The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) (2 page)

Something tells me that when it comes to Dr. Jones, I’m going to want a whole lot more.

I hiss in a breath when Dr. Keaton turns my wrist, fiery pain rocketing up my arm. The gesture is gentle but everything hurts so much it feels like torture. She leaps away like she’s been burned, banging into the counter behind her and knocking a plastic bin of syringes onto the floor.

Dr. Jones glances up at the scene and frowns. “Problem, Dr. Keaton?”

“It’s, um...it’s a serious sprain,” she answers.

I try not to roll my eyes.

“Does it require an X-ray?”

“Ah, no. No, I don’t think so.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Um...” Dr. Keaton has crouched down to pick up the syringes, avoiding Dr. Jones’s penetrating stare as she thinks.

“Ice?” I offer.

Dr. Jones shifts her attention me.

“Ibuprofen,” I add. “Rest, compression and elevation.”

“Well...” Dr. Keaton begins, returning the syringes to the counter.

I stand up, more carefully this time, relieved I don’t embarrass myself by keeling over. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Have a seat,” Dr. Jones says, also rising. “Dr. Keaton’s going to wrap up your wrist, check out this recent injury to your face and give you some sound medical advice. Then you’ll be free to go. Isn’t that right, Dr. Keaton?”

Dr. Keaton actually flinches. “Yes?”

Dr. Jones turns that same stare back to me, her eyes the darkest shade of blue I’ve ever seen, the look in them telling both Dr. Keaton and I that we’re not going anywhere until she gives the okay.

She’s gorgeous.

I sit down.

* * *

Thirty minutes later I exit through the sliding glass doors, back into the rapidly dwindling sunshine. My arm wrapped, instructions about ice, rest and elevation tucked into my pocket, I head for the coffee cart parked a few yards away, still doing good business despite the late hour. I skim the lengthy menu for something without sugar or caffeine, settling on a decaf iced green tea and taking it with me to a nearby bench to get some fresh air before I begin the ride home, sans groceries.

I sigh heavily as I sit, cursing my luck. And here I thought spending my birthday jerking off to a
Baywatch
rerun would be the most humiliating part of my weekend. How do I tell the guys at the gym I got taken out by a fucking melon?

I wince as I watch the barista whip up one of those sugary, chocolate concoctions people still try to call coffee. There’s so much whipped cream piled on top it needs a special domed lid to contain it all. On top of that she adds chocolate syrup and shavings. My teeth ache just seeing it.

“Perfect,” Dr. Susan Jones says, striding up and collecting the enormous cup. “Right on time.”

“Nine fifteen, Dr. Jones. As always.”

“Thank you, Paulette.”

She takes the drink, stirs it briefly with a straw that’s at least a foot long, then glances around for a place to sit. There are a few other benches, all occupied. The only remaining space is next to me. Our eyes meet and she hesitates, obviously reluctant to be stuck next to someone who might badger her for free medical advice. Still, I arch a brow and nod at the vacant seat, suppressing a smile as she fails to suppress a grimace, then approaches and sits down.

“Hello again,” I say.

She sips the...thing. “Hello.” A pause. “How are you?” She could not possibly be any less reluctant to ask. She’s sitting on the very edge of the bench as though poised to run, focused on the drink, cheeks hollowed as she sucks on the straw.

“Better than ever,” I reply. I sip my tea and ignore her. After a minute I feel her glance my way, slowly edging back on the bench when I make no effort to engage her in conversation.

There’s a full foot of space between us, and for the next little bit there’s only the sound of her slowly rotting her teeth, the click of her fingernail on her phone as she types, and the gradual drop in temperature as the sun descends behind the skyscrapers.

“Do you live in the area?” she asks eventually.

“Camden,” I say.

Her eyebrows raise. “Camden.”

“That’s right.”

She looks apologetic, the normal reaction when someone hears I live in Camden. It’s like saying you choose to live in prison. It’s not really a choice.

