Losing Control(78)
“Noted.” And his hard body shakes with suppressed laughter next to mine. It’s the most comforting feeling, and when I fall asleep I know it’s with a big smile on my face.
WHEN I WAKE UP LATER THAT day, it takes me a minute to orient myself. The surface I’m lying on isn’t my sofa bed nor is it the bed in the Central Towers apartment. As I sit up, the aches and pains in my shoulder and side overtake the pleasant memory of how Ian made sure I went to sleep. On the foot of the bed is a silky robe with a blue geometric pattern that’s lined with burgundy velvet. When I put it on, I realize it must be Ian’s robe—it’s far too big for me in the arms and the belt can be wrapped around my waist twice. This puts a puzzled smile on my face because I really can’t see Ian wearing something like this. If he’s not dressed in his suits or jeans, he seems to prefer almost nothing.
I take a moment to check out my injuries in the bathroom. I’d avoided looking before because that made it easier to pretend nothing happened, but the face in the mirror looks bad. My left eye is encircled by a ring of bruises and there is a swelling on my left temple. When I pull aside the robe collar, I can see my left shoulder is starting to scab over. Under my right breast, there’s a purple and yellow and black bruise that spreads from my side almost to my belly button. It’s hard to believe that Ian looked at my body and called it beautiful, because right now I look like I belong in a horror show.
As I step out into the hall, still dressed in only Ian’s robe, familiar voices drift up the stairs. My mother’s voice stops me in my tracks. I don’t want her to see me like this but she calls my name before I can run back into the bedroom and hide.
“Hey, Mom,” I say weakly. I wonder if I can magically heal by the time I hit the floor or she’ll get tired of me and leave. Both are fairy tales, but it doesn’t stop me from slowing my descent. She gets up and comes to stand at the bottom of the steps, ready to chase me upstairs should I turn tail and flee. There’s nothing like facing an angry momma—unless it’s trying to explain yourself to a disappointed one.
When I get close, she gasps and covers her mouth. My feeling of dread gets worse when she starts to cry. “This is my fault. You wouldn’t be doing stuff for Malcolm if I hadn’t gotten sick.”
“No, Mom.” I fly down the stairs and gather her in my arms. Her bony shoulders and frail body shake against me. My stricken eyes meet Ian’s sympathetic gaze and he comes over in response to my silent plea.
“Sophie, she’s fine. I had her all checked out.” Ian draws her away and sits her down on the sofa. Mom leans into him and instead of looking awkward and uncomfortable, he simply looks down at the top of her head with genuine affection. As I watch them, my heart turns over. Ian could make love to me a thousand times but nothing will ever mean more to me than his steady arm around my distraught mother.
Suddenly I want to cry, not in sadness but relief. So this is how it feels to share a burden with someone. My throat tight, I head for Ian’s fancy kitchen to find something to drink. I’m going to need something to sedate myself with so I don’t fly into his arms and confess my undying love for him.
There’s no doubt in my mind that I love him and, worse, I’m not ever going to get over him when he’s done with me. But as with my mom, there’s no sense in borrowing trouble. I resolve to take one day at a time and enjoy the sheer pleasure of letting him order my life around for a short while.
I can mourn when it’s over.
I find a pitcher of water in Ian’s refrigerator and white porcelain coffee mugs on an open shelf above a fancy-looking espresso machine mounted into the wall. Filling two mugs, I carry them over to the living room and set one down on the metal side table next to Ian. He gives me a nod and my mom a brisk rub on the back before setting her upright.
“I’ve a friend who’s setting up a security business. He needs someone to answer phones and keep track of his guys in the field. It’s a dispatch-slash-receptionist position. I talked to him about your reading and writing issues, and he says that it’s fine. Most of your contact will be over the phone. What you can’t write, you can dictate—your voice messages will be transcribed by their computer software. He’s got some ins with the defense department, so his software is a lot better than anything you’re going to find on the market.” Ian pins me with a sharp gaze. “It’s a real job, Tiny. Not something I made up for you.”
Talking about my learning deficiencies makes me uncomfortable. Most of the time it’s no big deal because not that many people know about it and the ones that do never really bring it up. Only Malcolm, and that’s when he’s trying to piss me off.