Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)

by Jen Frederick

  “Mom would have loved it here,” I sigh.

  He places an arm around me. “I know.”

  On the drive home, I don’t have much to say. I’m drinking it all in. The house. Ian’s declaration of love. His ringless proposal.

  Before bed, Ian draws me into the bathroom.

  “Let’s take a steam shower,” he suggests. “You can make it smell good. There’s a little thing down here where you pour something in and then the heat makes it aromatic.”

  “Aromatherapy.”

  “Right.” He rummages around looking for something in the vanity. Triumphantly, he holds up a small brown bottle that looks about five years old. The letters on the label have started to rub off. “Eucalyptus.”

  He pours a few drops onto a tiny metal dish only about two feet off the floor and then taps the LCD screen inside the shower. A low humming noise starts and steam pours into the shower space. Soon, the entire bathroom is redolent with eucalyptus. He sits me on the vanity and leans between my legs as we wait for the shower to fill up with steam.

  “What do you think?”

  “I can’t believe you still have that bottle. It looks like it was sold during the Stone Age.”

  “I’m a big collector of things.”

  “Am I a thing?”

  “No, you’re my heart.”

  Right there in the steam-filled bathroom, we make love. I kiss, stroke, and lick his every available body part. In his embrace, I try to show through each touch the truth of my love and that he holds my heart too, although it is bruised. The words I can’t say just yet, I try to express through my touch. Those words are weighted with too much sorrow.

  As he carries me, damp and worn out, to the bed, I whisper, “Yes, I’ll marry you and be your wife.”

  “Oh, Tiny.” He kisses me again. “You’ll never regret it.”

  When I get up, the bed is empty. I hear music downstairs, a woman singing in Italian. Opera. Shrugging on a blue silk robe from the bottom of the bed, I float out. I find Ian leaning against the unlit fireplace with a drink in his hand. His eyes are fixed on a leather box with a big silver clasp on the table.

  I settle onto the sofa, tucking my legs underneath me, and stare at the box.

  “My mother’s things are in there. Her wedding rings, a few pieces of jewelry she hadn’t sold. The clothes and other things I walked away from, but I packed this all up and haven’t ever looked at it again.”

  “Do you want me to open it?”

  “Would you? Or is it too painful?”

  “No.” Even if it is painful, I’d do this for him. After all he’s done for me.

  The box is lined in a beautiful white silk with a classic chain pattern. There are a few cards—anniversary mementos—and an envelope labeled “Ian.”

  “It’s for you,” The envelope is yellowed and the ink is faded but still visible. The letters aren’t perfectly formed, as if the hand that drew them out wasn’t stable.

  “I can’t read it.” He shakes his head and pushes away from the fireplace. There is only one sheet of notebook paper in the envelope; it’s soft in my grip. Because he’s not ready, I read it to myself. It takes me awhile to decipher all the letters. It might be the most reading I’ve done since high school.

  Dear Ian,

  I’m so sorry. For everything. I failed you time and again because I’m weak. Already at fifteen, you are the man your father and I had hoped you would become. No, you are something else. Something better. And if I remain with you, tainted and tarnished, it would only diminish you.

  I bite my lip to prevent my scoff. Selfish is what this is. I don’t want Ian reading it, but I must finish.

  I tried to redeem us. I tried so hard, but he laughed. He laughed at your father. He laughed at me. He said that your father shouldn’t have been so soft. That he did him a favor by taking him out as early as he did before someone else ate him up.

  When I asked him to help us, even after he turned your father down, I hadn’t realized what I was giving up. One night was all. One night. But the help never arrived and the one night was for naught and it has haunted me ever since.

  I saw him then at the Casino Grand. Flush and ruddy-faced. He apologized. Said that he had been young and brash. He offered to make amends. All I needed to do was give him one more night. This time he did pay me. But he laughed again, and I hear him still, every time I close my eyes.