“You know how many chemicals are in there?” I ask when she pulls out the straw and licks up the excess whipped cream. For some women this might come across as sexual, but Dr. Jones just looks determined to poison herself.

“In here?” A faint smile plays across her lips as she scoops up another mountain of whipped cream and pops it into her mouth. “Of course I do.”

“You’re a doctor,” I remind her.

“A surgeon,” she corrects me. “Not a dentist.”

I turn slightly so I can face her straight on. In the gilded sunset she looks softer, the stern set of her features less intimidating. Or maybe it’s the smudge of whipped cream she licks off her top lip that makes her seem like someone I want to get close to. Still, I err on the side of caution and ask a less dangerous question. “What’s a surgeon doing treating a sprained wrist?”

She makes a disgusted face. “I lost a bet.”

I try not to laugh at her disgruntlement. “What was the bet?”

“Not telling.” What is telling, however, is the way she slips her phone back into her pocket as she utters the word, gaze catching on someone approaching from the hospital. “What, um...” She turns too, one leg bending slightly, and looks at me, her expression suddenly more engaged, more friendly. And entirely strange. “What happened to your wrist?” she asks. There’s a pause, then she carefully reaches over to tap the bandage with one finger. “What did you do?”

I try not to stare at the older man nearing the coffee cart, his eyes flickering between Dr. Jones, me and the barista.

In the ER I’d summed up the injury by saying I had an accident at the grocery store, and I’m not about to elaborate now. The good doctor doesn’t seem like the type of woman to go for a man who got bowled over by fruit. “Not telling,” I say. “Who is that?”

She stares innocently. “Who is who?”

“Susan.” We both look up at the older man when he speaks. He wears a white lab coat over his scrubs, a steaming coffee cup now in hand.

She nods politely. “William.”

He looks at me.

“Oscar Hall,” I supply after an awkward pause. We shake hands even more awkwardly, and he glances between Susan and me, assessing.

“Very nice to meet you,” he says finally. “I’ll let you get back to your...drinks.”

We’re quiet as he goes. When he’s far enough away not to overhear, I stare at Susan. “What was that?”

She’s trying to polish off her beverage as quickly as possible, wincing when she gets brain freeze. “What was what?”

The question fades away when she presses her free hand to her forehead and I see the crisp white line at the base of her ring finger. She’s married. Or very recently not, I suppose. I shake my head to clear it of any ridiculous disappointment. “That exchange,” I say, struggling to recall my question.

But Susan’s now holding out her left hand the way one would when showing off an engagement ring, except for the opposite reason. “Divorced,” she says, answering the real question. “Well, nearly. Three quarters of the way, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“It takes forever. You?”

“Not divorced.”

She slurps up the last of her drink. “Lucky you.”

I sip my iced tea and wait. The area is busy, people in brightly colored scrubs and rumpled lab coats coming and going. Many look at Susan, then me, then look away as though they’ve stumbled across a great secret. Many more look at Susan, frown, then look away. And the men who don’t appear to work at the hospital or already know Susan look at her, then look at me, then look at her again. She’s worth a second look, and she knows it. And she’s waiting for me to ask what I’ll bet every man she’s met since that wedding ring came off has asked.

“Nine fifteen?” I say instead.

She frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Nine fifteen,” I repeat. “That’s what the barista said when you picked up your drink. Do you have a standing order?”

“Oh.” She flushes slightly. “Yes. A standing order, a tab. Three fifteen, six fifteen, and nine fifteen, on the days I’m working.”

“You drink three of those a day?” I try not to gawk at her. The scrubs disguise her figure, but as far as I can tell she’s slender and still has all her teeth.

She shrugs. “Could be worse.”

“Could be so much better.”

She laughs a little. “The guy who came into the ER with two mystery injuries is trying to give me health advice?”

I smirk and lean in slightly. “Tell me what bet you lost and I’ll tell you about one of the injuries.”

She blinks, those long lashes brushing her cheekbones, casting a tiny spray of shadows on her smooth skin. “I’m winning a battle with a phone addiction,” she says finally, “but lately I’ve been busy and things have gotten a little out of hand. The bet was that I couldn’t go half an hour without checking my messages.”

