Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)

by Jen Frederick

  The VIP area is a small balcony on the second floor that overlooks the first level dance floor and has a bird’s-eye view of the hot tubs. As far as I can tell, access to the upper deck is communicated through a series of nods and hand slaps because Ian simply lifts his chin to the bouncer, who moves aside to allow us access.

  Up here, I can see that there are bleachers set up next to the pools and people are lounging in bathrobes or on towels. There are a couple of well-known actors and athletes who I recognize. The other beautiful people must be moneyed or famous or—I think as a thin but bosomy woman walks by—arm candy like me.

  “This is the weirdest place,” I tell Ian.

  “New Yorkers get bored easily,” he replies. “You constantly have to come up with something new and seemingly innovative, and these days, the more risqué the better. It’s frowned upon to wear swimsuit attire here because that’s not considered edgy enough.”

  “So I’m wearing the pearl-clutching version of a club-goer’s outfit?” I ask wryly.

  “Given that your legs are hot enough to warrant a visit from the FDNY Ladder 21, I don’t think ‘pearl clutcher’ is apropos.” He drops his hand from my back and I feel it brush my ass as he reaches down to stroke my thigh, but his movements are interrupted when Richard steps into our sightline. Ian’s fingers fall away.

  Richard has the look of an Ivy League banker. His hair is expertly cut and lies in a Dead Poet’s Society swoop to the left. I can easily superimpose a regimented striped tie and blue blazer with gold emblem on the pocket. Tonight he’s attired in a well-cut suit, although the shoulders look almost too big for him, and I notice that the fabric is shiny, as if it has endured one too many trips to the dry cleaners’.

  “Ian Kerr, you old dog. You keep ducking my dad’s phone calls. It’s like you don’t want to donate.”

  It’s hard to tell if Richard is serious or kidding. Neither Kaga nor Ian gave me any clue as to whether Richard supports his father or is rebelling somehow, but at his age, the north side of his forties, he should be too old for that shit.

  “I’ve given up on donating to politics. Figure it makes more sense to burn it in the fireplace.”

  The words exchanged are sharp, but the two smile and slap each other on the back as if they are best buds.

  “Who’s this delectably dressed young lady?” Richard’s attention turns to me, and I’m surprised that his gaze is warm and friendly rather than predatory. I think I was expecting something totally different. But Kaga did warn me that Richard is charming.

  “Victoria Corielli, meet Richard Howe. His family is practically one of the original four hundred.”

  I hold out my hand, but Richard doesn’t shake it. Instead, he pulls it toward his lips as Kaga had. Before he makes contact, Ian slides his large palm over the top of my fingers.

  “So it’s that way?” Richard says, one eyebrow quirking up.

  “Kissing’s too fancy for me,” I interject, not wanting Ian to get into a pissing match when I’m supposed to be luring Richard with my non-existent wiles. “Nice to meet you, Richard.”

  “You are lovely but I wouldn’t expect anything different from a companion of Ian’s.” It sounds like a veiled insult, as if I’m just one of many interchangeable women that Ian Kerr has had dinner with. Maybe he’s right. He offers his hand and I take it. He has a firm, cool shake, and if he lingers overlong, it’s not so noticeable that it makes me uncomfortable.

  Under the bar lights, his hair looks shiny.

  “Go for a swim?” I guess.

  His smile is impish. “Yes, the pools are irresistible. I heard management over at 1 Oak is upset because some of its exclusive clientele can’t seem to tear themselves away from the attractions here.”

  “I’ve never been there,” I admit, but I’m curious. These are bars and clubs that I might have heard about in passing but have never had any interest in visiting, primarily because they would be too expensive and I doubted I could get in.

  “It’s an old-school establishment. Still entertaining.” He leans close and in a low voice says, “I’ll take you sometime.”

  I can’t help but glance at Ian, whose narrowed gaze is focused with laser-like precision on Richard. Ian really dislikes this guy, and he’s suddenly making no attempt to hide it. Discreetly, I step backward onto the tip of his shoe and press down, not too hard but enough to get his attention.

  He shakes his head as if he’s woken from a trance. “You look thirsty, Tiny,” he says, and walks off before I can respond.

  We both watch as Ian saunters away.

  “You and Kerr?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

  I shrug in what I hope is a coy manner. “We’re friends.”

  “He seems off tonight. Did you guys have a bad dinner?”

  “No, I think he’s tired. He just got back from a business trip.”

  “Oh, what about?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t pay much attention.” I know instinctively that Ian would not like for me to share any personal information with Richard, no matter how innocent. “How did you get in here, or shouldn’t I ask? All Ian had to do was nod at the bouncer.”

  “Turnover at these places is frequent, mostly because of the constant employee fraternization. The staff at these places cycles in and out. Go to enough clubs and you’ll get to know the people who work the door. Once you’ve made your contacts, you have no problem getting past the guardians at the gate.” He ducks his head and snorts. “There. I’ve now admitted I’m practically a barfly.”

  “No, not at all. Just social,” I reassure him. His self-deprecation may be an act, but it’s a good one. “Do you know much about the owner?” I’m curious if he knows the connection between Ian and Kaga.

