Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)

by Jen Frederick

  “Ready?” His tone is a little gentler today but not by much.

  “You have a girlfriend, Steve?” I ask, picking up my clutch and phone to follow him down the stairs to the alley.

  “Yeah.” He sounds wary, as if I’m trying to trick him.

  “Do you ever say more than two-word sentences to her?”

  I pull open the front passenger door and slip in before Steve can even respond. Besides, he’s busy engaging the lock and a dozen alarms.

  He gives me a sour look when he sees where I’m situated. “Passengers ride in the back,” he grunts, but I ignore him because I know that he’s not going to forcibly remove me. I don’t think Ian would like that very much.

  “Not this passenger,” I respond. Today, we’re driving in the Bentley. “Why’d Ian buy this car?”

  “Couldn’t say,” Steve says.

  I tap a few of the dials to drive him crazy, but since I’m in no shape for a real fight, I retreat to my seat and let him deal with the Manhattan traffic in peace.

  “Where’s Tanner’s office?”

  “Upper West Side.”

  Again with the near monosyllabic responses. “What’s Tanner’s business?”

  “Security.”

  I give up. We ride the rest of the trip in complete silence. Steve doesn’t even turn the music on.

  Jake Tanner’s office is the bottom floor of a twenty-foot-wide townhome three blocks off the Hudson River on the Upper West Side near the Museum of Natural History. Steve illegally parks in front of a fire hydrant and tells me to stay put. Despite the fun I had earlier poking Steve, I decide to do what he says because Ian might be watching, and I don’t want Steve to get in trouble with his boss. When he helps me out of the car, I thank him nicely, but he gives me an impassive stare in return. I wonder briefly who his girlfriend is and whether he ever smiles at her. Poor girl.

  There’s a low wrought iron gate that Steve opens, and I follow him down a short flight of stairs. The plaque reading “Tanner Security” is so discreet that I almost miss it. Ian opens the door as we approach. Steve brushes by him, but instead of allowing me through, Ian halts me in the little stone alcove outside the door.

  “How are you feeling?” He tilts my head upward and examines my face, taking in my makeup job and my overall appearance.

  “Not bad,” I admit. “Thanks for the sandwich. And the clothes. My mom has excellent taste.”

  He smiles at this. “She does indeed.”

  Then he leans down and takes my mouth with his. I’m surprised by this but find the public affection endearing. There’s no tongue involved, simply a firm and sensuous press of his lips against mine for a long minute. It’s pleasurable, like being at the beach, the summer sun’s rays heating my entire body.

  “Mmm,” he says, finally lifting his head. “We’ll have more of that later.”

  Thoughtful, generous, but oh so autocratic.

  “Is this really acceptable pre-interview behavior?” I ask, opening the door and entering the office. If I stay outside, I’ll fall into his arms again.

  “I don’t really care,” he responds. Taking my arm, he leads me past the front office and down a long, narrow hallway. Despite the length, there are only a few doors and no windows. I wonder if they’re holding prisoners or something inside those closed-up rooms. Behind a door on the left at the end of the hallway, I can hear the murmurs of Steve and another man. I assume it’s Jake Tanner.

  Ian knocks and enters when a deep voice says, “It’s open.”

  Jake Tanner is about as big as Steve. He’s got dark-brown hair and deep-set brown eyes. Even though it’s early afternoon, stubble is darkening his jawline and upper lip. The set of his shoulders is wide, and I have no doubt that people feel safer when he’s standing near them.

  “Jake Tanner, this is Victoria Corielli.” Jake steps forward and offers me his right hand, which I shake firmly. He grips me a bit too tightly, but maybe he can’t tell given that it’s a prosthetic.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says.

  “Same,” I grin and let go of his hand. At his direction, I settle into a chair in front of the desk. Ian sits down beside me while Jake circles around behind the desk to his chair. Steve leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest. I’m not sure who he’s guarding in this scenario.