“How long did you last?”

Her lips twitch and her eyes flit away. “Six.”

“Six
minutes
?”

“There’s been a lot going on.” She manages to look a little embarrassed, something I don’t think happens to her very often. “Anyway, if I lost I had to cover his—another doctor’s—shift in the ER for an hour.”

“Why? What’s he doing?”

The twitch turns into a half smile. “One of the pediatric nurses.”

My cock starts to find the conversation interesting. We haven’t known each other long enough for me to bring up sex, but if she initiates it... “Is that for real then? What we see on TV? Doctors and nurses hooking up in the on-call room?”

She’s pretty when she laughs. “It’s true for some people.”

“Not you?”

She lifts a shoulder but doesn’t answer, choosing instead to fix me with the same steady stare she’d pinned me with in the exam room. “Your turn.”

I blow out a disappointed breath. I was hoping she’d forget. And we could talk about sex. “What do you want to know?” I hold up my bandaged wrist. “This...” I imbue the word with as much boredom as possible, “or this?” I point to my swollen cheek and waggle my eyebrows for good, enticing measure.
Please pick the face.
Please pick the face.

Susan’s not fooled. “Wrist.”

Dammit. I sip my tea and look away. “I got run down by some fruit.”

“What?”

The sharp note in her voice makes me turn back, and I see that her dark brows are narrowed, her mouth turned down at the edges. The whole thing makes me want to run a thumb across her mouth, smoothing away the frown, repeating the action with my lips, my tongue. The apathy I’d been feeling before tonight is quickly being replaced by a very strong sense of curiosity. And lust.

“What?” I echo.

“Some
fruit
?”

I roll my eyes. God, she’s tough. “A crate of watermelons.” And it’s only when I see the understanding dawn in her eyes that I realize she thought I was being homophobic. I laugh, hard enough it makes my already sore face hurt even more, and she has to try to hide her own smile.

“Well,” I say, finishing my drink and standing. “Thank you for tonight. Maybe laughter
is
the best medicine.”

She looks up—way up, her eyes sliding from my hips over my stomach and my chest before finally meeting mine. Then she stands, too, and silently we measure each other. Her slight build is dwarfed beside me, but even with a nine-inch height difference, nothing about her feels small.

In fact, everything about her says she gives as good as she gets, that she can take a roundhouse kick to the face and get right back up. And damned if that doesn’t turn me on more than it should. Because I like fighters, always have.

The glint in Susan’s eye says she doesn’t hate what she’s seeing either, and I know she’s waiting for the pickup line that would typically follow this conversation. And I want to give it to her. I want to ask for her number, make plans to meet up when she’s not working and I’m not in dire need of additional painkillers.

But I don’t.

Because something tells me Dr. Jones is used to getting exactly what she wants, when she wants it, and I’m not that guy. I want a fight, and if I’m not mistaken, she could use one, too. “Good night, doc.”

One eyebrow lifts slightly as she recognizes the dismissal. I wait for her to say something but she doesn’t, sticking her hands in her pockets and staring up at me, stubborn.

And beautiful.

“Good night, Oscar,” she says. “Drive safe.”

I nod once and walk away, knowing she’s looking. At least, I hope she’s looking. Because I want her to remember this when I come back.

Chapter Two

Fitzgibbons & Sons is located on the top level of a two-story building. Downstairs is divided into three shops, one selling used clothes, the other two offering shoe and appliance repair, respectively. We’re located on a busy street lined with fast-food restaurants, car dealerships, gas stations and the like. It’s not pretty but it’s functional, and the relatively high amount of foot and car traffic makes it safer than other areas.

Most of the buildings in Camden max out at two floors, which gives me a decent view of the concrete jungle I call home. My office is located front and center, and normally there’s nothing outside to provide a distraction from my work. Today, however, I can’t stop myself from studying the abandoned building six blocks away, its dingy red brick façade making it stand out in the sea of gray. It’s a former tannery that’s been empty since I came back six years ago. The windows are blown out, the front door plastered with no-trespassing signs that have never been heeded, and the dirt lot out back is popular with pimps and dealers.