  He shakes his head. “I think it’s owned by some Japanese conglomerate. They are taking over the city, you know, buying up our landmarks.”

  Not wanting to hear Richard launch into a dangerous and possibly racist rant about ownership of big-city properties, I attempt to redirect the conversation. “What is it that you do?” Men like to talk about themselves.

  “Investments, like your friend Kerr.” He gives me a strange, wry smile. “Only not as good, according to my old man. How about you? You work with your father?”

  “No, I . . .” I hesitate, looking for the right words. “I was never very good in school.”

  “Don’t work for a relative,” he advises. “You’ll never make them happy. Take me, for example. Haven’t had an investment turn my way in a long time.” He sounds almost wistful rather than bitter, and his obvious desire to please his father tugs at my heartstrings. My mother is my best friend, and the worst thing she’s ever said to me was “I’m disappointed.”

  “I bet your dad is prouder than you think. Sometimes it’s hard for them to express it,” I console him.

  “When I was like six or seven, my nanny would take me to the Central Park playground across from our condo complex. We live right on Fifth Avenue, a block from Embassy Row.” He is bragging a tiny bit, but that’s an impressive address. “Every time we went—which was like three times a week—there were two brothers. One was my age and the other was older. The older kid could do everything. He could catch the ball on the first try. Could swing across the monkey bars without stopping. Could leap over the fence with a single bound. A veritable mini-Superman. His mom or nanny, I don’t really know which, would always say to the younger kid that he should be more like his older brother. The barrage of criticism was nonstop.”

  “Poor kid,” I murmur.

  “Comparisons don’t motivate people,” he says, and this time the bitterness has erased any wistfulness. “My dad hasn’t learned that yet. Ian Kerr, once an outcast from city society, is now held up to every son and heir as the model. He left town impoverished and came back less than twenty years later with his Fortune 500 cover and his pockets so ful
l of money that he can barely walk.”

  We both stare at Ian, lounging at the bar and chatting with a Giants linebacker with the ease of someone who is familiar in this setting.

  “I’m sorry,” I say lamely, not knowing quite what the right response is. Richard is right, though—comparisons suck. And if all he gets at home are questions about why he doesn’t measure up, then bitter is a normal emotion.

  “Not your fault.” He turns his bright white smile on me. “I don’t usually run my mouth like that. You’re exceptionally easy to talk to.”

  I duck my head. “Thanks.”

  “I need a smoke.” He runs a hand through his thick hair. “Come with me?”

  I toss a glance over at Ian. He isn’t looking this way, but I sense he’s fully aware of what I’m doing. “Sure, why not?”

  I totter down the stairs on the unfamiliar heels. It’s easier walking up on stilettos than down. Richard leads me through a mass of bodies to a side door manned by another beefy security guy.

  “Need a smoke, man.” Richard holds up a pack of cigarettes and the bouncer steps aside, holding the door open. There are others milling around in a small, bricked-in space with tall ashtrays.

  “No thanks,” I say when he offers a cigarette.

  “We’re the leper colony.” Richard lights up and takes a deep drag. It’s easy to see how young women could be charmed by him and engage in a flirtation despite his marital status. Then again, his left hand is bare of any jewelry, so perhaps he pursues women who simply don’t know he’s married. Many young New Yorkers couldn’t name all the upcoming mayoral candidates, let alone their sons. “I should take up the electronic ones, but I find it offensive that everything is digital now—even our bad habits. From porn to cigarettes.” He shakes his head and takes another deep drag. “On social media much?”

  “Not really.”

  “I shouldn’t be, but I can’t quit it.” The lit end of the cigarette creates a delicate lace-like pattern as Richard waves his hand up and down in front of my body. “But of all the people who should be taking pictures of themselves and posting them, it’s you.”

  “I’m not a fan. Too busy.”

  “So if you don’t work for your dad like me, what do you do?”

  Be yourself.

  “I’m a bike courier. I work for Neil’s Delivery Service.”

  Richard coughs and strikes a fist against his chest a couple of times. His lack of breath is from surprise, not from the smoke. He can’t believe that Ian would be with someone like me. I see it in his eyes. Though whether it’s because I work such a menial job or because I’m not smart enough, I’m not certain.

  “How’d you get into that?”

  “Ex-boyfriend. Kept the job. Lost the boyfriend.”

  “And you delivered something to Ian?” he guesses.

  “That’s right. And one thing led to another and here I am.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says when he regains his equilibrium.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he’s using you.”

  I freeze, wondering if somehow Richard knows exactly what Ian is up to. “For sex?” I answer glibly. “We’re friends.”

  “Ian Kerr doesn’t have friends who are delivery girls.” The look on Richard’s face is of pity, albeit genuine pity. “I hope to hell I’m wrong, but I think he’s going to break your heart.”

  Richard takes my lax hand and holds it up to the light, examining the calluses along the base of my fingers that I’ve developed holding the handlebars of my bike. “You’re such a hard worker,” he says, rubbing the hardened pads. I jerk my hand away and hide it in the pocket of my shorts. It’s a compliment, but it doesn’t sound like one. Rather, he sounds like he’s about to list all my shortcomings. “He doesn’t insult you, does he? Make you feel small because you don’t have as much money? I’m sure he doesn’t comment about how you don’t know the difference between leveraged buyouts and portfolio hedging.”

