Losing Control (13 page)

“No problem. Got a job for me?”

“Three packages for a.m. delivery.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Where are you now?”

“Midtown. Be at your place in thirty.” I press the release button on my headphones and head over. I’m a sweaty mess by the time I get to Malcolm’s. It’s a good thing he has an elevator because I don’t feel like carrying my bike up eleven flights of stairs.

Music is pumping outside of his apartment, and I wonder what the neighbors think of his rowdiness at nearly ten at night. It takes three hard poundings on the door and a kick before it opens. Stale smoke wafts out, smelling like someone’s been doing bong hits all night long. Malcolm himself abstains from all liquor or addictive drugs. He told me early on the only way to stay alive in the game was to never partake of his own product.

Good for him, I guess.

“God, it reeks in here.” But I shoulder my way inside and find a spot next to the entertainment center for my bike. “A.M. deliveries, huh? So people are taking hits of Molly in the morning? It’s like the name of a morning show.”

Malcolm takes my arm and drags me away, even as I’m pointing at two girls and a guy who look like over-done hotdogs on an outdoor grill—puffy and burnt around the edges. “Any of you bud heads touch my wheels, I’ll come after you with a crowbar.”

Malcolm glares at me. “Don’t try to be funny. It’s not your thing.”

“The other day some dude opened the package right in front of me. I’m trying not to know!” I protest, following him down the hall into a bedroom he’s made into an office, complete with a big wooden desk that he likely picked up off the side of a street and two leather chairs. I think in another life Malcolm would have liked to have been . . . well, Ian. A wealthy investment guy who had a big office overlooking the Hudson Bay and lots of lackeys. Malcolm would totally get off on being driven around the city by Steve.

I slump into one of the leather chairs as Malcolm picks up three packages and throws them on my lap.

“First thing,” he says.

Ordinarily I would jump up and leave, but this time I linger, running my finger along the edges of one of the envelopes. I need answers, and Malcolm might be a person who can provide them.

“How do you know Ian Kerr?” I finally ask.

The question takes him by surprise, and he looks over his shoulder as if expecting someone to swoop down and crush him. “Why?”

“He’s holding my mom hostage.”

“What are you talking about?” His voice is full of disbelief, as if I’m a silly child making up some silly story.

“I ran into him during a delivery the other day and—”

Malcolm interrupts me, “Wait.” He closes the door and then sits in the leather chair next to mine. “All right, go on.”

“He showed up when Mom and I were leaving for the zoo yesterday. Apparently someone even told him our apartment number.”

Malcolm isn’t ashamed of this at all but simply motions for me continue.

“This morning he sent a car over to bring us to NYPH. When Mom’s chemo was done, the car was there again. Only this time it doesn’t take us home. Instead, we go to that new Century development over on 8th and—”

“—Midtown Mini Mansions, yeah, I know,” he interrupts.

I roll my eyes. Malcolm knows everything. Always. “Do you want me to finish the story?”

“Whatever.” He motions for me to continue.

“Mom isn’t feeling well, and it’s not like I can pick her up and carry her off, so I put her to bed and then—”

“What’s it look like?”

“What’s what look like?”

“The view? The apartment?”

“Malcolm!” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Are you even listening to me? He has my mother. Now tell me what he wants from me.”

He sticks his knuckle in his ear. “I’m right next to you. Do you have to shout?”

“Yes!” I give a little scream and kick him in the leg. “Because you aren’t listening to me.”

Malcolm shoves me back, and I feel like we are adolescents again living in a tiny two bedroom apartment in Queens, not too far from his current place, arguing about who gets to play the next game of Sonic. It was usually Malcolm because he’s always been bigger and stronger and meaner than me.

“Hasn’t he told you?”

“No, if he had, would I be here, talking to you?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. He contacted me asking me if I knew of someone who could handle a delicate situation. I sent him a couple of people and they didn’t fit whatever idea he had about he wanted. You were kind of a last ditch effort.”

“How much are you getting paid?”

He looks down at his shoes but not before I see the flash of greed in his eyes.

“How much?” I ask again.

“One hundred,” he mumbles.

