Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)

by Jen Frederick

  “Bring this back with his signature and I’ll sign whatever damn thing you want,” Malcolm says.

  As I wait for the elevator, I hear his companion call, “She can work off the debt in my bed.”

  “She’d have to service a train of guys to work off the debt she’s going to owe me,” he says flatly. And he’s not lying.

  The delivery address for the papers I’ve signed is in the Meatpacking District. I always hate riding down there because cobblestones are everywhere, which is hell for a girl on a bike. Plus, the numbers for some of these buildings are obscured because the more hidden the place is, the more people want to find it. I wonder how that works if there’s a need for emergency services.

  After biking up and down Hudson Street a few times, I finally spot the building. The front features a corrugated metal garage door that’s completely pristine. Not a hint of graffiti, which is odd down here where everything but the glass windows has been tagged by some juvenile miscreant. I lean my bike up against the big metal door and look for a buzzer. There isn’t one. I don’t even see a side door. I bang on the metal door a few times.

  At eight in the morning, no one down here is even awake. People down here don’t start their day until eleven in the morning because that’s the soonest they can drag their hungover asses out of bed. The life of the moneyed New York City crowd is exactly as the songs say—party all night and sleep all day. And if you want to be part of the crowd, you follow the same hours.

  “Hey, delivery for . . .” I pause and look at the envelope. There are letters there, but I can’t make them out. “Delivery,” I yell again.

  “In the back,” a male voice from above says, and it scares the bejeezus out of me. I jump and yelp like a dog whose foot’s been trampled. In the corner of the black frame of the garage door is a tiny camera and holes, which, I guess, have a speaker behind them. It’s so minuscule that only if you were looking really hard could you see it. I stare at the camera for a long time, wondering who the hell is behind it. Is he staring at me?

  “In the back,” he repeats, his tone a tad deeper and tinged with barely suppressed humor. I guess he is watching me stare. “Number 14001.”

  His voice sounds familiar, but maybe it’s because it sounds throaty and sexy and I’d like it to be familiar. I still dream about the man in the Theater District. Ian. Knowing his name makes my fantasy life a bit richer. I hop on my bike and cycle down the long block, take a left, and then I spot the alley. It’s big enough for one car or truck. I stop halfway in the middle of the block.

  The building looms high and has at least three stories. It’s all brick on the first floor with another shiny, corrugated metal garage door, but this time there’s a tall, thin black door to the right with the number 14001 in stainless steel in the center. I lean my bike against the door and tilt my head back to look up. The second and third floors are full of windows, and despite the fact that there are buildings behind me, and tall ones at that, I can still see rays of sunlight shooting in through the windows. The place must be gorgeous inside.

  When I get closer I notice the door is ajar, which makes me nervous. Who leaves their door ajar in the city? Stupid people, that’s who—or dangerous ones. I push the door open, half expecting it to creak like a door to a haunted house, but it swings open like the hinges were oiled two minutes ago. The door leads into a narrow hallway that runs the length of the building. There’s exterior light from somewhere and I realize that it’s from a narrow channel in the ceiling that must lead to the roof. Clever design. I wonder if the roof is entirely glass or if the light is from multiple skylights. This is a rich person’s place. Only rich people can bring exterior light to a brick building surrounded by taller structures.

  There are stairs with a glass balustrade that point out my path like a giant arrow. Unless my guy appears in the hallway like a David Blaine trick, I’m guessing I should head up the stairs. Gingerly, I take my first step, and when no sirens blast out I figure I’m safe enough. I run up the flight of stairs and at the top, I see one giant—and I mean giant—space.

  “You can set it on the table,” the voice from the street speaker calls out. I venture farther into the huge, open space. A sleek, modern kitchen like those I’ve drooled over in home magazines appears to my left and in front of it a long oval walnut table is surrounded by clear acrylic chairs. To my right is a living room filled with cowhide and leather furniture and a big, plush rug in deep red. Beyond the living room is a wall of mirrors and in front of it stands a . . . superhero.

