the panties in an effort to jerk them off. Jesus, the lace must be made of titanium. People are constantly getting their underwear ripped off in movies.

  “What are you doing?” he demands, and brushes my hands away. I fight him, wanting him to let me go, but he pushes me up against the wall and thrusts his big, heavy thigh between my legs, stepping downward so that the spandex of my bike pants is down around my ankles. I feel hobbled and, worse, I’m turned on. His steel-hard muscle is pressing right up against my clit and his hands are pressing me backward so that I’m imprisoned between his chest and the wall.

  “What makes you think I’ll be done with you?” he says as he moves my hands upward until they meet in an arch above my head and he can grip my wrists in one big fist. Free, his left hand slides down my arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. His mouth is on my chin, my jaw, and then my neck. He’s tasting me, pressing the flat of his tongue against my racing pulse. “Maybe I’ll never be done with you and your solid gold pussy.” At the last word, he closes his mouth over that pulse point and sucks hard. The only thing holding me up is his hand around my wrists. He pumps his thigh against me and an involuntary moan escapes my lips.

  “I don’t care,” I manage to choke out. It’s an obvious lie; my body cares a lot. “I’m not a toy. You don’t get to put me in Barbie’s expensive town home and play with me until you’re bored. I’m a fucking real person, and my mom’s a real person. And we don’t need this shit right now. I say who I sleep with and whose bed I’m in—and right now, you aren’t even in the same conversation.”

  “I am the entire fucking conversation.” He sucks hard at the spot where my neck curves into my shoulder, and his hand is under my ass, moving me backward and forward along his thigh. His other hand has worked its way under my shirt and is palming my breast, a large thumb rubbing my nipple.