I drop my hand immediately, but it brushes his ass. Ian leans down and murmurs against the top of my hair, “Feel free to touch me all you want, bunny.”
Before I can retort that I’m not a small garden animal, Ian’s expensive gray vehicle pulls up to the curb. “I can’t allow you ladies to take public transportation. After all, I’ve invited myself to your morning excursion and your lunch. This is the least I can do.”
“Such pretty manners.” My mother pats him on the face and climbs into the back of the vehicle. He waves me in next so that I’m seated in the middle between him and my mom. “This is quite nice, Ian. Have you owned it long?”
“A few years. I have another sedan I’m testing out but Tiny likes this one, don't you?”
He adopts my nickname like we're old friends.
“It's ostentatious,” I say. I have no idea what other sedan he’s talking about. I’ve only seen him in this big shiny gray monster.
“I'm sure she means it's lovely,” Mom interjects. “How many do you own?”
Her delivery is airy, but it’s no idle question. This time my mom’s the interrogator and Ian's on the hot seat. He shows no resistance to her though and reels off a fleet of cars along with properties he owns, including a townhome recently purchased on the West Side along with real estate in London, Hong Kong and Tokyo. I can’t tell if he’s bragging or trying to make my mother believe he’d be a good provider and then I wonder why he even bothers. Is this part of the chase?
After a few more questions—such as where he went to church (he was agnostic) and where his family was from (native, ma’am)—Mom subsides and then ultimately falls asleep against my shoulder. Without the volley of words to distract me, I feel Ian’s big body even more keenly. His arm has been thrown across the back of the bench seat and her weight against my side presses me ever closer to him. His thigh feels like granite next to mine, and he smells delicious. I’m too agitated by his presence to talk. He somehow senses that and for once leaves me be.
When we arrive at my apartment building, he taps the underside of my chin and draws my face around. I notice for the first time his lashes are really long, almost girlishly so, and they give his dark-green eyes a seductive cover.
“Stay here,” he instructs, swinging his large body out and coming around to open the passenger side door. With an ease that belies the difficulty of the maneuver, Ian leans in and scoops my mother out of the car as if she’s a child. He cradles her to his chest tenderly, and my hard heart melts into a puddle of goo. Tears prick my eyes and I’m glad that I have to hurry ahead of him to unlock the outer door.
I hold it open while he turns sideways so as to avoid bumping my mother’s head on the doorjamb. The rundown condition of my living environment is embarrassingly evident. The linoleum is yellowed and cracking in places with the corner peeling away from the floor. There is a smell of rottenness from garbage left out too long that permeates the lobby.
Swinging my keys around my finger, I glance up toward the stairs and then sigh lightly. There’s no way he’s carrying Mom up five flights of stairs. Leaning over her, I smooth her hair away from her face and give her a soft kiss on the forehead, again struck by the role reversal. It’s like Ian and I are the parents and we’re carrying our child home after a long day at the zoo. It’s such a wistful thought my heart squeezes a little too tight.
“Thanks for being so great with my mom, but I can take it from here,” I say.
He looks at me skeptically and makes a minute adjustment to lift mom higher in his arms. “Your mom is fairly light, but even feathers get heavy after a long period. Mind if we talk on the way up? You can thank me when we put your mom to bed.”
Without waiting for a response, he starts walking up the stairs. “Fifth floor right?”
My mouth is open and I’m gaping at his rapidly disappearing ass. Collecting myself, I race after him. “How did you know?”
“Your apartment number is 525. Not terribly hard.”
“Malcolm, again?”
“Malcolm,” he acknowledges.
Chapter 11
THE FIVE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS go by quickly without having to carry either my mom or my bike. Stepping ahead to unlock the door, I let him in and show him my mother’s room. He lays her down carefully and then exits the room. Alone, I remove her shoes, slacks, and sweater, leaving her in the light-knit shell she wore. She’s all worn out, and my heart pounds heavily. Monday she'll spend hours hooked up to an IV as the poisonous chemicals enter the bloodstream trying to kill off her cancer. Her plaintive cry that she wasn’t going to make it haunts me.