Losing Control by Jen Frederick Page B

bite my tongue to prevent saying anything I’ll regret.
    “Ready?” I ask. Before she can say another word there’s a knock on the door. We exchange puzzled looks, but I go to see who it is. It’s Steve.
    Pulling the door open but not unlocking the chain, I ask with suspicion, “How did you get up here?”
    “Trade secret.”
    I can’t tell if this is a joke because Steve’s expression is no different than the last evening, but the two words do reveal something about him that I wasn’t aware of before: He has an accent. Then I remember Ian saying that it was expensive to fly Steve’s family over from Australia.
    “So are you here to pick up the leftovers?” I think forlornly of the mounds of leftover Thai food that I planned to gorge myself on later tonight after biking around the city for hours.
    This time he shows a real emotion—confusion. “Leftovers? No. Hospital.”
    Ian. Sighing, I unhook the chain and open the door so Steve can come in. “We’re almost ready.”
    There’s no fighting this, I can tell. Steve would pick my mother up and carry her down to the car. “Hey Mom, look who’s here.”
    She looks at me puzzled, and then I remember she was asleep when Steve came to deliver the food. “Mom, this is Steve . . . um, I don’t know your last name.”
    He looks like this is more painful than a root canal. He’s standing in the middle of our living room, legs slightly spread, arms straight at his side like he’s some soldier awaiting orders. Oh, holy crap. Ian said that Steve doesn’t like it when he can’t keep track of Ian. It hits me that Steve must be Ian’s bodyguard.
    And then I wonder why Ian needs a bodyguard. I give Steve a frown and he glares back at me.
    “Thomas.” He doesn’t even move to shake my mom’s hand, and my mom looks completely flustered.
    I pick up my pack and then Mom’s handbag and steer her toward the door. “Jerk,” I mumble under my breath, but they both hear it. My mom gives me a reproving look but doesn’t disagree. Steve grunts like a Neanderthal. Why does it not surprise me that Ian surrounds himself with guys like Steve? There’s probably a whole bunch of grunting cyborgs back at the Bruce Wayne fuckpad ready to take Steve’s place if he utters more than three words or, heavens to Betsy, cracks a friggin’ smile.
    The car Steve is driving is not the gunmetal gray one that idled outside Malcolm’s building but a black one, and it’s amazingly luxurious inside—even more so than Ian’s other vehicle. The interior is covered with sumptuous tan leather. In the back, there are two bucket seats separated by a polished wood console where glass tumblers rest in the cup holders. One is full of orange juice.
    After my mom climbs in, Steve bends down and—with a flick of a switch—her seat reclines and a footrest pops up. Mom releases an audible sigh of comfort as she settles into the butter-soft leather.
    Once again I’m overwhelmed with Ian’s thoughtfulness. It’s touching yet disturbing at the same time. He wants something, and it must be more than a quick roll in the hay. Surely he doesn’t need to be this . . . kind to get a fuck.
    I’m sure the models who hang out in his neighborhood would pull up their skirts and ask for it on the brick-lined road if he seemed interested. Based on his body and looks alone, some would probably even be willing to pay for it. Add in his money and there’s just no way that he doesn’t have women—and some men—beating down his door. None of this makes any sense to me.
    Mom rubs her hand along the creamy leather. “A recliner in the car. Have you ever seen such a thing, Tiny?” she asks in wonder.
    “No, never.”
    “Steve,” Mom calls up to the front. She has to raise her voice slightly because the distance between our rear seats and the driver’s seat is sizable. “What kind of vehicle is this?”
    “Maybach, ma’am,” he answers.
    “Your man, he’s very nice.” Mom picks up the orange juice