  You will be alone, but it is better this way. Better for both of us. I am no longer an anchor but a heavy weight dragging you into the dark depths. Be free. Live for all of us.

  Your loving mother,

  Joanna

  Carefully, I fold the letter and place it back into the envelope. My hands are shaking with the effort not to rip it into a million shreds so that Ian will never be able to piece it together. Across the room, he is grim-faced. His glass is full once more. He must have filled it while I was reading. He tosses back half of it, his face marked by utter despair.

  “You know,” I croak.

  He nods, drinks the rest of the whiskey. In two strides, he’s at the sofa, pulling the letter out of my hands. “It was with the scarf when I went to pick up her things.”

  I don’t say “I’m sorry” because those are the two most ineffectual words in the English language. They won’t take his pain away or bring back his mother. When he said he was alone in this world, I didn’t realize how deeply the ache of isolation went for him.

  I am overwhelmed by the extent of his devotion to me and his willingness to sacrifice to make me happy.

  But it is too much.

  Far too much.

  The scales will never be even.

  I reach out my hand and pull his head into my lap.

  “Turn out the light, Tiny.” The words are tight and clipped.

  I reach over and the light is swallowed by the shadows. Hugging him against me, I cry the tears he won’t release. This matter with Richard Howe is not finished. For all the times that Ian has said he wants to look forward, this horrible truth will always hold him back. Hold us back.

  “Don’t leave me,” Ian shudders, soundless emotion shaking his frame.

  “I won’t. Not ever.” And then I’m finally able to say the words. “I love you, Ian Kerr. More than anything.”

  TO BE CONTINUED . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  After finishing up with Last Breath, I sat down to write a completely different book than Losing Control, but when I typed, Ian Kerr and Tiny Corielli were what appeared on the page rather than the other characters I had planned. But even as I wrote out the first chapter, it was more just for fun than anything. It wasn’t ever going to be a book.

  Instead, I emailed the story, chapter by chapter, to a couple of friends. Three, to be exact. And after every chapter, each one of those people—Daphne, Michelle, and Katy—kept emailing me back wanting more. And if I missed a day without emailing an update about what was happening with Ian and Tiny, I would get impatient responses.

  So I kept writing it until there was a somewhat complete story. But then it had to be put together into a book, and I suffered some anxiety over whether it was good enough. During that period of indecision and uncertainty, there were two people who kept me sane and read the story in several incarnations, multiple times.

  Cece Carroll and Michelle Kannan, your endless patience with me can never be thanked enough.

  Then there are my writer friends, Meljean Brook, Jessica Clare, Katy Evans, and Elyssa Patrick. They deserve a special thank-you because they listen to me moan on a near daily basis about how I’m not going to finish my project or how I’m going to meet my writing goal only to end the day with an email about how I spent the entire day online looking at cat GIFs.

  Daphne is a true treasure of a friend. I love our weekly chats and our passion for food. I appreciate her willingness to listen
to my crazy ideas and her levelheaded responses, particularly when I’m going down the wrong path.

  I love that I’m surrounded by amazing women, and Lisa Schilling Hintz of The Rock Stars of Romance is one of those incredible people. She has seemingly endless energy and is an amazing promoter of good books. I count myself very lucky to be able to send her a Facebook message at any time of the day or night. What’s even better is that we can chat about important things other than books, like which pair of shoes with the red soles she’s buying next.

  Lastly and most importantly, I have to give thanks to my dear family. My loving husband, who doesn’t seem to mind when I lock myself away for hours to write, and my sweet daughter, who patiently waits until I stumble out on the weekends, just before bed, to hear about her day. I love you both so much.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jen Frederick is the USA Today bestselling author of Unspoken, part of the Woodlands series. She is also the author of the Charlotte Chronicles, which appeared on the Kindle Top 100 list. She lives in the Midwest with her husband, who keeps track of life’s details while she’s writing; a daughter, who understands when Mom disappears into her office for hours at a time; and a rambunctious dog who does neither.