Taking Control

by Jen Frederick

  Before I can even close my office door, my cellphone rings. It’s Jake.

  “Are you sitting down?”

  Instantly I know it’s Tiny. “Where is she?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “What the fuck, Jake?” I explode. Racing to my desk, I fumble with the bottom drawer. Before he can say another word, my line beeps. It’s Tiny.

  “Thank God,” I say, but she starts speaking over me, and I realize she isn’t talking to me at all.

  “What’s the point of this?” she asks.

  “You need to make him stop.” That’s Cecilia Howe’s voice. Thin and weak and…menacing?

  “I’m not sure what you want him to stop doing. It was your husband behind the mic.”

  “Ian Kerr is a menace. He’s bought up all our debt and is requiring us to pay within the next thirty days. The house, the cars, the cabin in the Hamptons.”

  I hear the rustle of paper, as if Cecilia is shaking paper in Tiny’s face.

  “Do you know how humiliating it is when your credit is denied, not just once but with every single card? Those saleswomen were looking at me like I was a piece of trash. Me, Cecilia Montgomery Howe! My family came over on the goddamn boat.”

  “Yeah, um, say it, don’t spray it.”

  “What did you say?”

  I press the mute button on my phone and pick up the landline to dial Jake. “Cecilia Howe has Tiny. Can we trace Tiny’s phone?”

  “I’m going to need to hack into her cell phone service and see if we can pull up a GPS signal. Call a car service and come here. I sent Steve to get Marcie.”

  Cursing, I ask. “How’s the traffic? Maybe I’m better off taking the subway.”

  “You have her on the phone? You’ll lose her once you go underground.”

  “Fuck, you’re right. I’m leaving right now.”

  I don’t connect the phone to Bluetooth. I’m too afraid of losing the connection. In the drawer, I pull out a handgun. I’ve had this piece since my days on the street. It’s unregistered, and the serial number has long since been filed away. Tucking it into my suit coat pocket, I fold the jacket over my arm to disguise the bulk.

  “Call the car service. I want one to be waiting when I reach the street,” I order, striding past Rose.

  “What about Steve?”

  “He’s busy.” I slide my card into the panel next to the elevator bank and ring for the elevator. One appears within twenty seconds, but that’s almost too long for me.

  “I said, what is it that you want me to do?” Tiny repeats.

  “Call Ian right now. Tell him to make everything right.”

  “No.”

  At first, I’m angry that she’s antagonizing Cecilia like this, but then I realize that she can’t call. She’s already on the phone with me and an incoming call might be heard on the other end. Tiny smartly doesn’t want to take the risk. The car is waiting, and I get in. “80th & Amsterdam. West side. There’s five hundred cash if you can get me there in ten minutes. Five hundred plus any traffic fines.” I waive the money at him, and he nods. I’m barely in the car before he takes off.

  “What?” Sissy screeches.

  “I’m not calling him and asking him to do that. Do you know what your husband did to Ian?”

  “Duncan Kerr died because he was weak,” she sniffs. “And Ian’s mother. Disgusting. She actually propositioned Richard in order to make him pay off their debts.”

  “But kidnapping is so much better?”

  Oh for god’s sake, Tiny.

  I’ve gotten lucky. The traffic up the Hudson River is sparse despite it being Monday. Plus, my driver is weaving in and out of traffic like in he’s in a Formula One race.

  “What does he see in you?” I hear after a long pause.

  “I give really good head.”

  I pound my head against the window and let out a weak laugh.

  “This isn’t funny,” Cecilia fumes.

  “I agree. I’m not amused at all, but what can I do while I’m trapped in the basement of your townhouse?”

  I tap the driver. “Change of plans. Take me to 64th and Lex.”

  “I’m going to have to navigate Central Park traffic. That will take some time.”

  “Double the bonus if you can make me forget there’s traffic. And give me your phone.”

  He hands me the phone, and I give him the five hundred right then. It works because he stomps on the gas and we shoot forward. I call Jake. “She’s at Cecilia’s.”

  “I’ll meet you there. Don’t do anything without me,” he warns.