  I mean, it’s like walking into Bruce Wayne’s fuck pad or something and seeing him do a pre-rescue workout. The owner of the voice is doing biceps curls and wearing gym shorts that appear to be in danger of falling down his slim hips with every movement.

  He has ridges and planes and jutting protuberances that I’ve not seen outside a movie theatre. And many of those muscles were fake CGI creations, I learned later. I almost shed a few tears hearing that sad news. He grunts and the shorts slide down a centimeter more. I can’t see his face clearly because the distance between me and the mirrors is too great in this cavernous room.

  I jerk myself out of my tween fantasy and set the manila envelope on the table and pull out the contract. “I’ll need you to sign before I can go.”

  Bruce drops his weight and palms a towel with almost the same motion. Superhero reflexes to go with the superhero body. Nice. Too bad he’s a criminal because I’m not delivering tourist trinkets at the prices Malcolm is paying me. As Bruce draws near, I fumble and nearly drop the ten-pages-thick contract that contains my nearly illegible signature. Bruce is none other than the guy from the Theater District.

  “I’d like to think you regret saying no to me, but somehow I’m guessing this is a coincidence.” He raises an inquiring eyebrow. “But a good one.”

  For a moment I forget why I’m here. My fantasies are going to be in high-definition now. I don’t even bother to hide how my gaze eats him up. And by his smile it’s evident he’s enjoying being on display. He certainly doesn’t make an effort to hide his bare chest with the towel. No, he stands there, arms at his sides, hands relaxed, feet shoulder width apart. It’s an invitation, and I utilize it.

  He’s cut, ripped, jacked to shit. Up close I can count the indented squares below his pectorals that look so much like polished marble. He’s got a sparse sprinkling of chest hair and a dark line that bisects his tight abs, disappearing into his low-slung shorts. I stare at the bottom of the line far too long and suck in the side of my lower lip to keep myself from drooling.

  Wrapping around the sides of his abdomen and jutting out from his hips are those things that no girl knows the word for—only that they make her feel stupid and hot. They are handles, I guess, to hold on to while you’re riding him or giving him a blow job. Or maybe they’re made for licking. All I know is that they are a big turn-on and I feel like they’re beckoning me to touch them to see if they’re real. I wonder how he’d react if I bent over and just licked him like a lollipop.

  He’s engaged in his own perusal, but I’m looking no different than I was the last time he saw me. My light-brown hair is in a tight braid, although there are many strands that have escaped due to pulling my helmet off and on. I’m wearing my Lycra crop pants and Dri-FIT long-sleeve T-shirt. I look like shit, but his gaze—when I finally meet it—is appreciative.

  He rubs the towel through the dark, rich pelt on his head, and then slowly rubs it over his face, then his chest, and finally his abs. My eyes track every movement. His body looks like something that was computer generated. It is hard and powerful and he’s so close that I can smell him, a musky clean sweat that fires every neuron. Not every man in a suit looks this good when he strips off the wool and linen. This is the body of a fireman or athlete, not that of a banker.

  “You don’t have time for a walk in the park. You spend your Saturdays working. Do you do anything but deliver
packages?” He finally moves, waking me out of the fantasy dream state where I’m measuring the hardness of his chest with my tongue.

  “Not these days,” I admit. Mention of my job brings my attention back like the hard return of a rubber band. It’s almost painful to leave fantasy land. “Here, I need your signature, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “I didn’t realize I ordered something to be delivered by Neil’s,” he says, looking pointedly at the logo emblazoned on my shirt and ignoring the papers.

  “It’s not from Neil’s,” I say, and then stop because I remember exactly what I’m doing here. This Ian is my special project and since he’s working with Malcolm . . . I let that thought die along with all my lust. Bitter disappointment is a sour flavor.

  “I find I can’t sign anything right now. Hurt my wrist doing curls.” He twists his perfectly normal, uninjured right wrist.

