“Now what?”
“Just hearing his name come out of your mouth makes me want to end his time here on Earth.” He glares at me. “Eat your breakfast. Rich’s a work project and we’re not on the clock.”
CHAPTER 24
We part ways soon after, as I have to get to work. Ian explains he has a home office that he’s going to work in today, and I leave him to review financial analyst reports or whatever it is that venture capitalists do.
Around noon my phone dings. It’s a text message from an unknown number. I hit the speech recognition button and the little phone spits out a garbled message.
Victoria it was so nice to meet you last night sorry we didn’t get to finish our dad like to take you to the high top Brooklyn next weekend give me a ring.
Dictation software sucks. I figure out that Howe is telling me that he is sorry we didn’t get to finish our dance. I forward the message to Ian.
When I’m finished with that task, the phone rings. This time it’s my mother.
“Victoria,” she chides.
Oh no, the full name. I’m in trouble. I brace myself. “Yes?”
“You didn’t come home last night, and if it weren’t for Ian calling me, I would have been so worried.”
I smack my forehead. Ian has overtaken my mind. “Sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“I think I know what you were thinking,” my mom murmurs, humor palpable in her voice.
“Mom!”
“Don’t sound shocked, dear. How do you think you came to be?”
I mumble something like “virginal conception,” which elicits a full-throated laugh.
“I hope you’re practicing safe sex.”
“God, Mom, yes.” My womb might be baby safe, but my heart is hanging out there.
“Good.” Her voice softens. “I’m so glad, Tiny, that you’ve found someone. It’s been so long for you.”
“I’ve had you,” I answer.
“You need more in your life. I love you,” she concludes. “Stay safe.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
A beep sounds, and by the image, I see it’s Ian calling. “It’s Ian,” I tell her. “Can I call you back?”
“No need. I’ll see you tonight.”
I flip over to Ian’s call. I’ve never been such a popular girl.
“Did you respond to Howe’s text?” he asks abruptly.
“Um, no. I don’t text. Besides, I didn’t know what to say.”
“He invited you to a nightclub in Brooklyn. ‘Victoria it was so nice to meet you last night. Sorry we didn’t get to finish our dance. I’d like to take you to Hightop in Brooklyn next weekend. Give me a call.’”
I hear something crack. “I hope you aren’t ruining anything of value.”
He expels a heavy breath. “I rarely miscalculate, but I’ve really fucked things up. Don’t text him back.”
“I won’t.”
“Bunny.” He pauses. “I’m sorry I’ve dragged you into this mess. I don’t want you dealing with him.”
“But I want to help you,” I protest. “And if I don’t help you, then I can’t stay in the apartment or anything. It wouldn’t feel right.”
“Jesus, after last night, you still can’t accept a goddamned gift?” He snarls.
“Especially after last night,” I reply firmly. “I’ve got to get going.”
Acid churns in my belly. If Ian doesn’t let me do this project for him, then all these things aren’t right. I can’t accept them, but shit, does he have me by the ovaries, because I am loathe to move my mother from the apartment. She’s been in such a great mood lately and hasn’t once brought up quitting treatment.
The new location, the new freedom, the access to a car has made a huge difference. When I get to the Central Towers, it is around six in the evening and I’m starving and unhappy, having spent the whole afternoon brooding over my situation.
“Miss Victoria.” The doorman greets me with a nod of his head and tip of his cap. “May I take your bicycle? We can store it downstairs.”
I’m grateful that Ian had mentioned this, otherwise I would have reacted weirdly. The doorman’s name is Jeremiah, and he promises to take good care of it. I reluctantly let it go. That bike is almost part of me.
As I exit the elevator onto the fifteenth floor I see a woman wheeling a rack of clothing down the hall. Her hair is black and stick-straight, the kind that you pay a couple hundred dollars for in upscale salons, but I’m guessing hers is all-natural. If not for the fact that she’s toting a metal closet behind her, I’d think she lived here. Dressed in high heels and a black dress that accentuates her model-slender build, she looks like she stepped out of one of the apartments.
“Nice stuff,” I say to make friendly conversation in case she is one of my temporary neighbors.
“Whoever lives in 1525 is one lucky bitch. You making a delivery there too?” It’s a natural assumption from my bike uniform, helmet, and pack. Shifting awkwardly, I nod. My living arrangements are too complicated to spell out to this stranger. “Guy bought about fifty grand worth of clothes like it was a tall coffee at Starbucks. No change of expression. Not even when I told him one dress was five grand. He looks at the woman to his left and is all ‘Will she like it?’ If she nodded yes, it was a sale.”
Did she say 1525? My eyes zero in on the end of the hall. I’m transfixed by this rack-toting woman and her tales of selling clothes door-to-door. She eases out of her nude sky-high heels with red soles and dangles the back straps on one of her fingers. Leaning down, she rubs her feet.
“But a good day for you?” I ask.
“Yes, a great day—but fuck me, I’d like to be the recipient of all that,” she waves toward the apartment door, “instead of earning a commission.”
