Taking Control

by Jen Frederick

  “Tiny,” I say, my voice hoarse with the shouts I’m trying to keep suppressed. “We are a team. I told you about the men who attacked me. You are my fucking world. If you are gone…” I trail off. Her body is convulsing from harsh silent sobs. In short order, I have her on my lap. “Stop. I’m not mad. I promise.”

  “I’m not crying to make you feel bad for me. I’m not manipulating you.” She cries, her frame is shaking.

  “I know, bunny. You’re breaking my heart here.” I run my hands over her arms and legs and head to reassure myself that she’s hale and unhurt.

  “It was wrong. I see that now. I should’ve told you, but I didn’t because I knew I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “All right,” I try to soothe her. “What’s done is done. Tell me so we can figure out what happened.”

  It takes several minutes before she’s composed enough to recount the fucking foolhardy plan that she and Sarah cooked up and the two notes she’s received. “We need to get those to Jake.”

  She nods and hangs her head. No doubt Jake will be yelling at her, too. I’ll go with her in the morning because no one gets to yell at Tiny but me.

  “The bodyguard is going to come tomorrow. Promise me you will use her. That you won’t go anywhere without her. That you won’t endanger your life. Promise me this.”

  “I promise,” she vows solemnly. “I promise I will protect myself because I am your heart.”

  “Thank you.” I close my eyes and clutch her to my chest. She finally gets it.

  TWENTY

  TINY REFUSES TO GO TO sleep in the bedroom, so we make a nest of blankets and she falls asleep on the sofa in my office while I handle international calls and watch the Asian markets. Before the morning light filters in, I get a text from Jake that the new bodyguard will be arriving soon.

  At precisely seven in the morning, there is an alert from the back door. Outside I see a woman with short dark hair wearing a lightweight parka, jeans, and soft-soled shoes. She matches the picture Jake sent. Quietly, so as not to disturb Tiny, I speak into the intercom. “Name, please.”

  “Marcia Stephenson” is the brisk reply. I watch her for a minute, but she doesn’t flinch, merely stares unblinkingly at the camera with her feet set and her hands hanging loosely at her sides. I approve, but more importantly I think Tiny will like her.

  “Up the stairs.” The sound of the lock releasing prompts her to enter.

  We meet at the entrance.

  “Nice to meet you, Marcia.” She has a firm dry grip.

  “Marcie, please. Marcia is too…”

  “Brady Bunch?”

  “Yes,” she grimaces.

  “Tiny’s sleeping. What has Jake told you?” I gesture for her to sit down, but she doesn’t. Instead she prowls around the edges of the room, tapping locks on the windows and eyeing the layout. If she were a different kind of woman, I’d be bristling against the intense perusal, but she looks no different than Steve did the first time he walked in.

  “This is a basic personal protection duty. I’m to ferry one Victoria Corielli and then ensure the safety of her person against any threats.” She looks at me and emphasizes the word any.

  “Good. She’s the most important person in my life.” I dump coffee grounds into the machine and start the brewing cycle. “I’ve read your resume, but those are dry things. Why the bodyguard business?”

  She stiffens at the word bodyguard, which tells me she is a true professional. Steve doesn’t like the term either. In one of his rare communicative moments, he explained in a wounded voice that personal protection services involve security surveys, advanced planning, and logistical preparation not merely guarding a body which any fuckhead could do.

  “I’m not a bodyguard, sir,” she says with restrained offense.

  I hold up a hand to forestall further explanation. “I know. Just a layman’s ignorant term.”

  She doesn’t relax an inch. “Ms. Corielli will be my first priority.”

  I pour myself a cup of coffee and offer her one as well. She hesitates and then relents enough to walk over to the kitchen. “Half a cup, please.”

  Pushing a mug to her, I pour until she says stop, and then I empty the rest in another mug for Tiny. “Have you met her?” I ask. They both work for Tanner, so it’s probable that they have come across each other.

  “In passing. She’s doing dispatch at Jake’s, so we’ve all come into contact with her at some point.” Her voice is neutral, not giving anything away.

