Losing Control (7 page)

“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 wring out confessions to 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 the same thing. 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. Picking up a napkin and fork, she leads 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 pot pie 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. “Alright, 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 a late 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 gentle mother’s 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, but 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.

C
HEMO
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 was making her queasy and she wanted 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 in 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 wellbeing. 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.

I’m halfway done with my deliveries when my phone rings, the notes of “Killing in the Name” by Rage Against the Machine signaling a call from Malcolm. I’ve assigned ringtones to everyone in my phone. Neil’s is “Price Tag” by Jessie J and Mom’s is “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera. My old friend from high school was Pink’s “So What” but I haven’t called or heard from Sarah in six months. My fault, though, because she kept asking me to go out with her and I kept telling her no. I couldn’t afford a night out with the ten dollar drinks and the twenty-five dollar covers.

“You need to get your ass over to my apartment. Nine sharp,” Malcolm barks into the phone.

“Okay, that’s fine. I’ve got . . .” I start to reel off my remaining delivery jobs but Malcolm interrupts.

“I give two shits about what you’ve got left. Just be here at nine or your side job will be given to someone else who can do the fucking job as they’re asked.” He’s shouting into the phone, so I hold it a few inches away. I can still hear him. In fact, I’m afraid if I hold it any closer, a rain of spit will drench my ear.

“Got it. Nine sharp.” I hang up on him while he’s still raining profanities down the cell line.

At eight fifty-five, I show up sweaty and tired at Malcolm’s apartment building. There’s a big, gray, expensive-looking car idling a few blocks up. I only notice because it’s completely incongruous. Maybe Malcolm’s supplier? Who knows? I should care, probably, but I don’t want Malcolm any more pissed off than he already is.

“Lucy, I’m home,” I yell into the intercom speaker. The buzz of the lock being disengaged sounds moments later. I take the elevator up and then knock on the door. Malcolm is there before I can drop my hand away, and as the door swings open I see
him
.

He’s sitting there, his hand over the white box, all crushed and kicked-in. Ian doesn’t belong here. It’s not that he’s wearing a suit or anything, although I expect his expertly distressed jeans cost as much as a bicycle and that his big leather boots—black this time—could float my rent for the month. It’s just the way he holds himself. He’s commanding and looks like he owns the place. Malcolm stands to the side, his hands dangling out of the tops of his jeans pockets, shifting from one foot to the other as if he’s the visitor rather than Ian.

“Tiny,” Ian drawls out. Apparently he and Malcolm have had a long talk if he’s discarded my real name for my nickname. The way he says it, though, is so different than either my mom or Malcolm. With Mom it’s loving and with Malcolm it’s an insult. Out of Ian’s mouth it sounds like a caress. “Thanks for joining us.”

I decide that confronting this situation head on makes the best sense. Tossing my helmet on the living room sofa, I drop into the chair opposite of Ian. “Nice car out there.”

“Thank you.” He’s wearing his amused look. “You put that together quick.”

“Uh, it’s not hard. Rich guy. Rich car. Neither belong in this neighborhood.”

His eyes slide, almost imperceptibly toward Malcolm. “Not everyone made the connection.”

I shut up then because I might not get along with Malcolm but he’s still family and I don’t want anyone else insulting him. Other than me.

Ian cocks his head and we sit in extended silence, engaged in a weird battle for control. I can sit here all night, my stare conveys. But under the table, I’m pressing my legs together and my pussy is clenching as if in anticipation of something other than my own fingers being shoved inside me.

His smug smile says “I’ve been playing this game for a long time” but his eyes are burning right through me. If I lean under the table, I suspect I’d see a bulge in his pants. It takes superhuman effort not to check it out.

Malcolm breaks the tension. “Ian has a proposition for you,” he blurts out.

I bet he does. Even Ian’s unflappable face breaks into a tiny smirk at the double entendre delivered by my brother. We continue staring at each other and I continue getting more and more turned on.
Fuck.

Finally, Ian decides to break first. “I do. I need someone to work for me for a period of two, possibly three months.”

“What’s it entail?”

“I’ll explain further only if you agree.” He snaps his fingers and Malcolm immediately produces two pages that look a lot like the contract I delivered, only with less words. “This is a non-disclosure agreement. It’s very simple. I’ll disclose some information to you and in exchange you’ll receive a weekly sum of money, along with other props necessary for you to carry out the work required of you—all of which you are free to keep after this project is completed. The only caveat is that you can never reveal anything I disclose to you. Very standard.”

I finger the document but don’t pull it closer. “How much?”

“$10,000 a week.”

“What?” I push away from the table. “What kind of lunatic pays that kind of money for anything?”

“I’m guessing you don’t know who I am, is that correct?” he asks. I shake my head. “I made $25 million a day last year and this year I’m on pace to make $37 million. A day.” He emphasizes the time period. “This amount is so paltry that I doubt my accountant will even need to expense it.”

The mention of an accountant eases my fear a bit because surely if he’s got an accountant, everything he does can’t be illegal, right? I slide into my chair because the sums he just spouted off are knee-shakingly high. No wonder Malcolm jumps when Ian snaps his fingers.

“Then it sounds like what you’re proposing to pay me is too low,” I say slowly, trying to decide whether I want to work for this man who I’m insanely attracted to and who has warned me at least once that he intends to hunt me down and . . . I have no idea what he’ll do with me when he catches me, and I can’t spend much time contemplating the scenarios because if I do, I’ll end up being a puddle of goo on the floor.

Behind me Malcolm sounds like he is choking but by the glint in Ian’s eye, I can tell he’s not offended at all.

“If the job you do is satisfactory, you’ll get a bonus.” And then he names a sum that makes Malcolm start coughing and me dizzy. A half-million dollar bonus? I could
buy
an apartment when I was done working for him.

“What do I have to do?” I ask, but I don’t know if I care right now. So long as I don’t have to kill or torture or spread my legs, I’m pretty sure I’m on board and maybe I’d even do those things.

“Sign the NDA.” He slides the paper over to me.

“Do I have to sleep with anyone?”

“No.”

“Not even you?” I peer at him between my eyelashes, ignoring Malcolm in the background. Amusement flits across Ian’s face. He leans toward me so only I can hear.

“Only if you want to.” He waits just a beat and then adds, “And you do.”

Sniffing like it smells bad to disguise the heat that suffuses my entire body at his provocative words, I eye the papers with disdain. “What holds me to this?”

“If you disclose, I take back all the money. Malcolm fires you and I ruin your life by ensuring you never get another job again.” He says this calmly like he’s reciting a grocery list. This time the zip down my spine is one of fear. “But I don’t think you will disclose.”

“How do you know that?” He’s right, though. I wouldn’t tell, even if the deal went south. I’m not a narc.

“Because you’re loyal. Very loyal. You didn’t want me to talk badly about your brother here and you’re engaged in business with unsavory characters in order to provide a better life for someone else in your family.”