  “No,” I answer. The money disparity has been huge between the two of us, but I hadn’t considered our intellectual differences. I didn’t—no, couldn’t—read the financial pages. I knew nothing of how to run a business. When Ian jetted off to another state to look at “wearable tech,” I’d made a comic book joke. Richard is invoking doubts I hadn’t even realized I should be worrying about. The outdoor air is suddenly chilly.

  “Don’t feel bad. I’m not too good at that myself. It’s why Ian looks down on me. Anyone who’s not as successful as he is doesn’t warrant more than a second glance. He’s notorious for being even worse with women. No one’s good enough for him. Not socialites or hedge fund managers. They’ve all got some kind of flaw.” Richard takes another draw on his cancer stick, the ashes almost to his fingers. “I’ve seen way too many tears wiped away after he’s tossed these poor girls aside. Guy’s a menace. Should keep his pants zipped.”

  Each word Richard unfurls is like a punch in the solar plexus because they strike directly at my insecurity. I’m worried that I’m not good enough for Ian. That he’s too rich for me. Too smart for me. Too everything. Hearing it from Richard’s mouth batters me like a physical club.

  Hadn’t Ian said that he’d pursued me because I was a challenge? That’s all I was. A convenient fuck and a big-ass source of amusement.

  “We’re friends,” I repeat numbly.

  “I’m not telling you this stuff to be mean. I’m right there with you in the undesirable pool. We rejects gotta stick together.” Richard tosses the butt on the ground and grinds his foot on it. “What’s your phone number?”

  I give it to him without hesitation, and he inputs it into his phone and sends me a text—which I can’t read. Richard leans close to me, the tobacco smell heavy on his breath. “Like finds like, Victoria. I’ve a lot of practice in mending broken hearts.”

  “I’m still whole,” I say, and wonder if I can remain that way.

  “Don’t let him ruin it, ruin you,” he whispers. His mouth is only inches away from my ear. “Come dance with me.”

  I don’t want to. Richard isn’t so charming anymore. His words have gouged me, and I’d like to go to the bathroom and lick my wounds. But Ian’s absence must mean that I’m supposed to use this time to reel Richard in.

  “All right.” I place my hand in his upturned one.

  “I’m a terrible dancer,” Richard confesses as he leads me back inside. “I always need to stand next to someone so I don’t look foolish.”

  I go with him because there isn’t anyone to stop me. He takes me by the hand and leads me down to the dance floor. The press of the crowd pushes us closer together, and Richard places his hands on my waist.

  “I don’t want to lose you out here.”

  I put my hands on his shoulders so I don’t look like an unwilling mannequin. Richard has lied, of course. He’s a great dancer. His hips move easily to the rhythm and his hands drift lower, fingers splaying to reach more intimate parts of my body. I back away, but there’s little room on the packed dance floor.

  Under my palms, his body feels alien to me and I don’t want to touch him, but in the small space that the crowd has allotted for us, I can’t do anything about it. When he slides a thigh between my legs, the intimacy is simply too much and I feel claustrophobic. This isn’t what I want. I don’t want to have to touch him, dance with him, or kiss him. God, will I have to kiss him?

  Before I can break away, there’s a commotion behind me and then a familiar hand wraps around my waist and pulls me firmly against a hard body.

  “I’m sorry, Rich, but Victoria has to leave.” Ian doesn’t wait for a response from me or Richard. Instead, he literally lifts me off my feet and carries me to the edge of the dance floor, the crowd parting before him with ease. About five steps beyond the dance floor, Ian sets me down and I totter, momentarily disoriented and unused to the heels. His hand, sti
ll latched to my side, braces me.

  “Don’t you think Victoria should be the one to decide when she leaves?” Richard has followed us, but Ian doesn’t even turn to look at him. He buries his nose into my hair, and I feel the whisper of a kiss against my head.

  “She’s got an urgent task to take care of,” he says flatly.

  “At midnight?” Richard’s voice is full of skepticism.

  “Yes, at midnight.” The hand at the small of my back presses me forward as Ian gently propels me toward the rear of the club, past the centrally located bar and the huge circular aquarium. Beyond the dancers, the partiers, and the watchers and out into the night.

  “I don’t get you,” I mutter, shivering a little.

  “What’s there to get? I don’t like other men touching you.” His words are clipped. When we’re at the street, the big gray car is idling, waiting like a giant gray panther to whisk us away. He opens the door and almost shoves me inside. Over the top of the roof I hear him say something to Steve, something like “long way around the park.”

  As Ian settles next to me, he presses a button and the privacy screen rises. I stare at it until Steve’s head is completely cut off and we’re entombed in silence in the back. There isn’t even music and almost no street sounds inside this luxurious car.

  “Are you really that compartmentalized?”

  “Your change of subjects is dizzying.” He reaches for me. “And you are much too far away.”

  “It’s that you told me you wanted me and then you turned it off when Richard showed up. I can’t keep up with that.”