“He’s paying you a hundred thousand dollars to find someone to fulfill his little job? There must be more.” Folding my arms, I glare at him. “Malcolm James Hedder, you tell me the truth.”

He slouches down in his chair until his head is resting on the back. Blowing a big stream of air out, he gives up the rest of it. “And I have to make sure you never tell.”

“We both know I won’t.” It still doesn’t all make sense. Why Malcolm? His specialty is small packages, as far as I know. Not people. “Your mom’s in that much trouble?”

Malcolm exhales heavily and shakes his head. “When is she not? Don’t you think we’d be better off without our moms sometimes?”

“Bite your tongue,” I cry. “I love my mom.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“It’s not.” She’s not a burden to me at all. “Besides, she’s going to get better.”

“I don’t know if it’s good for you to keep lying to yourself about that or not.”

Furious at the direction of the conversation, I spring from my chair, but Malcolm’s there before I’m able to wrench the door open. His hand presses the door back closed, and he murmurs into the top of my hair, “I’m sorry, Tiny. I need the money. I knew you’d be the right person for the job because you needed it too.”

“He’s got us by the short and curlies, then?” I rest my forehead against the door feeling drained and not a little frustrated. “You need the money to pay for some bad gambling debt that your mom racked up, and I need it to move to an apartment with an elevator.”

“Yeah, tell me the rest of it.” Malcolm leans against the door, and it’s clear that I’m not getting out until I give more detail. So I tell him everything. The zoo. Lunch at the Boathouse. The private room at NYPH. Everything except where Ian finger-fucked me twice. I leave that part out.

“I don’t know much about him,” Malcolm admits. “I’ve never done any work for him in the past. His kind only comes to me for one or two things and whatever his vices, currently I don’t have the goods to meet his demands.”

“Until now.”

“Right.” His face shows something darker than greed this time. I don’t really want to know either. Ian’s game with me is confusing because he can’t just want me. He must need something from me, but I’ve offered to do his job. Maybe he doesn’t trust me. Tonight I’ll try to convince him that no matter what it is that he wants done, I’ll never tell.

As we walk out, the three in the living room are engaged in some heavy petting. Malcolm’s eyes grow hooded. Time to go.

He helps me buckle my helmet and then chucks me under the chin. “Be as safe as you can.”

I head across the river toward Midtown, each revolution of the pedals getting heavier and heavier as I get closer to the Central Towers. Guilt bears down and so does insidious want. Would it be so terrible to stay in that posh apartment, I wonder. Until my mom gets better? It’s not like I’m so full of morality. After all, I’m nothing more than a drug mule for my second job. Can’t I suppress my pride to allow my mom to sleep on a bed with a view of Central Park and ride an elevator every day?

But at what cost? What does Ian want from me? The vague details provided by Malcolm don’t give me much peace of mind. And the man himself? He’s been infuriatingly closemouthed.

W
HEN
I
GET
UP
TO
THE
apartment complex, it’s late. I’m wondering if he’s gone by now, but the door at the end of the hall swings inward as soon as the elevator doors slide open. Ian stands framed in the doorway, fists at his side and a muscle jumping at the left side of his clenched jaw. His anger confuses me.

“Why are you upset?” I push past him.

He follows closely and kicks the door shut. “Your mom said you’d get home at ten and it’s half past midnight.”

He grabs my bike and we struggle a bit before I decide I’ll likely end up on my ass if I don’t let go. Giving in, I release the metal frame and watch as he lifts the bike onto the wall mount.

“What business is it of yours? You kidnapped my mother, but you aren’t the boss—” I pause because he is kind of my boss now. Trying for a more restrained tone, I ask, “How is she anyway?”

“She’s asleep. She was worried, by the way. She doesn’t like that you work for Malcolm.” His voice sounds labored, as if speaking in a normal tone is a chore for him. Even that gives me a petty sense of satisfaction. “We called.”

“I ran out of battery around ten. Sounds like you had a real cozy chat.” In the kitchen, I hunt around for food inside the refrigerator, which is packed with fruits and vegetables but none of the awesome Thai we had last night. “Where’s the leftovers?”