  “I’m not leaving her to stew in Howe’s clutches while I wait for you.”

  “Do you want to have a happy life with Tiny, or one where she visits you at Riker’s?”

  I disconnect in response and throw the phone in the passenger seat.

  “Call him,” Cecilia shrieks. “Call him right now.”

  “Okay, but I told you he’s working. You know, to save his business.”

  We all hear the phone ring, and it seems like everyone—including the driver—is holding their breath. It rings three times and then Rose answers. “Kerr Inc., Ian Kerr’s office. May I help you?”

  “Answer,” I hear Cecilia hiss.

  “Um, just wondering if Ian is there. It’s Tiny.”

  “No, Miss Corielli. He just left a few minutes ago. Wasn’t he talking to you?”

  Oh shit. Oh motherfucking shit, no.

  “What?” Cecilia shrieks and then there’s a scuffle.

  “How long has this phone been on?”

  There’s no response, and then the distinct sound of flesh striking flesh repeats itself one, two, and then three times.

  I unmute the phone. “Goddammit, Cecilia, if you hit her one more time, I will end you myself.”

  “You’re so clever, Ian Kerr. Did you figure out I was hitting her just from the sound alone? What does this sound like to you?”

  There’s a boom and then the line goes dead.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TINY

  CECILIA’S GUNSHOT DESTROYING MY PHONE galvanizes me into action. I’ve had enough of this farce. There are weapons everywhere in here. One strike with a glass wine bottle, and she’d be out of it. I lunge at her. In surprise, she jerks backward and shoots, but I go in low and the shot careens high. As she stumbles backward, we crash into a wooden rack filled with bottles.

  “You bitch,” she says, shooting again, but I’ve got my arms around her. The shot makes a pinging noise as it hits a wine bottle or two. There’s a sharp bite in my side, but I ignore it because I’ve pressed the on button for her psychosis and it’s either her or me now. And it’s going to be me. I have way too much to live for. The love I have for Ian is supercharging me. I know he’s coming to save me, and I’m going to be alive when he gets here.

  Cecilia is strong and a few inches taller than me, but she’s gym strong. She works out to look good. I’ve been doing the biking equivalent of manual labor for six years. The knock on my head and the bruise on my cheek only fuel me to fight her harder.

  We tumble to the ground, and the ache in my side intensifies. There’s liquid and glass on the floor from broken wine bottles. I roll so that Cecilia is on the bottom, and from her yelps of surprised pain, I know her back is being stuck with jagged shards. The pain makes her loosen her grip, and I wrest the gun from her. Scrambling back into the corner so I can see the door, I point the gun at her.

  “I’m not much of a shot, but I bet I don’t miss from here,” I pant. “Sit over there.” I gesture toward the opposite wall. I want her as far away from me as possible, but I need to be able to see the door in case Travis comes in. I want to look for a phone, to be able to call Ian, but I’m afraid to take my eyes off her.

  “You have so much,” Cecilia cries. “You could spare a few million, and Richard and I will be out of your hair. We’ll go to Monaco, and you’ll never see us again.”

  “Don’t beg.” I rest my back against the wall-to-wall sh
elves that hold probably a hundred bottles of wine and pull my knees up. I’m shaking from adrenaline, from pain, and from fear, so I use my knees to steady my arm, never taking my eyes off her, never moving my aim. I can’t shoot her, though. Not like this. And maybe not ever. I try not to let that show in my face, but holy Christ, I’ve never held a gun before and I’ve never shot someone. I don’t even want to. What I do want is to know why, and so I ask, “Is it just about the money? Ian says that in your circle, it’s either money or status. Don’t you have status from your family?”

  “Is this where you think I’m going to spill my guts to you like some bad movie villain?”

  I shrug. “Fine, don’t talk. I guess I don’t give two shits why. You’re going to go to prison. Imagine how your nails are going to look in there.”

  “You know that Ian called Richard and threatened him,” she snarls at me. “Was I supposed to just sit and take it? After all I’ve done to maintain our lifestyle? After all the years I’ve spent cleaning up after Richard, did you think I’d allow you and Ian Kerr to ruin us? Besides, Richard out on his own would have squealed like a pig. I love that man, but he’s weak and useless.”

