Free Losing Control by Jen Frederick Page A

you, besides a rich man?”
    He ignores my question and asks his own. “Is it just you and your mother, Tiny?”
    I glance over at the wall separating the living room and my mom. “Yes, just the two of us. My father died when I was a baby. He was a delivery man, too. Trucks, though. Large scale items. Made more money.”
    “My father passed of a heart attack when I was thirteen.”
My character was set at the age of fifteen.
    “Then you understand.”
    “I do.” His words are like a balm, a soothing cloth on my aching heart.
    “It’s not like I want to work for Malcolm.”
Or turn you down.
“But my circumstances . . . I don’t have better options.“
    “Your mother needs you. Is it dire? Malcolm seemed to think so.”
    My first instinct is to deny and pretend, like I have for the past four weeks, that everything will be fine. But he’s so understanding, his voice almost caring, that I find myself telling him things I never intended.
    “During the year that mom was fighting cancer, I didn’t have time for friends, not girls or boys and when we came out victorious at the end, I found many of my friends had moved on. And by then I just wanted to spend time with my mother more than anything. She’d become my best friend. We do everything together. Go to museums, the park. We love going to the Central Park Zoo. I can’t imagine my life without her.” I fall silent for a moment, my throat tight with emotion. “Yes, it’s dire. That’s a really good word for it.”
    “You’ll be alone then? If she is gone?”
    I nod, which he can’t see, but he seems to sense the answer. “I know what that feels like. I want to help you, which is why—against my better judgment—I’ve agreed to let you do this project with me. I could offer you a thousand different positions working for me, but I sense that you wouldn’t accept because your sense of fair play would be offended. Somehow you think that doing these things for Malcolm, you’ve earned it.”
    “Yes.” My voice is nearly inaudible. “I guess I figure that no one gets hurt that way. That I’m not taking advantage of anyone. That my debt is paid. But hey, if you want to just give me a million, I guess I’d be okay with that.”
    “A personal jackpot? It’s yours. I’ll send a cashier’s check over in the morning.” He’s dead serious.
    “I wish I could accept it.”
    “But you won’t because you think you can do this job for me, right? What if I said that you could deliver packages for me and earn the same money?”
    “I’d know I was ripping you off.”
    “And you’d never sleep with me then, would you?”
    “No, because it would feel like you were paying me for sex.” I hurry and add, “Not that I’m going to ever have sex with you anyway.”
    “Of course.” His voice is colored with mild amusement. “Good night, Tiny. I’ll be thinking of you wearing the peach-colored panties with the flowers. You have very good taste.”
    After he hangs up, I pull the box onto my lap. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t resist. Inside I find a coral pair of panties. The lace is shaped in little rosettes with vines and leaves weaving them together. The band has side bows made out of some soft stretchy material. I’m surprised that the lace isn’t itchy but rather conforms to the curves of my butt like it was custom-made. I don’t know what to believe. Did he really buy all this stuff just to get me into bed? If he only knew. I’m way easier than that. Maybe that’s how the rich do it, though. Like, they exchange presents as a courting ritual. If he expected one in return, then he was going to be sorely disappointed.
    That night I sleep in the forbidden panties and dream of being chased in Central Park by a big lion. I hide under a park bench and the lion transforms into Ian, only he’s in his Batman garb and the rustling of his cape tells me it’s windy. I hop backwards and hunch down to make my small body less noticeable. As his big black cape