Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(6)
Author: Jen Frederick

No, there’s no room for debate, morals, or ethics.

“And if I sign this, then you’ll help me get the new apartment?”

“Sure,” he says easily.

I’m not sure I believe him entirely. There’s a lot left unsaid but I’ve no other options. I scrawl a few shapes on the line. I wonder if I can even be held to a contract I haven’t read. Shoving the papers inside the envelope Malcom provides because I hate looking at my stupid signature, I head for the door.

“Bring this back with his signature and I’ll sign whatever damn thing you want,” Malcolm says.

As I wait for the elevator I hear his companion call, “She can work off the debt in my bed.”

“She’d have to service a train of guys to work off the debt she’s going to owe me,” he says flatly. And he’s not lying.

The delivery address for the papers I’ve signed is in the Meat Packing District. I always hate riding down there because cobblestones are everywhere, which is hell for a girl on a bike. Plus, the numbers for some of these buildings are obscure because the more hidden the place is, the more people want to find it. I wonder how that works if there’s a need for emergency services.

After biking up and down Hudson Street a few times, I finally spot the building. The front features a corrugated metal garage door that’s completely pristine. Not a hint of graffiti, which is odd down here where everything but the glass windows have been tagged by some juvenile miscreant. I lean my bike up against the big metal door and look for a buzzer. There isn’t one. I don’t even see a side door. I bang on the metal door a few times.

At eight in the morning, no one on Gansevoort is even awake. People down here don’t start their day until eleven in the morning because that’s the soonest they can drag their hung-over asses out of bed. The life of the moneyed New York City crowd is exactly as the songs say—party all night and sleep all day. And if you want to be part of the crowd, you follow the same hours.

“Hey, delivery for. . .” I pause and look at the envelope. There are letters there, but I can’t make them out. “Delivery,” I yell again.

“In the back,” a male voice from above says, and it scares the bejeezus out of me. I jump and yelp like a dog whose foot was trampled. In the corner of the black frame of the garage door is a tiny camera and holes which, I guess, have a speaker behind them. It’s so minuscule that only if you were looking really hard could you see it. I stare at the camera for a long time, wondering who the hell is behind it. Is he staring at me?

“In the back,” he repeats, his tone a tad deeper and tinged with barely suppressed humor. I guess he is watching me stare. “Number 14001.”

His voice sounds familiar, but maybe it’s because it sounds throaty and sexy and I’d like it to be familiar. I still dream about the man in the Theater District. Ian. Knowing his name makes my fantasy life a bit richer. I hop on my bike and cycle down the long block, take a left and then I spot the alley. It’s big enough for one car or truck. I stop halfway in the middle of the block.

The building looms high and looks at least three stories. It’s all brick on the first floor with another shiny corrugated metal garage door but this time there’s a tall thin black door to the right with the number 14001 in stainless steel in the center. I lean my bike against the door and tilt my head back to look up. The second and third floors are all windows, and despite the fact that there are buildings behind me, and tall ones at that, I can still see rays of sunlight shooting in through the windows. The place must be gorgeous inside.

When I get closer, I notice the door is ajar which makes me nervous. Who leaves their door ajar in the city? Stupid people, that’s who—or dangerous ones. I push the door open, half expecting it to creak like a door to a haunted house, but it swings open like the hinges were oiled two minutes ago. The door leads into a narrow hallway that runs the length of the building. There’s exterior light from somewhere and I realize that it’s from a narrow channel that must lead to the roof. Clever design. I wonder if the roof is entirely glass or if the light is from multiple skylights. This is a rich person’s place. Only rich people can bring exterior light to a brick building surrounded by taller structures.

There are stairs with a glass balustrade that point out my path like a giant arrow. Unless my guy appears in the hallway like a David Blaine trick, I’m guessing I head up the stairs. Gingerly, I take my first step and when no sirens blast out I figure I’m safe enough. I run up the flight of stairs and at the top I see one giant—and I mean giant—space.

“You can set it on the table,” the voice from the street speaker calls out. I venture further into the huge, open space. A sleek, modern kitchen like those I’ve drooled over in home magazines appears to my left and in front of it a long oval walnut table is surrounded by clear acrylic chairs. To my right is a living room with cowhide and leather and a big, plush rug in deep red. Beyond the living room is a wall of mirrors and in front of it stands a . . . superhero.

I mean, it’s like walking into Bruce Wayne’s f**k pad or something and seeing him do a pre-rescue work out. The owner of the voice is doing biceps curls and wearing gym shorts that appear to be in danger of falling down his slim hips with every movement.

He has ridges and planes and jutting protuberances that I’ve not seen outside a movie theatre. And many of those muscles were fake CGI creations, I learned later. I almost shed a few tears hearing that sad news. He grunts and the shorts slide down a centimeter more. I can’t see his face clearly because the distance between me and the mirrors is too great in this cavernous room.

I jerk myself out of my tween fantasy and set the manila envelope on the table and pull out the contract. “I’ll need you to sign before I can go.”

Bruce drops his weight and palms a towel with almost the same motion. Superhero reflexes to go with the superhero body. Nice. Too bad he’s a criminal because I’m not delivering tourist trinkets at the prices Malcolm is paying me. As Bruce draws near, I fumble and nearly drop the ten-pages-thick contract that contains my nearly illegible signature. Bruce is none other than the guy from the Theater District.

“I’d like to think you regret saying no to me, but somehow I’m guessing this is a coincidence.” He raises an inquiring eyebrow. “But a good one.”

For a moment I forget why I’m here. My fantasies are going to be in high definition now. I don’t even bother to hide how my gaze eats him up. And by his smile it’s evident he’s enjoying being on display. He certainly doesn’t make an effort to hide his bare chest with the towel. No, he stands there, arms at his sides, hands relaxed, feet shoulder width apart. It’s an invitation, and I utilize it.