Losing Control (10 page)

When we arrive at my apartment building, he taps the underside of my chin and draws my face around. I notice for the first time his lashes are really long, almost girlishly so, and they give his dark-green eyes a seductive cover.

“Stay here,” he instructs, swinging his large body out and coming around to open the passenger side door. With an ease that belies the difficulty of the maneuver, Ian leans in and scoops my mother out of the car as if she’s a child. He cradles her to his chest tenderly, and my hard heart melts into a puddle of goo. Tears prick my eyes and I’m glad that I have to hurry ahead of him to unlock the outer door.

I hold it open while he turns sideways so as to avoid bumping my mother’s head on the doorjamb. The rundown condition of my living environment is embarrassingly evident. The linoleum is yellowed and cracking in places with the corner peeling away from the floor. There is a smell of rottenness from garbage left out too long that permeates the lobby.

Swinging my keys around my finger, I glance up toward the stairs and then sigh lightly. There’s no way he’s carrying Mom up five flights of stairs. Leaning over her, I smooth her hair away from her face and give her a soft kiss on the forehead, again struck by the role reversal. It’s like Ian and I are the parents and we’re carrying our child home after a long day at the zoo. It’s such a wistful thought my heart squeezes a little too tight.

“Thanks for being so great with my mom, but I can take it from here,” I say.

He looks at me skeptically and makes a minute adjustment to lift mom higher in his arms. “Your mom is fairly light, but even feathers get heavy after a long period. Mind if we talk on the way up? You can thank me when we put your mom to bed.”

Without waiting for a response, he starts walking up the stairs. “Fifth floor right?”

My mouth is open and I’m gaping at his rapidly disappearing ass. Collecting myself, I race after him. “How did you know?”

“Your apartment number is 525. Not terribly hard.”

“Malcolm, again?”

“Malcolm,” he acknowledges.

T
HE
FIVE
FLIGHTS
OF
STAIRS
go by quickly without having to carry either my mom or my bike. Stepping ahead to unlock the door, I let him in and show him my mother’s room. He lays her down carefully and then exits the room. Alone, I remove her shoes, slacks, and sweater, leaving her in the light-knit shell she wore. She’s all worn out, and my heart pounds heavily. Monday she'll spend hours hooked up to an IV as the poisonous chemicals enter the bloodstream trying to kill off her cancer. Her plaintive cry that she wasn’t going to make it haunts me.

“Love you, Mom,” I whisper. I feel myself teetering on the edge of an emotional breakdown. I’m not prepared to fence with Ian, and I spend an inordinate amount of time smoothing blankets and straightening things. Intently I listen for the door to close and signal his departure, but there’s nothing but silence.

Finally, I give up and head out into the small living room and kitchen area. Ian is sitting on the sofa, one leg thrown negligently over the other, looking like an autocratic ruler in charge of everything he sees. It’s a small and pitiful kingdom. We don’t have much. A couple of bookcases full of used DVDs for me and books for my mom. There’s a laptop that’s about eight years old that my mom used for work, but it’s done more time as a coaster in recent months than actual computing. I don’t use it at all, given that writing is even more painful than reading.

We have a small wooden table and two nice chairs. The furniture isn’t bad because it’s part of a set Mom had bought before she got sick, but our impoverished situation is unmistakable.

I’m too tired to be embarrassed over this. We’re doing the best that we can, and if I could get Ian to allow me to do this “job,” I can make the whole situation better. It’s painful, though, to have him looking at me and judging.

“Your mother’s lovely,” he says. His words are so unexpected that a laugh escapes me. “What?” he asks, one brow quirking upward in a query.

“I don’t know.” I rub my forehead. Ian rises and leads me over to sit beside him on the sofa. It's because I'm tired that I don't resist.

“Where’s Malcolm’s father?”

The question is unexpected. “Who knows? Far away from us. We haven’t seen him in years, and that’s a good thing.” I avoid Ian’s eyes. He’s too perceptive. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I think we only have milk and orange juice. We're eating healthy.”

“I ordered some food for us. I thought your mom might be hungry when she woke up.” He’s uninterested in a beverage.

“Ian—” I start to protest, but he raises his hand. I don’t have much energy to fight him. It feels too good to sit and rest my head on the back of the sofa.