“I hear you.” But inside I’m a churning mess because I suspect that I am the recipient of “all that.” If I were still working the project, then clothes would be part of the gig. Now? I don’t even know what to make of it other than I’m quickly losing my appetite.
The elevator door dings and she boards, flexing her feet into the tiled floor and not appearing to care at all that her feet are going to get grimy. She notices that I’m staring rudely at her feet and winks at me. “I can wash my feet off when I get home. Make sure you get a good tip. He can afford it.”
I find my mom and Ian sitting in the living room enjoying a glass of wine.
“Tiny,” my mom cries as I enter the room. I set my bike helmet on the kitchen island and survey the scene. Ian is sitting on the sofa, one ankle propped up on his opposite knee. He’s turning the pages of a bound scrapbook that looks suspiciously like the ones my mother made before she was ill. She’s in a chair at a right angle to the sofa, her recently held wineglass sitting on a rolling tray beside her. Clothing is draped across the rest of the living room furniture. There’s a splash of orange and red along with several black pieces of cloth. There are about eight shoeboxes on the dining room table, and a number of felt drawstring bags.
And all of this largesse actually angers me. Oh, I know I should be thrilled, and I wish I could go into the living room and sit down beside Ian and drink wine with the two of them. There’s something that bothers me about the two of them being so cozy and making plans. And my mom. I feel betrayed either by her or for her.
Knowing that this is irrational, I try to hide my pique by burying my head in the refrigerator. I see a plate of pasta and stick it into the microwave, hitting the popcorn button because the thing is too complicated. I tried to figure it out before, and at some point I thought I’d learn how to use all of the buttons instead of just one, but now I’m wondering why. I don’t feel right about staying.
I guess that’s why I’m angry. Ian is acting like he intends to be best friends with us for a long time, and my mom is eating this up. It’s as if all my
decisions are being made for me. Plus, I can’t even protest without looking like an utter jackass.
I tug out the plate, cursing that it’s so hot, and then carry the food into the dining room. Shoving aside the boxes, I fall into my food. I guess my surly mood is fairly evident because the laughter and chatter from the two magpies in the living room has shut down. I’ll add “mood killer” to my list of sins.
Mom bustles over, showing more energy than I’ve seen out of her in weeks, and gives me a little hug. “Glad to see you’re home safe, dear. I think I’ll go into the bedroom and read before I turn in.”
“’Kay,” I mutter sullenly. She hesitates and then squeezes me again before disappearing down the hall.
“I think you’ve hurt your mom’s feelings,” observes Ian as he drops into a seat opposite me. It is the same chair where he asked me how much to suck his dick. And while no money was exchanged, the sum that he’s spent on me in the form of clothes makes it seem like it is payment in kind. When I don’t respond, he heaves a sigh and then kicks out his long legs.
Because I don’t know what to say that would sound rational at the moment, I continue to eat my pasta until every last noodle and vegetable is gone. The popcorn setting is surprisingly good for heating up food so long as I take it out after the two-minute mark. Maybe I won’t have to learn how to use the microwave.
I drop off the dirty plate in the dishwasher and then drain a bottle of water. I dispose of the plastic bottle in a recycling bin that I noticed under the sink this morning.
“Not talking to me?” Ian has followed me into the kitchen and is leaning against the island.
“Don’t really know what to say,” I tell him evenly. I grab another water and head down the hall, stepping inside the bedroom that is temporarily mine. The bed is made and Ian’s blue T-shirt that I’ve been sleeping in is folded neatly and resting on the end. The white glove service apparently includes a daily maid. The comforter is like a cloud, and I wonder if I can take it with me when we move out.
“How much does this place really cost?” I ask Ian, who has followed me in and is leaning against the wall. He’s closed the door behind him but hasn’t made a move toward me.
“Five million, give or take a few hundred thousand.”
I’m glad I’m lying down so I don’t faint.
“Is it the money that bothers you, Tiny? Because I thought you said you were all about the money.” He’s mocking me now but it’s gentle and without spite.
“I don’t know what it is,” I say slowly, staring up at the white ceiling. At least the ceiling looks normal here, if not a little higher than my old apartment. “I feel like I’m always playing catch-up with you. I said I’d do the Howe project for you and now it feels like I’m getting fired. You’re spending money on me like . . .” I struggle for a comparison and use the clothing lady’s version. “Like nothing is more than a latte from Starbucks, and it makes me feel like we’ll never be equals.”
“And being seen as an equal is important to you?” He’s moved away from supporting the wall and is now sitting on the edge of the bed. I move over, not sure if I’m making room for him or getting away from him.
“Wouldn’t it be for anyone?” I counter.
“I really only care what is important to you.” He settles next to me but is careful about not touching me.
“It’s so fast, Ian, and I’m not a plastics company. I’m a human and moving into this apartment, getting all those clothes, and now, having you say things that suggest you are interested in something serious when we don’t even know each other confuses me.” I figure there’s no point in subterfuge, not when I want honesty in return. “I don’t know how much is an act and what’s real.”
