Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(40)
Author: Jen Frederick

“Turnover at these places is frequent, mostly because of the constant employee fraternization. The staff at these places cycle 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 see Richard veer down 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 caught 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 guess 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 non-stop.”

“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 full 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 ash trays around.

“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  p**n  to cigarettes.” He shakes his head and takes a 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.”