“No. I don’t want to hear any objection. It's done.” The finality in his voice shuts me down. I don't have the energy for a fight over food.

“Fine. Why don't you tell me what you wanted from Malcolm and how best I can deliver it?”

He makes a noncommittal humming noise and is saved by a knock on the door.

No one ever knocks on your door in the city unless it’s a mad neighbor. I don’t ever talk to my neighbors. I get up to answer, but Ian beats me to the door. As if he lives here. Outside is a burly blond guy who looks as if he belongs on a beach somewhere instead of standing outside my apartment carrying bags of food with an Asian symbol on them. This isn’t ordinary Chinese take-out, I’m guessing.

“Tiny, meet Steve. Steve’s in charge of me.” Ian takes the food but doesn’t back away, leaving me two inches of space to duck under his arm—which is holding the door open—reach forward, and shake Steve’s giant hand. It’s a brisk movement, and Steve’s face is as impassive as the presidents' heads on Mount Rushmore. I can’t tell if he hates me or if he’s irritated that he’s reduced to delivering food, but there’s not a hint of “happy to meet you.”

“Um, thanks for the food,” I offer lamely.

He gives me a nod before he and Ian exchange silent words with their eyes. None of the conversation is decipherable. Maybe if I put on heels and stood up higher I’d be able to intercept a word or two. But since I’m about eight inches shorter than the both of them, I figure I’ll let them have their relative privacy—even though this is my apartment.

Unsure of whether to wake Mom up to eat or let her sleep, I pause and peek into her room. Her face looks so peaceful I decide that sleep is better than anything. Behind me I hear the door close and the locks engage. Ian’s body brushes past mine on the way to the living room. The scent of delicious peppers, ginger, and garlic trails behind him, and I follow like a puppy.

“Do you want orange juice, milk or water? Your choices haven’t magically changed since the food came,” I say, detouring into the kitchen to grab plates, silverware and napkins.

“Bring the plates,” he orders.

On the table is an assortment of boxes Ian has unpacked from the sack. Next to him is a bottle of wine. I didn’t see that delivered. “So Steve’s in charge of you? How come I don’t believe that?”

“He’s in charge of where I can go. He gets very irritated when I’m in new places, and then I have to soothe him with expensive bottles of Scotch and free trips for his family to come visit him from Australia. It gets pricey. I try to keep him happy,” Ian says. The food is all unpacked and my stomach growls in appreciation, which evokes a low laugh from Ian.

Ian’s laugh, like the rest of him, is sexy and affects me in ways I wish it didn’t. There are a lot of questions still unanswered, like why he was at the park and what he wants with Malcolm, but I decide that I'll tackle those subjects after a meal.

“Not sure what flavors you enjoy, so I ordered a variety.” He sweeps a hand over the spread that could feed six instead of the two of us. The thought of leftover Thai food for days has me rubbing my hands together in gleeful anticipation.

I set down the plates and utensils and hurry back into the kitchen for glasses. Mom has some wonderful Waterford crystal glasses she received when she married Dad, and I pull those out impulsively.

“Part of me wants to complain about your high handedness but the food is too good,” I tell him while spooning a shrimp-and-vegetable-concoction onto my plate. It smells so good I’d swear my taste buds are watering.

“Complain and eat at the same time. I don’t care,” he says easily.

“You seem very casual and laid back, but I don’t think you can be.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because . . .” I pause, wipe my mouth, and take a sip of the white wine he’s poured me. So good. I try not to swallow the whole glass in one gulp. “You’re very successful, and I don’t think you would own properties all over the world if you were as completely laid back and easy going as you’d like people to believe. It’s a sham.”

He stares at me for a moment, and the look on his face is fierce. Some unfamiliar expression lurks behind his eyes, but it passes before I can decipher it and his normal, humorous “life’s my personal game” facade takes its place.

“I like how quick you are.”

“That's a non-answer. Fine, you don't want to engage in normal conversation like a human being, then I'll eat.” I reapply myself to the food.

“I don’t like that you live here,” he says over his noodle dish. He wields his utensils firmly and confidently, as he does everything else.

“Thanks, but this is all we can afford,” I respond tartly. Being criticized about my financial decisions when I'm doing the absolute best I can makes me irritable.