  “It was you behind the notes, the assault on Ian? All of it?”

  “All of it,” she sneers.

  “You’re a horrible person. You are so horrible that I’m glad you’re going to go to prison and that you won’t ever be able to hurt Ian again.”

  “You are so uncouth.” Her lip curls. “Ian is as well, if all he’s interested in are your sexual abilities. Like mother like son. He probably sold himself. That’s where his money came from.”

  “Uncouth but loaded.” I can’t help but mocking her. “Besides, his mother wasn’t a prostitute. She was desperate, and your husband took advantage of her. I don’t get why you stayed with him. Is he a good lay? Because he’s not a good provider. You’re a pretty woman with a good background. I think you could’ve done a lot better.”

  “You have no idea.” She sneers. “Men over fifty look at women like me as if we are some kind of relic. We only have one role to men with money and that is to care for their children. Otherwise, there is no second chance for us. They want—and are able to—fuck teenagers and college students. Anyone over the age of twenty-five must have some kind of spectacular attribute. Big tits. Long legs. Both, preferably and those only last until they’re thirty, and by thirty-five you are simply too old to be considered of any use. Richard might eat at different restaurants, but he always returns home to me. Always.”

  “Because you have money. Or had money, but once that goes, so will he,” I say.

  She turns away, trying to hide, but not before I see the anguish flash in her eyes.

  I’d feel sorrier for her if she hadn’t kidnapped me and tried to kill me. I try to calm my racing heart by taking a deep breath, but the pain in my side intensifies. I drop my hand to press against the ache, and it’s red when I pull it away. Blood-red.

  “You shot me,” I say in a stunned voice. “I can’t believe you fucking shot me.”

  “Did you think the gun was for show?” She rolls her eyes like I’m some stupid child.

  “You’re a psychopath.”

  Eyes blazing, she retorts, “I protect what is mine. Just like your precious Ian.”

  “Ian held off any action against your husband for years because he didn’t want to hurt you. You and him are nothing alike. You used people and hurt them—like Lauren and her brother. Buying cops? Shooting at people? Ian would never do that. He’s better than you and always has been.”

  “You’re weak,” she says. “You’ll never be able to shoot me.”

  I fear she’s right. I’ve never fired a gun before, but I want to live more than anything. I want to hold Ian again. I want to kiss him, fuck him, live with him until I’m old and gray and can’t do anything more than sit on our little beach and hold hands. Biting my lip, I squeeze the trigger.

  IAN

  FEAR AND RAGE ARE FIGHTING for dominance. The only sound I can hear is my harsh, ragged breath. My throat is coated with bile. I clench my teeth hard to stop the shaking. I bargain with God, with Buddha, with every single higher entity. Please. Don’t let her be harmed. Let them just be talking.

  Deep breaths, I counsel myself. I need to be calm to help Tiny. Serenity is too far out of reach, though.

  I open my mouth to offer the driver more money. At this point, I’m ready to buy him a fucking transportation company, but before I can get a word out, I’m thrown backward as he presses the gas down hard.

  “Don’t need to offer me more cash,” he calls back. “I heard. I’m getting you there, stat.”

  We speed down the 65th Street transverse and catch air as we pop out of Central Park and head toward Lex. “Turn down Lex,” I order.

  “I know where to fucking go,” the driver growls back. Barely braking, he takes a hard left on Lex and then a right onto 64th but he’s not driving fast enough. There are too many fucking cars on the goddamn road. I want to howl with rage. “What side?”

  “Right!” The front door looks formidable. I’m not going to be able to kick it down, and shooting the lock off in broad daylight seems risky. “Go down to the corner.”

  At the corner is a store that sells lotions and shit. It’s blindingly white and probably smells like a florist’s shop. He brakes hard, and I’m running before the car stops. Behind me I hear a door slam, but I don’t take the time to look back. Throwing open the door to the soap shop, I barrel through, dodging a saleswoman and the center display aisle.

  “Back door?” I ask.

