Losing Control(11)

“It’s none of your business but, yes, it was wigs,” I say as calmly as possible when I’m seething inside.

He tosses the contract to the side. “Why, Victoria? What problems do you have that you need the money from working with Malcolm? Is delivering packages not good enough for you? You like to drink, smoke, gamble, what?”

I gape at him, open mouthed. “What the hell are you talking about? And what right do you have to question me? You are the one that is working with Malcolm. All I do is deliver shit.”

Hands on his hips, he starts circling me. “Like yourself? You’re the package today, sweetheart, and you delivered yourself right to my door. You look shiny and fresh, unlike the other ‘packages’. So how much?”

“How much what?” I don’t have the faintest clue what he’s talking about right now. I pick up the contract and shove it toward him. “Sign and I’m gone.”

A muscle in his jaw is getting a work out and the forest green of his eyes looks cloudy. An urge to tell him my whole story, to make him understand overwhelms me, but I shut it down because this rich jerk who can live in this entire building by himself in one of the richest neighborhoods in Manhattan is judging me.

“What makes you a good fit for this project?” He leans a hip against the table and crosses his arms. The motion emphasizes his muscular arms and my lust flares up again. Stupid body.

“Isn’t it a little late to be assessing my ‘fit’? I thought Malcolm arranged everything with you.”

“The last three ‘packages’ Malcolm sent weren’t suitable and while you’re definitely a step up from those others, I’m not entirely convinced he’s got the right goods.”

I can only stare as he describes me as a product. God, what an asshole. Good thing I figured this out before I took his hand and followed him straight to bed. Assholes truly are a dime a dozen in the city. I could go out right now and run into a handful before I cleared Gansevoort and hit Hudson Street.

“Malcolm asked me to do a special project. He had me sign that—” I nod toward the table. “And I did. Nothing in there can be legal, so I don’t know what Malcolm and you’ve cooked up, but I can’t be held to it. I. Deliver. Things.” I enunciate each word so he can't mistake their meaning. “You want something delivered, I'm your girl. Anything else, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”

His hands drop away from his waistband; he stands there for a long moment and studies me. What he is looking for or what he sees is completely lost on me. With a shake of his head, he picks up a pen and scribbles something on one of the pages. “Didn’t you read the contract?”

“I can’t read, asshole.”

He looks at me with bemusement. “Illiterate?”

“Learning disability.”

I watch for his expression to change from interest to pity but he only nods thoughtfully.

“Contract says you are a work for hire—a contract laborer—and that you can’t say anything about working for me to anyone. Could you do that?”

“Fine. What do you need delivered? I’m a messenger. Put me to work.” I throw out my arms.

He swallows a laugh, and then he puts everything back into the envelope and hands it to me. "Thanks, but no thanks. Tell Malcolm you’re a dear, but I really can’t work with someone like you.”

I take it, but I don’t want to. Malcolm won’t help me if I don’t get Ian to agree to this—whatever this is.

“Malcolm told me not to come back without your agreement.”

“It’s not happening. I’m sorry.” He sounds regretful but if I go back to Malcolm without doing whatever it is I’m supposed to do, maybe I will have to service a train of men. I love my mom but there has to be options here. I just need to know what they are.

"What is it that you want me to do? Obviously I’m willing to get my hands dirty.” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice.

"Are you now?”

“I’m working for Malcolm, aren’t I?”

“Touché.” He places a palm on the top of my head and pushes the tendrils of my hair back, as if he wants to see what I look like without helmet hair. I want to squirm under his inspection, but I force myself to stay still.

“Do you have a good memory?”

I nod. I have a fucking great memory. It’s how I am able to be a bike messenger. Someone tells me the address once and I’ve got it. I may not be able to read a book, but I can decipher numbers and most letters with time and I can remember anything anyone has ever told me. My worry starts to ease. You don’t need to have a good memory for work on your back.