The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) (12 page)

I lead her to the chair, pulling her into my lap though she squirms and says she’s too old for it. “Shh,” I say, sliding a hand over her mouth to shut her up. She bites my fingers, but I feel her shoulders shake as she laughs. “Just let me feel you.”

She sighs and slumps into me, her softness filling all the right places. And making my hard parts come to life.

“Hmm?” she asks, arching a brow and shifting her hips, my growing erection pressing into the back of her thigh.

“Sit still,” I order, sipping my beer and staring at the television. Before Susan showed up, this night was looking like every other piece of shit lonely night I spend at home. And now that she’s here, I want to enjoy this part before I enjoy any other parts.

“I don’t want to sit still,” she whispers, turning her face into my neck, her lips gliding over the thin skin, her tongue stroking. “I want you.”

“Su—”

She shifts so she’s straddling me, taking the beer from my hand and leaning over the edge of the chair to set it on the floor. I’m prepared to argue about the virtue of taking it slow, but she pulls her shirt over her head and undoes the front clasp on her bra, and I can’t remember what I was going to say. I feel her fingers under the hem of my T-shirt, then it’s gone too, and we’re bare skin to bare skin, hers smooth and cool under my calloused palms. Her tight nipples rasp over my chest as her mouth covers mine, and I let her own this, taking back a little bit of control in her life.

She twines her fingers with mine and lifts our hands so they’re pressed into the cushion on either side of my head, and I smile at the thought of this woman a fraction of my size dominating me. Thinking she can.

Her lips and tongue feel like they’re everywhere, tracing the shell of my ear, the pulse points over my throat, my collarbone. When she frees one hand to reach between us to undo the button at the top of my pants, I seize the opportunity to slip my own hand down the back of her shorts, sliding my fingers as low as I can until I find the damp heat between her thighs. I moan at the contact, then moan again when her fingers wrap around my cock, stroking like the pro she is. Pump, twist, fast, slow. It feels good, but it feels like a fucking textbook, too. Like she read the chapter, took notes and aced the test. I want messy and flawed. I want real. I want the scratched-out lines and the red ink and all the steps that come before you figure out what gets you off fastest.

But Susan’s not on this train of thought, and next thing I know she’s reaching into the purse she set on the cooler and pulling out a condom, rolling it down my shaft before I realize it’s happening. She sinks onto me, leaning back so her hands are on my knees and I can see everything, her bouncing tits, her pussy split open by my cock, pink folds sliding up and down, up and down.

Her eyes are closed, teeth digging into her lower lip as she strives for the orgasm that A+ students get. I let out a ragged breath and just give in. I’m close anyway. Maybe next time we can put away the guidelines and just fuck, the way we did it the first time she came over. For now I trail my hand up her thigh, spreading my fingers so my thumb grazes her clit, and her eyes open just the tiniest bit, seeing me. I hold her gaze and press harder, feeling everything in her tighten, so focused and precise. I manage to hold off my orgasm until she comes, her chest coated in a sheen of sweat, so shiny and hot I ask myself what I’m complaining about. I’ve got a gorgeous, orgasmic doctor and I’m wishing for something else. I should be happy with what I have.

“Hey,” Susan whispers, wilting slightly now that she’s come. “What do you need?”

I’m still hard inside her and I pull her up so her elbows dig into the cushion on either side of my head, reclining the chair until our chests press together. “Fuck me like this,” I murmur, squeezing her hips. I know it’ll be hard on her thighs so I add, “It won’t take long.”

Obediently she rises up and glides back down. I show her the pace I want and she matches it perfectly, dutifully. Each thrust deep and tight and wet, like a well-oiled machine.

Chapter Nine

“So who is this guy?” Susan asks.

It’s Friday night and she’s pushing a cart through the biggest garden center in Chicago while I read from a rather lengthy shopping list prepared by the new “head gardener” for the Green Space.

“Wyatt Cruz,” I tell her.

“Is he a fighter?”

“No. He comes into the gym, but mostly just runs or lift weights. I’ve never seen him fight. Why?”

