Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(51)
Author: Jen Frederick

The phone rings again. And again. And then there’s a knock on my door. “Tiny,” I hear my mother say. “Malcolm’s on the phone and he says it’s urgent.”

I drop my hands from Ian’s body and he groans in dismay. “Jesus. I hate your brother.”

“Me too,” I sigh. If it weren’t for my mom, I’d ignore the call and finish stripping Ian’s clothes off. Picking up the phone I hit the call button. Immediately Malcolm starts yelling.

“Why aren’t you picking up? I’ve got four f**king angry customers that need their deliveries. Are you going to get your ass in gear and make deliveries of me, or do I have to get someone else?”

“Get someone else,” Ian barks because Malcolm is speaking so loudly that the people in the apartment next door can hear him.

“Is that f**king Kerr? Are you f**king him?” Malcolm is pissed off.

“None of your business, Malcolm,” I shoot back, but I’m up and moving toward the closet. Ian curses and heaves himself out of bed. His c**k bobs angrily in the air as he wrenches on his discarded boxers and then his pants.

“I’m sorry,” I mouth to Ian, and he gives me a tight smile. His pants are tented out, and Ian grips himself and then heads into the bathroom.

“I’ll be there in thirty,” I say and hang up before Malcolm can shout any more obscenities.

“I don’t like that you do deliveries for Hedder,” Ian grits out while he begins shaving once more. I intentionally keep my gaze away from him because he’s angry and because he looks so goddamn sexy shaving. I kind of resent how intensely attractive I find him.

Ian stomps around some more, picking out a tie and then wrapping himself up tight. He picks up the same mother-of-pearl cufflinks that he wore the other day, which I find odd given that he has so much money one would think he’d have dozens of cufflinks. He seems to have a huge number of ties in my closet alone. Who knows what he has stored at his Bruce Wayne f**kpad.

“Yeah, well, I need the money.”

“You work for me.”

I ignore that and get dressed. Out of the bedroom, the living areas are empty. My mother has made herself scarce. Ian’s right behind me.

“I can get you a different job. A permanent one. You wouldn’t need to ride bikes in New York’s insane traffic where any number of cabbies are hoping to knock you off the street.”

“Like a made-up one?” I mock because there’s no job in the financial sector where someone like me could work. “Tell me what company. What would I be doing?”

He shrugs, and I know it’s a fake job. “I’m not sure. Let me look into it.”

“I don’t know.” I’m reluctant to give up the income that Malcolm’s drop provides. “I’ll think about it.” I grab my pack and make sure my headphones are inside of it.

“You do that.” He gives me a hard kiss and then pats my butt.

When I get to Queens, I’m ten minutes past the thirty I’d promised and Malcolm is seething. He throws the packages at me when I cross the threshold. “You are so f**king dumb, Tiny.” He paces in the living room as I unzip my bag and stuff the five envelopes inside. He recites the addresses to me, and I’m grateful that they are all grouped together over in Brooklyn. Park Slope moms who can’t stand their kids, I think.

“I’m dumb because I overslept?” I ask. I hate being called dumb, and Malcolm knows it.

“If you’re letting Kerr in your pants, it’s the f**king stupidest thing you’ve ever done. And you’ve done a lot of stupid shit in your life.”

The accusation stings because I rarely do stupid shit. I lived a quiet life with my mom before she got sick. I didn’t start doing stupid stuff like working with Malcolm until I had no other recourse.

“Screw you, Malcolm. What’s it matter who I sleep with?” I turn to go, but Malcolm grabs my arm.

“He likes to f**k around. I read up about him. He’s thirty-two and never had a single solid relationship. He’s the type who’s always got some new piece in his bed. Guys like Kerr think that women are good for one thing only. And you’re disposable to him. Like Kleenex. He’ll blow you once and then throw you away.”

I give him a tight smile, trying not to show how easily he’s hurt me. “You get all that from the Internet?”

“Page Six has a dossier on him. If you could read, you’d know.”

I gasp at his low blow. “You know nothing about us.”

This generates a mean laugh from Malcolm. “If you think there is an ‘us,’ you’re already done for. You want to be a toy for a rich man? Fine. Enjoy it but know that you’re one of a thousand plastic Barbies he’s sticking his dick into.”

“Jealous much?” I retort. Shouldering my pack, I roll my bike out the door. This time Malcolm doesn’t stop me. When I turn back, his expression is unfathomable. For a moment I think I see pain and then worry but a sneer and his next words erase that thought.

“Hope he’s paying you well. Might as well get double time on your back.” He slams the door in my face.

I don’t get why Malcolm is being so hateful. Is it jealousy? Like, he wishes he could get paid the money to lure Richard to his demise? I want to tell him that it’s no fun. The really disturbing thing is that Malcolm and Rich have both claimed that Ian is a lothario, but it doesn’t match what I’ve seen of him or what he’s told me.

There’s no reason for Ian to tell me that he wants me, that he cares about me because he’s already gotten me into bed. I’m a sure thing. Yet he still keeps coming back. I can either buy into the negativity that Malcolm and Richard are selling or trust Ian.

Maybe it’s stupid and foolish, but I’m going to trust Ian.

There’s no bike lanes or paths from Queens to Brooklyn. Instead I have to take Atlantic Avenue, which is getting busy by the time I hit the road. Malcolm is right to be mad at me. It’s far more dangerous to be biking now than it would be earlier in the morning, but the first three deliveries go fine.

The fourth delivery is in Brooklyn Heights. The address recited to me by Malcolm leads me to a five-story Greek Revival townhouse. Its gorgeous all-brick exterior is framed by bushes on either side that are starting to flower. The lower windows are grated, but the upper windows are large and sparklingly clear. Shaking my head, I wonder briefly why anyone who is able to live in such a gorgeous place would need anything Malcolm is selling. Leaning my bike against the front stoop, I head down a short flight of stairs to the basement entrance. Deliveries aren’t usually made to the front door in homes like these. Not even the type of deliveries I’m making.