  Shaking my head, I try to shove the papers at him again, but he remains disinterested. He tosses them to the side without even looking and walks toward the kitchen. Pulling open a glass refrigerator door, he grabs a bottle of water and gestures toward the contents, asking if I want anything. I shake my head no but I follow him. I can’t help it. The tractor beam of attraction just tows me right along.

  “Your wrist looked fine when I came in.”

  “Watching me?” He raises his eyebrow again. “Did I have good form?”

  I don’t want to flirt with him. Or rather, I do but know that I shouldn’t. Not only is he involved with some kind of shady business, but until my mom is feeling better, there’s no room in my life for anything but work and her.

  “Yes. You have a very nice body, but it’s a dime a dozen.”

  “Is that right?” He’s amused and not the slightest bit irritated.

  Confidence oozes out of his every pore. He knows exactly how women respond to him and he rightly assumes I’m no different, but I’m trying.

  “The city is awash with hard bodies. It’s more trendy than ever to be fit now. In fact, I heard a news report that young men are having body issues because of the push toward the well-defined abs. You’re a bad influence.”

  He finds this response even funnier and his face cracks into a wide, bone-melting grin. The hollow in his cheek is back and it’s got a superpower all of its own. I kind of hate myself for being weak-kneed at the sight of it—at the fact that my own lips are curling up in response. Tonight when I get home I’m going to force myself to watch Spike TV so I can learn to hate men again. Or I’ll spend five minutes with my stepbrother. That will do it.

  “Just a word of caution, because I don’t really care but the next customer might: Messengers are supposed to be invisible.” He winks so I know it’s not a real insult.

  “Sorry, I didn’t bring my invisibility cloak, Bruce Wayne.”

  “Batman, huh?” He leans even closer, so close that his breath tickles my hair. Right above my forehead, he whispers, “One thing you should never do is issue a challenge to a guy like me. I always like to win. Always.” Then he draws back and leaves me in a quivering state of Jell-O.

  “Always?” I don’t even know why I’m asking. It’s like poking a tiger with a stick.

  “There was that one sad time when I was eleven, I asked my neighbor to my middle school dance. She was seventeen.”

  “Did she go?”

  “Sadly, she turned me down, but it didn’t stop me from pursuing her. I tend to be more determined than most.”

  He made that sound like a threat and a promise at the same time.

  “I’m guessing you caught her eventually.” That’s where these stories of conquest usually end.

  “By the time Cass expressed a return affection, I was in the process of moving and not prepared for a long distance relationship, so our childhood love remains unconsummated.”

  “I can see you are real broken up about it.”

  He winks. “If I were, would you tend to my broken heart?”

  “If cures for the broken heart can be delivered, then I’m your girl,” I quip.

  “I’m sure I can keep you busy for a long time,” he murmurs.

  It’s hard, but I manage to keep my whimpers soundless. He drains his glass of water and then strides toward the front hall where he’d tossed the papers earlier. I scurry behind him.

  “You didn’t tell me your name the last time we met.”

  “Victoria Corielli.”

  “Victoria.” He says my name, testing it on his tongue, holding the syllables inside his mouth for a moment as if he’s savoring a fine wine. Everything about him is so sexual. God. “What did you bring me?”

  “I don’t know exactly. A contract,” I answer.

  “Let’s find out.” He picks up the envelope and shakes out the papers. It doesn’t take but a second for those eyes to lose their warmth and good humor. He looks me up and down, measuring me and apparently, from the cold contempt in his eyes, finding me lacking.

  It’s completely unfair that he’s viewing me with disdain because I deliver packages for Malcolm. This guy is the one who must want me to do something illegal for him. And by the look of his apartment, he’s under no financial distress. His isn’t a desperate need-driven business relationship like mine is. I’m the one that should be filled with scorn.

  “Had no idea Malcolm had such great taste. Thought he was a little too lowbrow. Were you delivering wigs the other day or something else?” His words are even, but I can sense that he’s angry with me. His eyes are accusatory, as if I’ve betrayed him somehow.