“Leftovers?” He clearly has no idea what those are.

My stomach growls and I realize I haven’t eaten in hours. “You know, from the Thai food you had delivered?”

He looks befuddled. “Why do you want old Thai food? This is a full service building. There’s a chef on call twenty-four-seven. What do you want?” He holds out his phone. I finally notice he is out of his rumpled suit and is now attired in jeans, no shoes, and a blue T-shirt that’s so worn that it’s nearly white.

Food, Tiny. My stomach rumbles again. “Um, a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup.”

Eyebrows raised, he calls in the order. What a place. I walk over to look out into the dark park. Without the sun, the dense foliage looks eerie.

“How did you explain all of this?” I signal toward the living room. Mom had to have questions about the private room, the volunteer, and now this amazing apartment overlooking Central Park.

“I told her you were doing me a favor,” he says, joining me at the windows. “That this place has been unoccupied for several months, and I’ve been holding it off sale as a favor until the building is over half occupied.”

“So sell it.”

“I will. In fact, the broker came over and met your mother today. She promised to help keep it clean and that you and she would vacate the premises when it came time to move. Sophie understood that it was easier to sell if it looked like people were living here instead of a sterile staged place that couldn’t get off the market for some hidden reason.”

“Oh.” That sounded really reasonable. “I guess I won’t get used to being here. How long do we have?” I try not to sound completely deflated by this news. I’d spent the entire day justifying how it was okay to accept this generosity, only to find we will be pushed out soon. I cast a longing glance behind me at the marble counters and the white, shiny glass appliances. This place is so nice that stainless steel is too down-market.

“Long enough for you to find your own place. With the money I’m paying you and the money you’re likely getting from Malcolm, you should be able to find something better and safer than where you were living.”

The doorbell rings, and Ian strides over to retrieve my food. Less than fifteen minutes. That’s some amazing service.

“What’s this about insurance?” I ask, taking a huge bite of the grilled cheese. It’s delicious and I gobble down half the sandwich in no time.

“Jesus, Tiny, why is everything a battle?” He runs a hand through hair that already looks like it lost a fight with a pillow.

“Jesus, Ian, why does everything have to be your way?”

“My way is best.” He leans forward and grabs a bite of the other half of my sandwich. I bat his hand away and he retreats, sucking some extra cheese off his thumb. My lower body stirs at that simple sight.

“Arrogant much?”

He just smiles and taps the side of my plate. I finish eating in silence. Leaning back in the chair, I stretch and then pat my belly. “God, I’m going to sleep so good tonight,” I say absently.

Ian makes a sound—something between a grunt and a cough. “I hope so.”

“By myself,” I look at him reprovingly. “I want you to explain to me why I’m an employee of Kerr Industries. Is this for real? I thought the project was an off-the-books sort of thing.”

Instead of answering my question, Ian asks, “How many boyfriends have you had?”

The non sequitur is so bizarre that my answer tumbles out before I can stop it. “A few.”

“And did you have such an immediate visceral attraction that you couldn’t stop thinking about them? That thoughts of them interrupted meetings and business deals and evenings out with other people?”

The thought of what
other people
constitutes burns the back of my throat like an acid wash, but I’ve no right to be jealous that Ian has had other women. “So you’re saying that the sight of me in my spandex bike shorts made you instantly attracted?”

“Maybe. Maybe it’s instant attraction followed by finding out other things that make you more intriguing.” He is leaning toward me now, both elbows on the table, fingers clasped together.

“Because I’m this challenge?” I roll my eyes and force out a laugh because earnest Ian is too much of a threat to my self control. It’s easier when I’m mad at him, when I’m counting all the imperious means he employs in an effort to control me. “That’s such a lame pickup line.”

“Do you know how many people tell me ‘no’ right now? Maybe five. None of them are sleeping with me. I won’t give you a sob story about how hard it is to meet women because obviously that is not a problem. The challenge is finding the right one who is more interested in things outside of what I can provide.”

“Really? Because you play so hard to get with your funds. Christ. The only reason I’m here is for the money.” I gesture toward the apartment.