Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(48)
Author: Jen Frederick

“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 out of 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.”

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 a red sole 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 f**k 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 of 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 appearing to not 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 wine glass 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, along with 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 of 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. Grabbing another water, I follow my mom down the hall and step inside the bedroom that is temporarily my home. 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.