I drive by it every time I go to the gym, but it’s only recently that the for-sale-by-owner sign hanging out front started to feel like an actual possibility and not just somebody’s idea of a joke. The initial spark came from Rian, a friend of mine who’s the chef and owner of Mache 42, a popular Chicago restaurant. They have a rooftop garden that provides them with fresh produce, honey and eggs, and with the trend of eating organic only increasing, they do good business.

Somewhere on my forty-minute trips to Chicago for produce, I’d started thinking about the possibility of having something like that here. A rooftop garden to grow and supply fresh produce to Camden residents. The soil in the overgrown lot out back is too poisoned to grow food, but it could be—

“You mind if I leave for lunch a bit early?”

I glance at the clock, then at the door to my office, where Jade Romero stands, tottering on too-tall heels in a too-small dress. She looks younger than her twenty-four years, plays dumber than her 4.0 GPA and aspires to absolutely nothing. She was raised by her father, then, when he passed, her two older brothers took over. She knows how to fight, to fuck and to flee, none of which I know from personal experience.

For the past few years she’s taken to hanging out at the gym, flirting with most of the fighters, doing more than flirt with many of them. One day she approached me, said she’d heard my receptionist was going on maternity leave and asked if I had a job opening. If my sisters were still alive I’d want someone to give them a chance, so I hired her. I regret it.

“Oz?” she prompts.

“It’s ten thirty,” I tell her. “This is brunch, not lunch.”

“Well, you mind if I go for brunch, then?”

“There’s nowhere to get brunch in Camden. What are you really doing?”

She sighs dramatically, tugging at the hem of her short black dress. She’s got an amazing figure, and she makes sure everybody knows it. I’ve tried pointing out the importance of dressing professionally, but every time I bring it up I sound like a pervert trying to replace her dead father.

“Ricky’s looking at houses. I want to go with him.”

Ugh. Ricky runs a shop that sells only earphones, and likes to run around town flashing his cash and designer clothes. Unfortunately, in Camden, that makes him king. In his own mind. And Jade’s.

“I need you to finish the copies of the Templeton audit,” I say.

“I’m done.”

“Where are they?”

She nods at my desk. “Right there.”

Oh. Sitting in a neat pile on the corner of my crowded desk is a stack of paper with a note stuck on top that reads “Templeton Audit” in Jade’s scratchy penmanship.

“The people from Foster Automotive are coming in—” I begin, but Jade interrupts.

“I put them in the conference room. They have coffee. Please, Oz? I don’t feel so good.”

“You feel fine,” I say sternly.

“I just want to look at houses for a bit,” she tries instead. “I’ll come back in an hour.”

I shudder inwardly at the thought of what Ricky’s going to do to Jade for an hour while promising her a picket fence and a life he has no intention of providing. “You can do better than him,” I tell her.

“Thanks,” she says, for all the wrong reasons. “I’ll be back by noon.”

“Eleven!”

But she’s already gone.

* * *

The next two weeks pass slowly. My wrist hurts too much to fight so I take to running longer distances to keep up my workouts. Running is boring, but I tell myself it’s good practice for the race I’m signed up for on Sunday. Truth is, it’s mostly a good excuse to run by the abandoned tannery, squinting through the chain-link fence and trying to envision anything green growing in there. At present the only sign of life is the middle-aged guy stumbling out from behind the building, a woman dressed in sparkly clothing and shiny black boots hot on his heels.

By Wednesday my face has healed up enough that there’s just a faint yellow smudge on my cheekbone, not too obvious with the tan I’ve picked up from running. It’s a relief because I’ve got plans to meet Rian downtown at Mache 42 this evening, and I don’t want to show up looking like I got the crap beaten out of me on the way.