  One women points behind her while another shouts, “Wait, you can’t go there!”

  “Don’t stop him,” I hear behind me. It’s the driver. “His woman is in danger.”

  The back room is filled with boxes, and I feel like I’m running a steeplechase as I hurdle over a couple and land a few yards from the rear entrance. I don’t stop running.

  Outside, the alley is tiny, and as I count the houses, I encounter a tall wall, at least fourteen feet high. “Goddammit!” I look around for something, anything I can climb on top of. There’s a dumpster down the way. I’ll pull that over. But before I can run down, the driver puts a hand on my arm.

  “I’ll boost you, man.”

  I look at him for the first time. He’s slightly shorter than me, but built like a tank. He’ll do. “Thanks.”

  He hoists me, and I’m able to grab the top and haul myself over. It’s a drop to the ground, and my knees are weak with the impact, but I don’t feel it. Running forward, I grab a chair and throw it through the glass patio doors of the Howe’s sunroom. The glass shatters, and I push through it, uncaring of the cuts the jagged glass is making on my arms and torso.

  The interior doors on either side of the sunroom are open, and I race through them past the kitchen, looking frantically for a staircase.

  In the gallery beyond the kitchen, there’s a metal railing and carpeted stairs leading down to the cellar. I fling myself down the stairs. There’s an open area with wooden shelves lining the walls, full of random figurines.

  I pull the gun out and disengage the safety.

  These city townhomes are long and narrow. Cecilia could be holding Tiny on either end of the basement. There’s no blood on the floor. That could mean that either Tiny was bleeding out at the end of the room or that she’d escaped without harm.

  As quietly as possible, I creep toward the door to my right. The thick pile carpet muffles any sound, although the crash of the glass and the pounding of my steps probably alerted everyone to my presence. So fuck the attempt to be silent.

  “Tiny!” I yell.

  There’s a muffled yelp and then nothing. I lock the safety back on the gun so I don’t accidentally shoot myself. Bracing my back foot, I deliver a swift kick to the side of the lock mount, the weakest part of the door. The wood splinters, and I hear a scream on the other side. Tiny.

  “Cecilia, if you touch her again, I swear
I will kill you.”

  Another blow to the door has it completely giving way. Inside, I see Tiny hunkered down on the other side of the room against a wall of wine racks. The air reeks of spilled wine, and there are darks stains in the carpet along with shards of glass that glitter like diamonds under the low cellar light. My heart stops when I see Tiny’s right hand clutched to her side. There’s a viscous red liquid seeping through her fingers that is definitely not wine. Her other hand is braced on her knee, holding a gun on Cecilia Howe.

  “You know how you said we shouldn’t ever be apart?” Her voice is strained, but the hand on her knee is steady and she doesn’t take her eyes off Cecilia once. “I’m rethinking my need for independence right about now.”

  “Oh, bunny.” My knees are weak. Part of me wants to ask Cecilia why, but there are more pressing things to handle. While part of me cringes at having to hurt a woman, Cecilia is an obvious danger, and I’d be foolish not to take her out. I strike the butt of my gun against the back of Cecilia’s head to knock her out. She slumps inelegantly against the side of the wall.

  “Did you have to do that?” Tiny asks in a shocked voice.

  “Yes, I did.” Gently taking the gun from her hand, I engage the safety and then carefully lift her into my arms. “I need to get you out of here, and I can’t do that if I have to watch my back because some crazed socialite is going to rise out of the cellar with a knife or something.”

  “Right. You’re right. It just took me off guard,” she pants. “God, my side aches. I always wondered what it felt like to get shot.”

  “You need to start having better fantasies. I’m clearly not doing my job right.” Cradling her against my chest, I give her both guns to hold and then start the process of walking up the stairs without jarring her.

  “No, you’re doing a great job. This was just a weird thought I had before I met you. Back when my life was boring and all.”

  “I’m sorry for bringing this into your life.” Christ, she should hate me.

  “Nah, I mean, who doesn’t need a little excitement in their life from time to time? I shot this gun. First time.”

  “To hurt Cecilia?” I ask astonished.