Losing Control(12)
“Can you pretend to be someone else?”
“Yes.” This all sounds like something I can do.
His hand drops from the top of my head down to the back of my neck where I’m sure he can feel the tension, pulled tight. I don’t know why I argued with him before, challenged him. He’s right. Messengers are like children—to be seen and not heard. I open my mouth to apologize but before I can say the words, he forced my fingers to close around the documents.
“I’m sorry, Victoria.”
“Okay.” I can’t spend another minute here and retain any dignity, not that I have a lot of it left but since it’s such a precious commodity, I want to keep what I have.
I try very hard to keep my steps even as I walk out of there even though I want to run. I take each step down the stairs slow and behind me I can feel his eyes all over my back, my ass, everywhere. This time it is his regret that weighs me down as I ride back to Queens.
Chapter 4
THE BREEZE FROM THE EAST River stinks as I bike across the Queensboro Bridge. But it feels good and I still have the scent from Bruce Wayne lingering in my nose. I know that’s kind of illogical—that’s it’s not really his scent, only a memory of it—but it’s still there and I suck it in, holding my breath as if I can swallow it and make it part of me.
Then it hits me that I’m mooning over a guy who insulted me, apologized, and is involved in some fashion with my criminal ass stepbrother. If anything belongs in the East River, it’s Malcolm and all his associates.
But shit, I don’t even have the right to be mad about this because I’m benefiting from all the illegal crap he’s involved with. Deciding I need to drown my thoughts, I crank up AWOL Nation and let the heavy metal guitar riffs occupy my attention as I bike the fifteen miles to the apartment.
I punch the button next to Malcolm’s name and he buzzes me up. This fourteen story building is slightly run down and in a not-so-great neighborhood but you have to be where your customers are, says Malcolm. Given the number of times I have made deliveries to individuals living in apartments overlooking Central Park, I think he should move his offices into the city. But then I’m not part of the executive team. I’m merely the delivery girl.
“No go.” I slap the package into his chest when he opens the door. A quick glance inside the room reveals that his flunkies are gone. I turn to leave but he grabs my shirt and drags me inside.
“Not so fast. What do you mean, ‘no go’?”
“He said he couldn’t work with me but he did write something on the papers.”
Malcolm keeps one hand on my shirt and drops the contract out onto the table with the other. Picking up the signature page, he curses, “Fuck you.”
“Hey,” I protest, finally wiggling out of his grip. “I delivered it. That was my only job. You’re the one who made the deal.”
He turns the contract to me and holds the paper up two inches from my eyes. “See this? Even you can read this. I know it.”
Like I told Bruce Wayne, I have a learning disability but I’m not illiterate. I can read some but it takes me a while, so I avoid it whenever possible.
“So he wrote ‘Fuck you.’ I assume that’s a message for you and not me.” But I’m dying inside because I know this means that Malcolm won’t help me. I wonder if he’ll even allow me to deliver for him.
He mashes the paper in my face a little too hard to be a joke. “Goddammit. I gave you one fucking job and you managed to fuck it up. It’s a wonder you could get a job even delivering packages, you stupid fuck.”
When I say I’m not ashamed of my learning disability, it doesn’t mean I’m immune to insults. Malcolm’s words sting badly, but I cover that pain by pretending he hurt my nose. He tosses the papers aside and they flutter to the ground.
I don’t use Google because stuff is even harder to read on the computer than on paper. The letters don’t just swim on the page, they leap at me in 3D, and it’s a real headache trying to figure out what their correct order is. Since I have a decent paying job, I’ve given up on trying to learn how to read. The only reason I even have a smartphone is because dispatch uses it to convey instructions, orally, to me.
I have a good memory, can read most street signs with practice, and locate the majority of businesses by landmarks. I watch television, everything from comedies to documentaries, but I’m not a reader and never will be. I refuse to be ashamed about this but I’m not dumb which is what most people associate the inability to read with.
“I couldn’t force him to sign it,” I protest.