  “It’s none of your business but, yes, it was wigs,” I say as calmly as possible when I’m seething inside.

  He tosses the contract to the side. “Why, Victoria? What problems do you have that you need the money from working with Malcolm? Is delivering packages not good enough for you? You like to drink, smoke, gamble, what?”

  I gape at him, openmouthed. “What the hell are you talking about? And what right do you have to question me? You are the one that is working with Malcolm. All I do is deliver shit.”

  Hands on his hips, he starts circling me. “Like yourself? You’re the package today, sweetheart, and you delivered yourself right to my door. You look shiny and fresh, unlike the other ‘packages.’ So how much?”

  “How much what?” I don’t have the faintest clue what he’s talking about right now. I pick up the contract and shove it toward him. “Sign and I’m gone.”

  A muscle in his jaw is getting a workout and the forest green of his eyes looks cloudy. An urge to tell him my whole story, to make him understand, overwhelms me, but I shut it down because this rich jerk who can live in this entire building by himself in one of the richest neighborhoods in Manhattan is judging me.

  “What makes you a good fit for this project?” He leans a hip against the table and crosses his arms. The motion emphasizes his muscular arms and my lust flares up again. Stupid body.

  “Isn’t it a little late to be assessing my ‘fit’? I thought Malcolm arranged everything with you.”

  “The last three ‘packages’ Malcolm sent weren’t suitable and while you’re definitely a step up from those others, I’m not entirely convinced he’s got the right goods.”

  I can only stare as he describes me as a product. God, what an asshole. Good thing I figured this out before I took his hand and followed him straight to bed. Assholes truly are a dime a dozen in the city. I could go out right now and run into a handful before I cleared Gansevoort and hit Hudson Street.

  “Malcolm asked me to do a special project. He had me sign that—” I nod toward the table. “And I did. Nothing in there can be legal, so I don’t know what Malcolm and you’ve cooked up, but I can’t be held to it. I. Deliver. Things.” I enunciate each word so he can’t mistake their meaning. “You want something delivered, I’m your girl. Anything else, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”

/>   His hands drop away from his waistband; he stands there for a long moment and studies me. What he is looking for or what he sees is completely lost on me. With a shake of his head, he picks up a pen and scribbles something on one of the pages. “Didn’t you read the contract?”

  “I can’t read, asshole.”

  He looks at me with bemusement. “Illiterate?”

  “Learning disability.”

  I watch for his expression to change from interest to pity but he only nods thoughtfully.

  “Contract says you are a work for hire—a contract laborer—and that you can’t say anything about working for me to anyone. Could you do that?”

  “Fine. What do you need delivered? I’m a messenger. Put me to work.” I throw out my arms.

  He swallows a laugh, and then he puts everything back into the envelope and hands it to me. “Thanks, but no thanks. Tell Malcolm you’re a dear, but I really can’t work with someone like you.”

  I take it, but I don’t want to. Malcolm won’t help me if I don’t get Ian to agree to this—whatever this is.

  “Malcolm told me not to come back without your agreement.”

  “It’s not happening. I’m sorry.” He sounds regretful, but if I go back to Malcolm without doing whatever it is I’m supposed to do, maybe I will have to service a train of men. I love my mom but there have to be options here. I just need to know what they are.

  “What is it that you want me to do? Obviously I’m willing to get my hands dirty.” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice.

  “Are you now?”

  “I’m working for Malcolm, aren’t I?”

  “Touché.” He places a palm on the top of my head and pushes the tendrils of my hair back, as if he wants to see what I look like without helmet hair. I want to squirm under his inspection, but I force myself to stay still.

  “Do you have a good memory?”

  I nod. I have a fucking great memory. It’s how I am able to be a bike messenger. Someone tells me the address once and I’ve got it. I may not be able to read a book, but I can decipher numbers and most letters with time and I can remember anything anyone has ever told me. My worry starts to ease. You don’t need to have a good memory for work on your back.