  “Do you always conduct interviews with Batman and Robin here?”

  Jake looks like he’s choking on something but manages to get out, “Does that make me Superman?”

  “I don’t know. Can you fly?”

  “I’ve got the bionic hand and leg,” he says, lifting up his foot and pulling back his pant leg to reveal another prosthetic.

  “Then I think you’re the Six Million Dollar Man,” I answer.

  At this he gives a shout of laughter, and Ian squeezes my hand. When I look at him, he’s got a huge smile on his face. Even Steve looks a little less grim.

  After he’s done chuckling, Jake leans across the desk. His fingers entwine, making him look a little like Robocop or some futuristic badass. “Ian’s explained you have a disability, and I’m fine with that.” He raises his metal fingers and waves them at me. “All I’m looking for is someone who can, using her own methods or systems, keep track of all my guys in the field and what projects they’re working on, along with making sure that the calls we get are properly screened. Ian says that you’re quick and have a great memory.”

  “That’s right.” I nod. “Your reception desk has a black phone with a shoulder rest attached to the back of the handle. There are two modules attached to it with digital screens. I might have trouble reading those. There are two chairs in front of the desk, one is purple and one is blue. You must have bought them thinking that they were the same color. I’d call and have one of them hauled away and replaced with a true match. Behind the desk, there are three art prints depicting a highly stylized U-boat split into three parts—”

  He holds up his hand to stop my recitation. “OK, that’s good enough for me. Ian vouches for you. Says that you were doing some stuff in the past that might not pass muster for security clearance but otherwise you’re clean. That right?”

  “Yes,” I nod. I’ll have to ask Ian later exactly what he divulged to Jake, but now is not the time.

  “Then I’m ready to hire you—but given your face, you can’t come back until you’re fully healed or the customers are going to think I suck at security services.”

  With that, the interview is over. Jake stands up, and Steve pushes away from the wall and heads out.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Tanner,” I say, shaking his hand again.

  “Jake, please.” And he smiles at me, revealing perfect white teeth.

  Ian cups my elbow and leads me back down the hall. Steve is nowhere to be seen.

  “You’ve got a good one there,” Jake says as we reach the front door.

  “I know,” Ian replies and then places an arm around me, subtly drawing me away from Jake. “And I intend to keep her.”

  “Don’t blame you.”

  Embarrassed by the talk, I chirp, “Nice to meet you again,” and then hastily exit. Combined male laughter follows me out. Outside, I can see that Steve is already in the car, ready to take me back home.

  A touch on my elbow makes me turn, and Ian smiles down at me. “I thought you two would be a perfect fit.” There’s smugness in his voice, but I guess he’s entitled.

  “Because we both have disabilities?” I ask.

  “Because you both understand that others place limitations on you that don’t exist.” He leads me to the car and opens the back door. I crawl in and Ian climbs in behind me. “Do you wish I would have said something prior?”

  Shaking my head, I say, “No, why would it matter?”

  “Why, indeed.” He leans forward. “Central Towers.”

  “Not
back to the fuck pad?” I joke lightly, but I’m worried that means he doesn’t intend to stay with me.

  “No, I figured you would want to be with your mother. Besides, so long as you scream into the pillow, we should be fine.”

  His careless words are arousing, and I cross my legs to assuage the sudden ache. When I see Ian’s dark gaze pinned to my chest, I think that those words weren’t so careless after all. But I’m glad, too, that his first thought was to how we’ll be managing to have scream-worthy sex again. I want that. Oh how I want it.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Howe texted me,” I share that evening. “I meant to tell you, but I had the accident.”

  “Someone beating you up is no accident.” Ian’s face is grim. “An accident is when your bike wheel gets caught in a pothole and you fall down. Getting beat up is assault and battery.”

  “OK . . .” I can see that he isn’t ever going to let this go. “Anyway, I can’t read all the messages, but he did send a picture of himself. It’s not really incriminating. Just a picture of him drinking. Does he really have a wife? He doesn’t ever mention her.”