  I refrain from questioning her about Tiny’s work because I know she wouldn’t like it.

  “Let me get Tiny, then.” I’m halfway up the stairs when I see Tiny coming out, dressed in work clothes. She gives a grateful look at the mug in my hand and swipes it from me. After gulping down a healthy swallow, she offers her face up. Heedless of Marcie’s presence, I pull Tiny hard against me and give her a long, hungry kiss, tasting coffee and the mint of our toothpaste. The very fact that I have to hire Marcie makes me a little insane. I want to pull Tiny into the bedroom and lock her away there.

  “Good morning,” she murmurs, breaking away. There’s a slight flush on her cheeks which stirs my blood. Neither of us can be this close to one another and not be affected. I’d like to slide my hand into the front of her pants and between her legs to see how hot I’ve gotten her with just a good morning kiss.

  “It’s a good morning now,” I say, contenting myself with simply squeezing her ass. “We’ve got another guest.”

  “Another one?” she cries and tries to push her way past me.

  “Run toward the abandoned house where the killer awaits you, why don’t you?” I complain in an undertone which she unfortunately hears.

  “Are you suggesting I’m acting like the stupid girl in a horror movie who gets offed in the first five minutes?”

  “Your response to the announcement that we have an intruder is to run downstairs and confront them.” I follow behind her as she ignores me and marches into the kitchen.

  “Marcie Stephenson, right? I’m Victoria Corielli.” They shake hands as if they’ve never met before.

  “I know. You’re working dispatch and reception for Mr. Tanner.” Marcie puts her mug on the counter. Apparently drinking coffee in front of the body you are to protect is verboten.

  “I’ve heard your voice, but we haven’t met.” Tiny perches on a stool at the counter, and I call in our breakfast.

  “I do a lot of field work,” Marcie replies vaguely.

  The two chat quietly with one another. Jake has done a good job of finding the right personality to mesh with Tiny’s. When breakfast arrives, I eat my share and then kiss Tiny goodbye.

  Jake calls first thing. “Steve gave me an update on your nocturnal visitor.”

  “Did he share that he nearly boned the poor girl on my dining room table?” The opening bell for the NYSE will ring in thirty minutes. There are dozens of emails that have populated in the few minutes that I haven’t checked my phone between exiting the car at the front of the building to getting to the twelfth floor. They are all demanding to know if the rumors are true. What rumors, I wonder.

  “He left that part out.”

  “I feel sorry for his girlfriend,” I say, scrolling through several emails that ask essentially the same thing. There are three reporter requests as well.

  “Do you?” Jake asks.

  “No, it just seemed like the thing to say.”

  “Back to Howe, do you want me to put pressure on this girl?”

  “Find out everything we can on her brother. I want to know his lawyer, who prosecuted his claim, who his parole officer is, who the supervisor of that officer is. I want to know what they eat, when they piss, and who they fuck. We’ll find some pressure point somewhere.”

  “On it.”

  In the twenty-second email from the top, I see a headline in the subject line. “Billionaire’s Father Accused of Embezzlement.” My heart starts pounding as I double click on the email. I make it to the
fourth line of the blog post from a major news outlet before I call Gabe.

  On a cold winter morning in December, Duncan Kerr was enjoying a privileged life as a top manager at Lionheart Partners Ltd. By the end of March he’d be dead. Doctors’ reports identify the cause as a heart attack, but sources close to him hint at something more tragic. The cause of death is a mystery, but some point to whispers of embezzlement that plagued Kerr on his way out. Those rumors are now gaining velocity as the current CEO of Kerr Inc. is purportedly accused of engaging in the same self-dealing that may have brought his father down so many years ago.

  “I want to meet with the editor,” I bark out.

  “They aren’t going to name their source,” Gabe says. I can tell by his clipped speech that he’s read the article too.

  “We already know the source. I want them to know we are suing them for libel. Whispers of embezzlement? They’re defaming both my father and myself.”

  “It’s a blog. We’ll get them to take it down today under threat of a lawsuit.” This time even Gabe’s steady tones aren’t soothing me. I slam my hand down hard on my desk.