She shrugs. “Just picturing the two of you up there, shirtless, weeding, using your little trowels to...dig holes.” She picks up one of the trowels from the cart and stares at it as though she’s never seen one before. It makes me wonder what her childhood was like; if she was trapped in a room under the stairs with science journals and Rubik’s cubes.

“You don’t even know what he looks like.”

“He has a cowboy name.”

I laugh. “He grew up on a ranch and he knows how to grow things. Plus he’s the only person who answered the ads I put up. He wins.” Feeling like I was inviting disaster to my doorstep, I’d reluctantly printed out a few flyers looking for a part-time gardener to help get the rooftop organized, then drop in a few times a week after that to maintain it as needed. I’ve seen Wyatt around the gym, a decent kid in his mid-twenties, but we’d never spoken until two days ago, when he shyly approached me in the locker room, one of my ads folded in his hand. Yesterday I gave him the grand tour of the tannery, which isn’t looking altogether terrible, and outlined my plan for the roof. He said a bunch of things I didn’t understand, then took pity on me, gave me the shopping list, and said he’d come by tomorrow to get started.

“This is it,” I say, stopping next to a towering mountain of fertilizer bags, each promising lush flowers and enormous tomatoes. “Six of these.” This cart, like the three before it, is already pretty full, and when I load in the bags, I give it a nudge to see if it’s still movable. “You able to take this to the front?” I ask.

“Sure. I’ll put it with the others and get an empty one.”

“Should be the last load after this.”

“Give me two minutes.”

I watch Susan leave, unable to decide if I like her ass better when she’s walking away or when it’s close enough to grab. No matter how you look at it, she’s got a great ass. Great everything, really. She’s smart and confident, accomplished and odd, and despite my doubts, I’m falling for her. Hard.

And if I’m not mistaken, she’s falling too. Why else would she spend her free time helping me with this project, navigating garden centers and abandoned buildings?

“Oz?”

I turn to see Sheree emerge from the next aisle. She’s dressed casually in a sundress and cheap flip-flops, her long hair loose. She’s holding a bottle of some sort of ant poison, and I immediately look around for Jade, imagining her thrusting the first item she could grab into Sheree’s hand and shoving her in my direction.

To her credit, Sheree laughs. “She’s not here.”

I realize what I’m doing and stop. “Sorry. She’s...persistent.”

She blushes, and she’s really pretty. Too pretty to be spending Friday night buying bug spray. “I know. She really likes you. She wants you to be happy.”

There’s an awkward pause I don’t know how to fill, so eventually I say, “You have an ant problem?”

“Oh.” Sheree looks momentarily flustered, then studies the bottle in her hand. “Yeah. I don’t know where they’re coming from. It’s not serious, I just figured I’d better get on top of it before things get worse. You know how it goes. First you ignore them, then three turns into thirty turns into three hundred.”

“That’s Camden for you.” I glance around for Susan. She should be back with the cart by now.

“What about you? Why are you hanging out in a garden center on Friday night?”

“I’m here with my, ah...” Shit. I don’t want to call Susan my friend.

Sheree nods at something behind me. “Her?”

I turn to see Susan ambling down the aisle with an empty cart, Larry from
West Chicago News
at her side, trusty tablet in hand. I frown as they approach, wondering just how many people are shopping here tonight.

“Hey,” I say. I’m looking at Susan but it’s Larry who responds, sticking out his hand. I reluctantly shake it, then look at Susan again. She gives me a little shrug like,
What was I supposed to do?
and I sigh inwardly as I make introductions. Small talk ensues and though I’m probably supposed to be happy that someone else is interested in this project, I really wish it wasn’t Larry. There’s something about him that feels fake, the way he addresses his questions to Susan and not to me. Or maybe it’s just my inner critic piping up, telling me he’s one more witness to the uphill battle I’ve signed on for.

“Anyway,” Sheree says, holding up her ant spray when the strained conversation peters out. “It was nice seeing you again. I’ve got bugs to kill.”