He shifts me closer and his implacable hand turns my head so that we are eyeball-to-eyeball. “That I want you? It’s no act,” he says harshly.
I can’t hide my misery. “This game is too hard for me. I don’t know the rules, and I’m afraid I’m going to get hurt in the process.”
Ian releases my neck and cups my cheek. “Let me tell you what you need to know about me. I’m loyal, generous, and I like to have things my own way.”
“The last one isn’t really a plus,” I mutter.
“Who said I was itemizing my attributes? This is who I am. I want you, Tiny. In my bed and in my life. You aren’t being fired. We’re reassessing the situation. Let’s enjoy each other in the process.”
“For how long?”
“For however long it lasts. Tell me what you want out of life, Tiny.”
Did I know myself as well as Ian? He was able to lay out a very definitive description of himself.
“You should know that I’m loyal too,” I say slowly. “I care a lot about my family and would like to have one of my own some day.” A wave of longing hits me as I articulate something I didn’t even realize was a necessity in my life. My mother’s sickness and my relative personal isolation are part of why Ian’s intense attention is filling me with confusion. I want what he’s offering, but I realize that I want it too much and I want it to last forever. Ian is staring intently at me, as if everything I’m saying is of vital importance. I wish I could read his mind.
He says, “I won’t deny that I was attracted to you from the first minute I saw you on the street. I love that you challenge me, but every minute I spend with you, it cements what I’ve already suspected. You, Victoria Corielli, were made for me. I’m not going to apologize for knowing what I want,” he argues. “Why can’t you take us one day at a time? Let me shoulder some of your burden?”
“Because I’m afraid.”
“Be afraid then. It’s my job to convince you that the fear is unnecessary.” He utters these words with complete confidence, as if by saying them he can will away my anxiety. The bed dips as he climbs off and saunters into the bathroom.
“Gee, thanks.” I listen as he runs water inside the bathroom. Could I go with the flow? What would be the harm? So what if my heart gets broken. Is that really something I can’t recover from? I’ve had bad breakups before.
When he comes out, he’s dressed in casual clothes, a pair of soft pants and a thin white T-shirt that clings to his hard frame.
“I’m going to work a bit.” He lifts a bag that I hadn’t noticed before. It’s so worn that it looks like it’s traveled twice around the world. The creases have creases. Noticing my stare, he pats the side with an affectionate hand. “This baby has been with me for over ten years. My first boss gave it to me. Said every man who aspired to prosperity owned one good leather bag. I couldn’t afford one. One night I was working late and fell asleep at my desk. When I woke up, the bag was sitting next to me. I’ve never used another since. Never will either.”
The words fall like rain on my greedy heart. He’s telling me that his affections aren’t so easily displaced. I give him a small smile and then rise up on an elbow to kiss his cheek. He turns so our lips meet and he gives me slow, wet kisses that make my toes curl. Drawing back, he cups my face with a gentle hand and rubs a thumb across my wet lip. “Get some sleep, bunny.”
After Ian leaves, I tiptoe down the hall to my mom’s bedroom. She’s asleep, lying in the huge bed with her reading glasses on and a book beside her. I pull off the glasses and move the book to the nightstand. “Love you, Mommy,” I whisper.
“Love you too, baby girl,” she mumbles as I walk out.
It takes me a long time to go to sleep, but Ian remains out in the living room doing whatever it is that constitutes work for him. Even when I do fall asleep, I’m restless, missing his big, warm body. Later I feel him climb in beside me. A warm arm slides over my waist and a big hand cups my sex in a comforting rather than provocative manner, and I’m finally able to sink into a deep slumber.
Sometime in the night, he rouses me and makes love to me gently, moving my limbs and kissing me warmly all over. When he presses inside
me, it’s with tender intent. Our bodies move leisurely together and when my orgasm hits, it’s a gentle wave instead of the pounding hurricane of our previous encounters.
He breathes out my name in a long rush of air against my ear as he jets into the condom. I fall asleep with his warm body tucked around me again.
Ian is gone by the time I wake up. The clothes that were lying in the living room last night are hung up in the closet. Some of the items are strange runway-types of clothes that I thought no real person ever wore, and I can’t imagine putting on my body, but others—like a wispy dress with angled pumpkin and white stripes—are so lovely that my heart skips a beat.
The shoeboxes are stacked in a corner, and the felt bags rest like little dumplings in a row. My piles of T-shirts, tennis shoes, and bike shorts look incongruous and cheap next to the newly bought finery. Just seeing the juxtaposition of my clothes next to the ones that Ian has presumably bought for me highlights the differences in our worlds. We don’t look like we belong together.
I rifle through the clothes and realize that many of the items he’s purchased look very comfortable despite their expensive fabrics. There are several pants and longer skirts. The tops are loose fitting and made out of a knit fabric or stretchy lace. Even the dresses don’t look like something that would be tight and super revealing, but rather fabrics that will skim my not-very-prominent curves. Maybe we can find common ground after all.
Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1) Page 18