  “Are you fucking kidding? We aren’t going to threaten them. We need to sue them. The damage is already done,” I thunder to him.

  “A defamation suit will take years,” Gabe roars back. “If you want to do something now, then you need to take your fucking gloves off. Cecilia has to know she sleeps with a snake. It’s her responsibility to remove herself from that situation. She’s not your mother.”

  The blood is pounding in my ears, and my hand fucking hurts. I look down and see that I’ve broken the hinges on my laptop and the LCD screen is cracked and ugly. Idly, I lift my hand and see blood on the palm. For years I’ve tried to avoid collateral damage by not going after Howe as hard as I could. But now he was dragging up the ghosts of the past. He was affecting my future and placing Tiny—my heart—in danger. So yeah, the gloves were off. Everyone standing with Howe is going to either sink with his ship or jump off.

  “Consider it done. Pull in Jake. Let’s review all the information. I’ve got their debts. I want to start placing pressure at every point. Call in the mortgage, repossess their boat. I want their credit denied all over the city. Let’s topple this motherfucker once and for all.” I slam down my phone and throw open my office door.

  Outside is Frank, his assistant Lucy, and two racks of clothes. Shit.

  “Rose,” I bark. “I need a bandage.” I hold up my hand for her to see and she jumps up, scurrying out of the office. Turning back to Frank, I ask, “What the hell are you doing here with all that shit?”

  Frank ignores my question but instead just wheels in his two racks of dresses. Inside the office, he turns, places his hands on his hips and says, “We have an appointment.”

  “I don’t care,” I shake my head. “I don’t have time for this. Get out. Please,” I add to soften the blow.

  Rose rushes in with a washcloth, tape, and a big bandage. I let her fix me up with one hand while I use the other to scroll through my messages. More are coming in by the minute. I halt at one and reply back to the interview request.

  Yes. Will talk. Call office for appt.

  I copy Gabe on the email and press send. Frank is still standing there.

  “What?” I ask sharply. “I told you I don’t have time.”

  He puts up his palm to me. “The Frick Ball is this weekend. You’ve put me off for two weeks now. You either see me now or Tiny goes to her first public event looking like a castaway. Is that really the image you want to be portraying right now?”

  “Who’s this?” I jerk my head toward his male companion who can’t be more than twenty something.

  “He’s my assistant.” Frank frowns.

  “He can’t go in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re it, and I tell you it takes a superhuman effort to be okay with that.”

  “He’s gay. Gayer than the rainbow. He probably farts glitter, don’t you, Phillip?”

  Phillip looks wide-eyed and nods in agreement.

  “No.” I’m implacable.

  “I can’t work under these conditions.” Frank turns and rattles the metal clothes rack.

  “Then I guess well be hiring a new stylist.”

  “Oh for god’s sake, Ian. She’s got the same bits as anyone else.”

  “Her bits belong to me, and no other man than you and me is ever going to be looking at them without clothes on.”

  “Fine. Fine.” He waves Phillip into a chair and hauls the racks and other shit into the office.

  I shut the door when the phone rings again. It’s one of my board members, Paul Tazo. Paul has been on the board since Kerr Inc. started. I owe that man a lot, and if there’s anyone I respect and look up to, it’s him. He owned a small brokerage business in New Jersey and took a chance on me when I was hustling small time illegal shit. Now he’s rolling in cash, in large part because of my success, but I still listen when he talks.

  “Kerr, my boy.” His voice is subdued. “We’re going to have to call an emergency meeting. I have no doubt you have an answer for what is happening, but the others are anxious.”

  Jake, who has been recently appointed, and Kaga sit on the board. With me, that’s three votes. There are nine board members. I’ll need to swing two to my side. I’d like to think that one vote will be Paul’s, but I’m not going to count on it.

  “Of course. Thank you for calling. Get with Rose and we’ll schedule something this week.”

  “I knew you would respond this way. I told the others you would, but they were concerned you would try to delay it.”