  Ian gives me a disbelieving look. “If you were trying to pick up a new girl, would you tell her about the one you have at home?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never had two guys on a string before. Seems complicated.” I hand him the phone. He proceeds to read the texts out loud.

  Sorry for running off at the mouth about your friend Ian.

  No doubt he’s a good guy, but if you ever need to talk let me know.

  Oh dear. If possible, Ian’s grim face has gotten even darker. “What did he say? Is he responsible for your doubts?”

  I rub my hand down his arm, a gesture meant to soothe his mood. He captures my hand and brings it to his mouth. But he doesn’t kiss it softly. He opens his mouth and bites down on the fleshy bit right under my palm, which sends shock waves right to my core. I gasp and then moan when he licks the bite. “He’s poison. Don’t forget it.”

  There’s nothing for me to do but nod. Ian presses another kiss to my palm and then returns to reading the rest of the messages.

  Thought of you today when I got some flowers delivered to my mom. Realized how convenient bike couriers are. Bet your legs are super strong.

  Checking out the rooftop bar at the Kimberly. Hit me up if you’re interested in visiting.

  After I sent the smiley face, he’d sent another reply.

  Only a smiley face? You can do better than that.

  Ian tosses the phone aside, looking agitated. He puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t like this, Tiny.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t like that he’s texting you, flirting with you. That he even knows your name.”

  “Isn’t it a little late for that?”

  He shakes his head. “I need to figure something else out.”

  “Why is it so important to you?” I’ve never pressed him before. It hasn’t been important, but if we’re going to build something together . . . there can’t be secrets. Not of this magnitude.

  He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. At least he’s not going to lie to my face. “It’s something I’m doing for someone else. Not for me. I don’t want to say more.”

  Underneath his terseness, I sense a darker emotion. Anger, tinged with fear. It’s the latter that makes me soften and give in. “Not tonight, then,” I say.

  He places his hand on my shoulder. “Not tonight.” It’s not quite a promise that he’ll be divulging all his secrets another day, but it’s not a closed door either. He releases a small, humorless laugh. “It’s something that I haven’t shared with another for so long, I’m not sure how to tell the story. Or that you’ll still want me when you hear it.”

  Turning my head, I press my face against the top of his hand, feeling the knuckles against the softness of my cheek. “You can trust me.”

  “I do.”

  We allow the silence to absorb the words that we are too afraid to voice to each other—I love you and I need you and I can’t live without you—but we feel them. The connection between us is real and we are bound by it even if we don’t want to be. It started that day on the street which feels like a lifetime ago. A hook in my heart is attached to a string that winds tighter with each passing minute. I couldn’t wriggle loose if I wanted to.

  These moments of shared vulnerability are what make me believe that we are equals. That what Ian said before is true—underneath money, fame, class differences, we all bleed the same color. We all hurt the same. We all need, hate, love, cry, want.

  He gives my shoulder a squeeze, a rueful smile on his face. “Let’s go out to eat. I want to look at a restaurant. The owner wants to open another one and is looking for an investor. Come and evaluate it with me?”

  My bruises are still visible, but I like that he doesn’t want me to hide out inside his loft or the Central Towers apartments. I knock on the bedroom door where Mom is hiding to ask if she wants to accompany us, but she demurs. Despite her recent energy spike, she feels very lethargic and would rather stay inside and watch television. Ian helps her into the living room and settles her on the sofa, fetching a blanket and a cup of tea for her.

  I give her a kiss and, to my surprise, so does he. Mom grips his arm to prevent him from straightening up. “Take care of my girl.”

  “Always.”

  Their affection and exchange make my throat tight, so I take myself off to get changed before I start weeping happy tears.

  After taking a quick shower, I wrestle my hair into a slick ponytail and rub on foundation. I long for the crew at the Red Door Spa but manage to draw on eyeliner and slick on mascara and lipstick.

