Losing Control(71)

“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 fucking 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 fuck 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.

I knock and ring the doorbell but no one answers. I can’t very well tuck this envelope in the mail slot, so I head to the main entrance. The door is big and painted black. There are no sidelights, so I can’t even tell if anyone is home. I ring the bell and then try to lean over the side of the stoop to see if I can see any movement from the front windows. I wait what seems to be a long time but is likely only thirty seconds or so. Maybe I have the wrong address. I pull out my phone and am in the process of pulling up Malcolm’s phone number when the front door opens, revealing a husky man of indeterminate age, dressed in boxers and a short robe that hangs open.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he snarls at me. I start to reach into my pack when he grabs my wrist. “Were you taking a picture?”

“No,” I answer and try to wrest my wrist away. “I was calling Mr. Hedder to see if I had the right address.”

“You can’t take fucking pictures.” he rants and squeezes my wrist a little tighter.

“Sir, you are hurting me. I promise I wasn’t taking any pictures.” But my words don’t penetrate.

He repeats his claim, only this time there is white spittle forming at the sides of his mouth. He grabs my other hand and yells again, shaking me hard. “You shouldn’t be taking pictures of my fucking house.”