  “There’s no need to delay,” I lie. A delay would be great. I’m bleeding money now. First to buy up shares of Kerr Inc. Then exerting the financial pressure to make sure that the Howes are denied credit. And now I’m going to have to buy out at least two—if not more—board members in order to salvage my own company.

  But first things first. I need to call Tiny to tell her that she needs to shuttle her ass downtown to try on dresses. I’m sure she’ll love that.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “YOU WANT ME TO WHAT?” Tiny’s outraged voice carries well beyond the screen that Frank has set up at the far end of my office in front of the ornate fireplace and two midcentury modern lounge chairs.

  “It’s nothing I’ve never seen before,” Frank says with bored impatience. “Strip so we can get on with it.”

  “You may have seen lots of bodies before but not mine.” Despite the screen blocking my view, I can visualize her crossed arms and mulish expression.

  “We aren’t Victorians. It’s okay to show your lady parts.”

  “I’ve never met a gay man so anxious to get a chick out of her clothes before.”

  Marcie sits thumbing through her emails on the sofa while I alert Rose to the impending board meeting, but my interest is being drawn away by the activities behind the curtain.

  “What is this?” Tiny asks.

  “Underwear.”

  “Doesn’t look like it.”

  My curiosity is piqued. I’m watching the trade price for Kerr Inc. and listening to the conversation at the same time. The share price is fluctuating wildly. Every time I buy a block it shoots up, but then it drops again on the heels of some whispered report. It’s like playing whack-a-mole, and it requires every bit of my attention. Yet…

  “Seriously. This isn’t underwear.”

  “Are you the fashion consultant now? I thought you were a bike messenger.”

  “Emphasis on were,” she replies, and I wince. She’s still bitter about that.

  I get up to wander back behind the screen and stop short. Tiny is wearing a diaphanous undershirt and a pair of pants that stop just below her knees. The fabric is sheer and matches her skin color almost exactly. Board members, accusations of embezzlement, an imperiled business, all of it recedes under the flood of red-hot heat.

  Tiny’s young, athletic body needs no shaping garments or
corsets. Her waist naturally curves in, and her plum-shaped breasts sit high on her chest without support. I stare in appreciation at how her beautiful body is framed in the sheer silk.

  The filmy cloth clings to the points of her breasts, her nipples pebbling under my gaze. The rise and fall of the fabric becomes more rapid with every breath. Slowly my gaze drifts downward. Her navel and flat stomach are shrouded by the gauze, but it clings to her hips and the soft curls between her legs. Is it my imagination or is she getting wet? Is the sheer fabric darkening from her arousal? I want to fall to my knees and bury my face in her pussy.

  Embarrassed by her response to me, she lifts her arms to cover her breasts

  “Get out,” I order.

  There’s no movement. I repeat myself, louder and with more force. “Out. Now.” The sheer violence in my voice sends Frank and his assistant scurrying out of the room. The door closes.

  “You as well, Marcie.”

  She sighs but leaves. And then we’re alone.

  “What is this?” I ask in wonderment. Circling Tiny, I note how the shadow between her buttocks seems all the more enticing, like a forbidden valley, under the fabric.

  “Frank says it’s underwear.” She holds out her arms, which lifts the soft swells of her breasts.

  “We’re buying a dozen sets.” I drop into one of the chairs. I need this. I need her to remind me of all the good that I have in my life. I’m not the twelve-year-old whose beloved father has died or the bitter fifteen-year-old whose mother committed suicide. I am a man loved by this amazing woman. “You need to come over here right now.”

  When she nears, her expression changes to tender understanding. She senses my need. “I’m here, Ian. I will always be here, no matter what.”

  Emotion tightens my throat. “Show me,” I say hoarsely.

  “There’s a slit here,” she says, knowing what I require. Pulling aside the material between her legs, she displays the clever, hidden design.

  If my head could have exploded, it might have. I pull her to me, enjoying the feel of the wispy fabric against my hand. The barely-there undergarments are intended to inflame the flesh, rather than support or cover. Knowing that Frank and his assistant have seen her like this makes me want to mark her. If she walks into the Frick Museum wearing this under her dress, there is simply no way that I will be able to resist taking her into a corridor and feasting on her.