  In the closet, I pull out a pair of wide-legged black silk pants with a lace inset up the outer seam. I pair them with a top that ties at the neck and leaves my entire back bare. Another day without a bra. Ian will either be thrilled or painfully turned on. I hope both.

  I slip on a pair of black pumps with red soles, like the ones the saleswoman was wearing. The narrow points of the front pinch my toes, but they look so fantastic I decide a little pain isn’t going to kill me. Besides, if my feet were to really hurt, I have an inkling Ian would carry me home.

  When I step into the living room, my mother’s eyes light up.

  “You look gorgeous, doesn’t she, Ian?”

  I roll my eyes at Mom’s obvious attempt to garner compliments. Ian, looking like a sexy beast stepping from the cover of a men’s magazine in slim-fitting pants, a matching cream suit coat, and a black shirt unbuttoned so that I can see a tiny smattering of his chest hair, rises from the sofa. “Lovely.”

  In two strides, he’s at my side. “Lickable,” he whispers in my ear. His hand spreads on the bare skin of my back, nearly spanning the entire space. Turning me ever so slightly so that my back is out of my mother’s view, Ian slides his fingers inside my shirt and presses the tips of them into the plump curve of my breast. “Fuckable.”

  I stiffen my legs to keep from collapsing. “Night, Mom,” I call and walk toward the door and away from Ian’s tempting fingers.

  “Goodnight, Mom,” Ian echoes.

  She laughs and it’s to that joyful sound that we begin our evening.

  When we get to the lobby, the gray car is at the curb.

  “Hey, Steve,” I call out in greeting as I climb in.

  He grunts, apparently having used up all his words when he saved me from the crazy drug client. We drive to Catch, a restaurant not far from Ian’s loft. It’s situated on the second floor of a three-story brick building, and the only way I know that there is even a restaurant is the doorman standing outside. The entrance so unobtrusive it might as well have a secret door. An elevator takes us to the second floor, and the place is packed. I can barely see the bar because of the number of people, and I’m insanely grateful for the heigh
t the painful shoes are giving me because everyone in here is super tall or wearing six-inch heels.

  Ian places his hand around my waist as we wait for the maître d’ to seat us. His arm provides a protective cage, keeping other people out but stoking a slow fire within me. He’s having a hard time of it as well. I can feel it in the tenseness of his body and the way his fingers play with the edge of my shirt.

  “Did I forget to give you the bras that we bought together?” he mouths against my ear.

  “No, you forgot to buy shirts with fabric in the back. Apparently your money isn’t enough to buy a complete top—only half of one.”

  He chuckles and because he’s so close to me I feel the puffs of air against my hair, and it’s as warm as a caress.

  “We’ll have to get a new personal shopper who will buy you shirts that have both fronts and backs, because these backless shirts are adversely affecting my ability to be in public with you.” He steps even closer, and I feel the hard line of his erection against my hip. I am tempted to drop my hand and grasp him over the wool trousers, but the maître d’ approaches.

  “Kerr for two,” Ian instructs.

  The maître d’s hair is a mass of curls, and I can’t stop staring at them as they bounce atop his head when he bends down to check his reservation book. “It’ll be thirty minutes.” He gestures us toward the crush at the bar. Ian doesn’t move and stares at the Harry Styles impersonator with a raised eyebrow. The look is one that clearly says, “We aren’t waiting thirty minutes,” and it flusters the host. He brings up his hands but before another word or gesture is delivered, a loud voice from Ian’s right interrupts.

  “Ian Kerr, so thrilled to have you with us tonight.” The voice belongs to a slender, bald man whose pants are so tight I wonder if he can actually sit. He’s sockless and the shoes he’s wearing are bright blue and pointy. “Travis, what do we have?”

  He looks down at the screen and suggests, “Private room?”

  Ian shakes his head. “No, I want to see how it runs.”

  The newcomer nods his head multiple times, so many that he looks like a bobblehead. “Of course, right this way.”