I’m not due at the restaurant until seven, but I arrive early to pick up my shoetag and number for the race, then at six I park at Chicago-Davis Hospital and stroll up to the coffee cart. The sun’s out but there’s a steady breeze, a welcome relief since I’m still dressed from work, jacket and tie left in the car, the top buttons on my white shirt undone. I order another iced tea and take a seat on the same bench I sat on last time, hoping for the same luck with the same woman. She’d told me her scheduled drink times, so if she’s working today, she should be along shortly. If not, I’ll move on. There’s curiosity, then there’s stalking.

I use the few minutes of downtime to respond to texts and emails, and I’m halfway through a reply to Jade—
No
,
you can’t add Ricky to your health insurance plan
—when a shadow falls over my lap. I look up to see the beautiful doctor staring down at me, chocolate monstrosity in hand, straw tucked between her lips as she drinks. She waits until I put away the phone.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she says.

“That’s my line.”

“You a fan of the iced tea?”

“No,” I say, letting my eyes coast over her. “Not the iced tea.” No scrubs today. She’s wearing faded blue jeans, flip-flops, and a loose black tank top that gives a hint of soft cleavage, but not nearly enough. The ponytail is still in place, no makeup and no jewelry apart from the simple watch wrapped around her wrist.

She smiles slightly as she sits beside me. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to pick up my things for the race this weekend.”

Her brow furrows. “What race?”

“Pace Yourself? There are signs everywhere.”

“Is it for some sort of cause?”

I scratch my neck. It always itches when the topic comes up. Hell, every part of me is uncomfortable when the topic comes up. I try to sound casual. “Aren’t they all?”

“I guess,” Susan says. “I never noticed any signs.”

“Anyway,” I say, anxious to change the subject. “I’m also meeting a friend nearby. Do you know Mache 42?”

She shakes her head.

“It’s a restaurant.”

Another shake.

“It’s very popular.”

She lifts a shoulder helplessly, but I think we both know she doesn’t care what’s popular or what’s not. Something tells me Susan’s world doesn’t extend much beyond the hospital and the coffee cart.

“Well, they have a rooftop garden,” I continue, “and I’m going to check it out.”

She uses the opportunity to check me out: blond hair cropped close, too-big body decked out in a clean button-up and dark gray trousers, polished loafers. Business casual, I suppose. “Did you wait here to tell me you had a date?” she asks, gaze landing on mine, steady and clear. I swear, those eyes will be the death of me. The dark lashes, the unblinking stare. She’s not flirting, but she’s jealous. And she’s not playing games. She saw me, she knew why I was here, and she came over. No hard to get. Just...hard.

I hold her stare, then smile slowly. “Jealous, doc?”

She doesn’t smile back. Instead her attention shifts to my still-bandaged wrist, then back up to what remains of the bruise on my cheek. “Who hit you last week?”

I laugh at the unspoken implication that I may have deserved it. “A guy at the gym.”

“On purpose?”

“Accidentally on purpose.”

“And watermelons sprained your wrist.”

“That’s right.”

“What are you doing here, Oscar?”

Bingo. She remembers my name. “You can call me Oz, doc.”

She studies me, assessing. “You can call me Dr. Jones.”

I freeze. Did I read this wrong? I thought we had some kind of nice spark last time, no reason to rush, careful not to fan the spark into smoke instead of fire. But if she merely thinks I’m a creepy stalker rubbing in the fact that I have a date—which I don’t—then I’m completely—

Her straight face gives out and she smiles, chuckling into her drink.

“Are you messing with me?”

“
I
think I’m funny,” she says, pulling out the straw and licking off the whipped cream that clings to it. “No one else does.” She rotates the straw, making sure it’s clean. The last time she did this there was nothing sexual behind it. This time, however, she knows better. We both do.

“Why’d you come over?” I ask.

“To say hi. Why’d you come?”

“To say hi.”

“Hi, Oscar.”

“Hi, Dr. Jones.” I check my watch. Six forty. It’ll take me fifteen minutes to navigate traffic to the restaurant and find parking. “I have to go.”