Larry adds, “And I’ve got a story to write. I’ll leave you guys to it.”

I’m relieved to watch them walk away, but I’m frowning when I turn to Susan. “That was weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why the hell would Larry be here? On a Friday night? That doesn’t feel strange to you?”

“No more strange than her being here.” She glances over her shoulder at Sheree’s retreating form. Uh-oh. “She was at the Green Space on Monday, right? You had your arm around her?”

“I already told you I wasn’t interested.”

“And I’m telling you it’s no more suspicious than Larry.”

I’m annoyed by the inference, but try to clear my face, keep my tone neutral and not doubtful when I say, “Fair enough. Let’s keep shopping before they close up on us.”

It takes another twenty minutes to cross off the last item on Wyatt’s list, and another thirty minutes to check out. Even though I’ve got money and Wyatt warned me about this, the final bill is still enough to make me sweat. I know Susan sees the total but she doesn’t comment, not until we’ve finished loading every square inch of my SUV, forcing her to stick her feet up on the dash when we stash seedlings in the passenger side footwell.

“That’s a lot of money,” she says as I steer us out of the parking lot. The sun has set and I’m grateful for the dark of the car.

“Sure is.”

“You’re paying for all this yourself, right? You didn’t register as a small business or a charity?”

I chew the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to talk about finances with Susan. Not just because it’s awkward, but because it’s none of her business. She’s smart and competent, but sometimes she tends to take over. She’s already taken control once this week and I’m still getting grief about it. “I don’t want to talk about this,” I say finally.

She’s quiet for just a little too long.

“Not because you’re not empathetic,” I add.

Now she shoots me a disapproving look. “Finances have nothing to do with empathy,” she replies. “I’m just wondering how someone can afford a house, a business, an abandoned building and this many garden supplies without a loan.”

I strum my fingers on the steering wheel. “I told you I worked on Wall Street. I invested smart and I saved my money.”

“I don’t care if you’re rich or not, Oscar. I mean, when you told me you lived in Camden, I assumed you were broke, so all this—” she gestures to the interior of the car “—is a bit of a relief. The point is—”

“Susan.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to hear your point.” My heart is pounding in my chest. I finally get my inner critic to shut up, and now Susan wants to nag? I didn’t register as a small business and I didn’t get a loan, but I’ve set up a bank account for the Green Space and I’m keeping the finances separate. I may know shit about construction or gardening, but I’m an accountant, for fuck’s sake. I know what I’m doing.

Her sharp intake of breath makes me feel guilty, but before either of us can say anything, her phone rings. “It’s Dorrie,” she says, checking the display before answering. “Hey, Dor—”

I can’t make out the words, but Dorrie’s voice squeaks out of the receiver, fast and shrill.

“Slow down,” Susan says calmly. “You want to what?”

More squeaking.

“You’re eleven. I don’t think refusing to let you go to a high school prom is ‘tyrant-like’ behavior, Dorrie.”

Angry shrieking. This time it’s loud enough that I can make out the words. “You’re so mean! I hate you so much! You’re such a bitch!”

“Dorrie! Where did you learn that word? Where is your father? Put him—” Susan breaks off and stares at the phone as the display goes dark. I’m stopped at a red light, so I see her set her jaw before tucking the phone back into her bag and turning to look out the window.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Par for the course,” she says tightly.

“Suze.” I reach over to touch her leg, but she shifts away so my hand finds only air. I grit my teeth and take back my hand. She’s supposed to be coming to the site tomorrow to help paint. Marco’s crew has finished up on the main level, so they’ll be sorting out things upstairs while the gym guys, Susan, Wyatt and myself work on the first floor. It’s going to be a long day if the one person I count on to not make things worse is pissed at me.

I let her calm down while I drive back to my place. Susan’s parked on the street, and because she’s working here tomorrow, the plan was for her to spend the night. Now, however, she gets out of my car and starts walking toward hers. I sigh and follow.

“Susan.” No response. She just digs her keys from her purse. “Susan.” More sharply. It gets her to turn around.

“I meant it when I said I didn’t want to be your booty call, Oscar.”