“What about Malcolm?”

“We have a complicated relationship.”

His gaze sharpens. “Tell me about it.”

Oh, what the hell. It’s not like it’s a big bad secret. I take another bite of my food. “His mom hates us because her husband, Malcolm’s dad, had an affair with my mom. But she didn’t know he was married!” I defend my mother. “So Malcolm’s dad moved in with my mom and they spent four years together, half of which apparently Mitch Hedder spent finding a new woman.”

“Sounds like a real winner.”

“My mom was lonely,” I say defensively.

“No judgment from me,” he says holding up his hands. “Like I said earlier, your mother is lovely. Why don't we eat? I didn't order all this food only to ruin the meal with nosy questions.” His smile is a bit lopsided. “I'm intensely curious about you.”

The statement embarrasses me, so I hide my face in my food. Despite our lunch I'm actually so hungry I want to eat it all and not save any of it for tomorrow, but I force myself to stop. And it’s like my cessation of eating signals an end to the meal. I’m a little sorry as we begin to wrap up the leftovers and then stick them in the refrigerator. The detritus of our meal is all gone but for the glasses of wine. Mine is low until Ian reaches over and empties out the bottle.

I can hardly believe I’ve helped him drink a whole bottle. Fatigue sets in and I stumble when I rise from the table. Ian is by my side, instantly leading me over to the sofa. He settles into the corner and draws me down right next to him and—maybe because I’m full of food and feeling sleepy from the long day and the wine—I lean into him, curling my legs up on the sofa cushion.

“We're a lot alike, you know,” he says. His arm is around me, and his hand is threading through my hair. It’s relaxing and arousing at the same time which seems impossible, but it’s Ian so I guess everything is possible. He could find gravity in space.

“How so?”

“Your mother’s illness has turned you into the care provider.” I make a sound to protest, but he shushes me. “It doesn’t mean she loves you less or she isn’t a wonderful mother; it means that you’re taking on a responsibility sooner than you expected.” He takes a large swallow of his wine, and I’m mesmerized by how the light catches on the silver links of the band encasing his strong wrist and by the muscles of his forearm, which flex as he lifts and then lowers his glass. “But you’re a lot braver than I think I would be in your situation. My mother was sick, and I didn’t realize it. If I had taken better care of her . . .” his voice trails off and then picks back up. “She died, so I understand your grief.”

I place my hand on his heart and my head finds a nesting place in the hollow of his shoulder. His heart beats soundly and regularly. It’s strong and I feel in this place, within the circle of his arms, no harm could come to me.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “When did she die?”

“Years ago,” he says, and there’s only acceptance in his voice and not the grief he spoke of earlier. “I’m a strong believer in what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“I hope so.” The thought of my mother not beating her cancer and of the frightening aloneness I see in my future if she’s not here isn’t bearable. I shudder slightly at that bleak landscape. The emotions of the day overwhelm me and tears start running down my nose. I duck my head because I’ve never been one of those girls who look tragic and delicate while crying.

Vainly I don’t want Ian to see me like this, and I burrow my face against his chest. The cotton of his shirt smells like sun and heat. Against my hip, I feel an insistent pressure which surprises me but makes me feel welcome. I’d like to stay in this position, curled up and hiding from it all, but he tips my head back and wipes away my tears.

“I want you to know that I’m not hard because you’re crying but because any normal man would have this reaction if you sat on his lap for more than a second.”

This makes me burst out into laughter which is, I suppose, what he intended. He stands up, ensuring that I’m stable and orders me to walk him to the door. At the doorway, he leans down and lightly brushes his lips against mine, leaving me wanting so much more.

“I want you, bunny, and I’ll have you. This will be the last night you cry alone.”

With those words, the door closes behind him. He’s right about one thing: I cry into my pillow for a long time. I’m not certain about the exact source of my tears. It could be my mom, but it’s more than that. The emotion is almost…relief.

That night I dream of Ian again. He’s in his Batman costume and he flies into my bedroom, cape swirling behind him. This time I’m not a bunny. I’m me but I’m still quivering. With fear? Anticipation? I can’t tell. His gloved hands are at his utility belt. “I want you,” he says, and I spread my legs like a wanton.