The next morning I get up extra early and check on Mom. She’s not awake yet and chemo won’t start until ten. I tiptoe out of the apartment, taking the big box with me. It’s almost too big to strap to the back of my bike, but I manage. The stretchy cords, however, squeeze the box tightly, making it look almost like a weird bow.
I’m not even going to knock. I’m just leaving the box at the back door because it holds too much temptation and I don’t have the emotional wherewithal to deal with a man like Ian. He’s too . . . too much of everything. Too tall. Too good looking. Too confident. And too rich, apparently.
A small mechanical whoosh sounds and I see a camera protruding from the doorway, a camera that was formerly recessed. It looks almost alive and kind of freaks me out. I stick out my tongue.
He responds immediately. “That’s pretty close to a yes, Victoria. You better run while you can.”
This time I do. I get on my bike and pedal as fast as I humanly can. I’m scared now. Because I want to go back so much.
Chapter 7
CHEMO IS AS TERRIBLE AS we both anticipate. The IV drips always take so long. There are two televisions in here and Mom has her old laptop, but she’s abandoned both at hour two, saying that the chemo was making her queasy and she wanted to rest. I’ve sat here looking at the two apartments I’ve picked out. They’re both in the same neighborhood we currently live in and close to the hospital. I can cover the rent so long as I continue my side deliveries, but since my on-paper salary isn’t going to pass the application review, I need Malcolm’s help even more.
Dr. Chen comes to check in on us at the halfway point, four hours into the eight-hour-long drip.
“Everything looks good, Sophie.” He gives her a pat on the shoulder. Mom barely opens her eyes, lethargy making her almost non-responsive. Dr. Chen frowns and gestures for me to step outside.
“Found a new place yet?”
“Not yet.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t forget her mental wellbeing. She can’t stay cooped-up in that apartment of yours.”
As if the thought had ever left my mind.
The next four hours I spend in silence, playing solitaire and flipping through magazines to look at pretty clothes and shoes I’ll never be able to afford. At the end of the day, I carry my mother up the five flights of stairs and place her in the lone bed. She rolls over immediately and faces the wall. I can’t think of anything to say to comfort her. It’s time to go down to Neil’s anyway and take up the afternoon and evening shift.
I’m halfway done with my deliveries when my phone rings, the notes of “Killing in the Name” by Rage Against the Machine signaling a call from Malcolm. I’ve assigned ringtones to everyone in my phone. Neil’s is “Price Tag” by Jessie J and Mom’s is “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera. My old friend from high school was Pink’s “So What” but I haven’t called or heard from Sarah in six months. My fault, though, because she kept asking me to go out with her and I kept telling her no. I couldn’t afford a night out with the ten dollar drinks and the twenty-five dollar covers.
“You need to get your ass over to my apartment. Nine sharp,” Malcolm barks into the phone.
“Okay, that’s fine. I’ve got . . .” I start to reel off my remaining delivery jobs but Malcolm interrupts.
“I give two shits about what you’ve got left. Just be here at nine or your side job will be given to someone else who can do the f**king job as they’re asked.” He’s shouting into the phone, so I hold it a few inches away. I can still hear him. In fact, I’m afraid if I hold it any closer, a rain of spit will drench my ear.
“Got it. Nine sharp.” I hang up on him while he’s still raining profanities down the cell line.
At eight fifty-five, I show up sweaty and tired at Malcolm’s apartment building. There’s a big, gray, expensive-looking car idling a few blocks up. I only notice because it’s completely incongruous. Maybe Malcolm’s supplier? Who knows? I should care, probably, but I don’t want Malcolm any more pissed off than he already is.
“Lucy, I’m home,” I yell into the intercom speaker. The buzz of the lock being disengaged sounds moments later. I take the elevator up and then knock on the door. Malcolm is there before I can drop my hand away, and as the door swings open I see him.
He’s sitting there, his hand over the white box, all crushed and kicked-in. Ian doesn’t belong here. It’s not that he’s wearing a suit or anything, although I expect his expertly distressed jeans cost as much as a bicycle and that his big leather boots—black this time—could float my rent for the month. It’s just the way he holds himself. He’s commanding and looks like he owns the place. Malcolm stands to the side, his hands dangling out of the tops of his jeans pockets, shifting from one foot to the other as if he’s the visitor rather than Ian.
“Tiny,” Ian drawls out. Apparently he and Malcolm have had a long talk if he’s discarded my real name for my nickname. The way he says it, though, is so different than either my mom or Malcolm. With Mom it’s loving and with Malcolm it’s an insult. Out of Ian’s mouth it sounds like a caress. “Thanks for joining us.”
I decide that confronting this situation head on makes the best sense. Tossing my helmet on the living room sofa, I drop into the chair opposite of Ian. “Nice car out there.”
“Thank you.” He’s wearing his amused look. “You put that together quick.”
“Uh, it’s not hard. Rich guy. Rich car. Neither belong in this neighborhood.”
His eyes slide, almost imperceptibly toward Malcolm. “Not everyone made the connection.”
I shut up then because I might not get along with Malcolm but he’s still family and I don’t want anyone else insulting him. Other than me.
Ian cocks his head and we sit in extended silence, engaged in a weird battle for control. I can sit here all night, my stare conveys. But under the table, I’m pressing my legs together and my pu**y is clenching as if in anticipation of something other than my own fingers being shoved inside me.
His smug smile says “I’ve been playing this game for a long time” but his eyes are burning right through me. If I lean under the table, I suspect I’d see a bulge in his pants. It takes superhuman effort not to check it out.
Malcolm breaks the tension. “Ian has a proposition for you,” he blurts out.