I frown. “I know that.”

“Well, you don’t want to talk to me. You won’t tell me what’s holding you back from fighting when you want to, and not just in the ring. You don’t want to talk about where you’re getting the money for all this. I’m not asking for your darkest secrets or to audit your bank records, but I—” She breaks off and looks away. “I have to go.”

“You don’t have to go,” I say, tired. “It’s late. We’re starting work tomorrow at ten. If you leave now, you’ll just have to get up early to come back in the morning.”

Her laugh is humorless. “That’s it? You want to voice your concerns about the time?”

“What do you want me to say? You’re not a booty call. You know you’re not. So what if I don’t want to talk about shit right now? When I’m ready I’ll tell you. Just deal with it. Fuck.” I rub a hand over my face. A week of stressing about the project plus running a business that actually earns me an income—I can’t take this right now.

“I’ll ‘deal with it’ at home,” she says tersely.

“You told me I run when things get hard.”

“Well,” she says. “You set a great example.”

I don’t say anything else, just stand in the driveway and watch until her taillights disappear.

* * *

My phone rings at six ten the following morning, and I make the mistake of answering without checking the display. “Hello?” I don’t even open my eyes, holding the phone to my ear and praying for a wrong number.

“Hey. Oz?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Marco.”

I wake up a little more. Marco and his crew are supposed to be working at the site in a few hours. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve got half my guys calling in sick,” he says. “It’ll be a small crew today. You can wait for the full crew, but the work won’t get started until Monday.”

I stifle a sigh. We both know “sick” is shorthand for “hungover.” Part of the plan was to get Marco’s guys to help bring the garden supplies up to the roof while my guys finished up the main level in time for the grand opening.

What the fuck. “Come Monday,” I say. The gym guys only work weekends; at least this way they won’t run into each other.

“All right. Will do.” He hangs up without saying goodbye, and I toss the phone on the nightstand and get out of bed. I’m tired. I’m tired of everything right now, but mostly I’m tired because I tossed and turned all night, having odd nightmares about Susan. Every time I woke up and reached for her and found the bed empty, the ball of nerves in my stomach grew a little bigger, a little more electric and unwieldy.

Thirty minutes later I’m parking at the empty building, driving an SUV stuffed with thousands of dollars of garden supplies that need to be toted upstairs, and the guys who were supposed to help with the carrying are at home, sleeping off last night’s good time. Thirty minutes after that I’m sweating and breathing hard, having made four cumbersome trips from my car, through the building, and up two flights to the roof. The sun is up, the morning haze burned away, and it’s hot and miserable.

I tense up when I return to the parking lot just in time to see someone duck out of sight behind the SUV. I’ve got about twenty-five more trips left, so there’s still lots to steal, and that’s not including the car. My heart rate increases and my palms itch, the argument with Susan and a night spent tossing and turning coiling together, antsy, eager aggression looking for an outlet.

“Who’s there?” I say, taking a few steps forward, then halting when Wyatt rounds the trunk.

“Hey,” he says, looking me over. “Morning.”

“What are you doing here?”

He nods at the SUV. “I was running past. Saw you out here and thought I could help. If you wanted.”

I look at him suspiciously. He’s only been in town maybe three or four months, and I don’t know anything more about him than what he told me when he “applied” for the job. I’d even checked with Oreo after, and because the guy has no regard for the rules, he pulled out Wyatt’s gym application and showed me what he’d filled out. Twenty-five, born but not raised in Texas. He’s currently unemployed, doing odd jobs here and there for extra cash while he completes a welding course at Camden’s one and only community college.

“I could come back,” he says, taking a step away when I don’t answer and my suspicions become obvious. “I was just getting some exercise. I know I’m not supposed to be here until ten.”

From our limited interactions at the gym, I know Wyatt’s focused and committed. The sweaty white T-shirt he’s got on shows that he’s fit. And he’s here. And he’s willing. We have a winner.

“No,” I say finally. “Stay. I could use a hand. The crew that was scheduled to be here bailed.”