She stands before I do, but lingers, looking up at me. “Enjoy your date.” There’s something in her stare, perplexed, annoyed, but then she looks down to fish car keys from the leather satchel slung over her shoulder.

“Are you done for the night?” I ask.

“Yes. Pretty much.”

“When do you usually get off?”

A dry laugh. “When do I get off? Not often enough.”

My breath vanishes. Because she’s not talking about the end of her shift, she’s talking about sex. Again. And the faint pink flush in her cheeks and the fact that she hasn’t moved away from me says she might want to do something about it.

No, not might.

Does.

And I do, too.

“Doc,” I say.

“Susan,” she says.

“Susan,” I say. “Come with me.”

* * *

Mache 42 is tucked just off a busy intersection, far enough away from traffic to be quiet, close enough to be popular. Susan follows behind me in a little red car, and when we stop at a red light I glance in the rearview mirror to watch her. Her lips are moving fast, head bobbing...She might be rapping. She stops singing long enough to pop a fistful of something in her mouth, chewing absently as she peers out the window at the surrounding shops, expression mildly curious. A car horn beeps to point out that the light is green, so I pull forward and navigate the side streets until we find a couple of parking spots a few blocks away. I climb out of my SUV and wait for Susan on the sidewalk.

“Were you rapping?” I ask as she approaches. There’s a small fleck of something dark at the corner of her mouth, and I hesitate before pointing it out.

“Probably,” she says, dragging the back of her hand across her lips, vanquishing the fleck. “And thanks.” A pause then she adds, “Junior Mints. I was starving.”

I shake my head. “A doctor who raps. Do you rap for your patients?”

Her laugh is surprisingly humorless as we begin walking. “No. I save their lives, but apparently that’s not enough.”

“What does that mean?”

I look down to see her jaw tight, brows narrowed in annoyance. The expression smoothes as she visibly shakes off whatever’s bothering her. “Nothing,” she says, waving a dismissive hand. “What do you do, Oscar? You live in Camden but buy watermelons in Chicago?”

“You know much about Camden?”

“Only its reputation.”

We stop and wait for the light to change to cross the street. “We don’t have watermelons.”

“Do you have Junior Mints?”

I can’t help but laugh a little. “Yeah, Susan. We have Junior Mints.”

The light turns green, the walk signal appears, and we approach the restaurant. The three-story building has a tidy brick façade, planters brimming with green and white plants flank the front door, and enormous tinted windows reveal just enough to let us know the restaurant is full.

“After you,” I say, gesturing for Susan to enter first.

“I’m underdressed,” she remarks, peering around. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, and I suppose I should have known her jeans would be out of place in a restaurant with a three-month waitlist and a too-handsome-for-his-own-good chef.

“You look fine,” I tell her, meaning it. Dresses and high heels are nice, but I’ve had more than my share of both. “You look good.”

She shrugs. “It was just an observation.”

I nod at the hostess, prepared to tell her we’re here to meet the chef, but the chef himself beats me to it.

“Oscar Hall!” Rian McConnell emerges from the kitchen, dressed not in his chef whites, but in jeans and a T-shirt, his shaggy dark hair loose instead of tucked under his usual skull bandana. He’s the head chef but he takes Wednesdays off—the restaurant’s “slow” night, believe it or not, given the packed dining room—and tonight he’s dressed to give me a tour of the garden. Or us, rather.

I peer over at Susan. She’s gazing expectantly at Rian as he nears, hand extended. We shake and exchange greetings, then he turns his megawatt smile on Susan. “Rian McConnell,” he says, leaning in to kiss her cheek.

“Susan Jones,” she answers.

“You’re an accountant, Susan?” Rian looks...impressed. And interested. Dammit.

Susan frowns. “No. Why?”

“Because Oz here...” Rian gestures to me, and Susan looks up in surprise.

“You’re an accountant?”

Now Rian looks cheerfully confused. “Do you two know each other?”

Trying to
, I mouth over Susan’s head. “Let’s see this garden.”