The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) (23 page)

“You know...” she begins, breaking off the kiss, her lips soft and shiny. “I didn’t buy all this extra rope accidentally.”

“Say that again?”

“You heard me.”

My pulse kicks into overdrive and I stare at her, heartbreakingly pretty and utterly serious. And picking up a length of rope from the floor, snapping it between her hands as though testing its strength. “You want me to tie you up? After...everything?” I ask cautiously. “What you just told me?”

My pulse jumps again when she shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I want to tie you.” I laugh nervously. I’ve played around with handcuffs and a few toys, but nothing serious. And never once have I been the one strapped to the headboard. “I don’t know, Susan. Let me do you.”

“You always do me,” she counters. “You don’t need the rope to hold me down. You’re so big and strong, with all these muscles...” She gazes up at me, wide eyed, as she strokes her hand under my shirt.

“You’re overdoing it,” I tell her, and she laughs, taking away her hand.

“I want to tie you down,” she says. “Remember that first night at your house when I was on top?”

“You didn’t need any rope for that.”

“You dragged me up to sit on your face. That wasn’t exactly me having control.”

“That was you having an orgasm.”

“Come on,” she says, taking a few steps toward the hall that leads to her bedroom. “What are you afraid of?”

“Susan.” I try to inject a note of warning into my voice, but it only sounds like pleading.

“What?”

I take a calming breath. She’s walking down the hall, leaving me no choice but to follow. Sure, I could bolt out the front door, but then I’d be stuck with a hard-on that’s worrisomely intrigued by this idea. “Have you ever done this before?”

I find her in the bedroom, shucking her shorts and top so she’s down to mismatched bra and panties, looking unfairly sexy.

“No, but I’ve always wanted to.”

“You and Stephen...”

“I’m not going to ask about the women you’ve been with, Oscar. And no, Stephen never let me tie him up.”

“What about the reverse?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because by the time the idea came up, I didn’t trust him enough to do it. Stop trying to change the subject. Take off all your clothes and lie down, hands over your head.”

God, she’s so beautiful. Blunt. Terrifying. And in spite of everything that’s happened, I trust her. I want to make her happy. But. “We’ve gotta set some ground rules,” I say, curling my fingers in the hem of my T-shirt. I came over here tonight looking for something, but never did I think I’d be negotiating getting tied up and sexed up.

“Okay. What?” She tosses the rope on the bed and comes over to undo my shorts, pushing them down around my ankles when I don’t move fast enough. I catch her wrist before she can go for my boxers; if she gets her hand on my dick I’ll agree to anything, common sense be damned.

“What do you want to do, exactly?”

“Tie your hands and feet to the—”

“Jesus, no.”

Her dark brows draw together. “What? I thought—”

“No feet, Susan. I’m not a fucking sacrifice.”

She rolls her eyes. “I guess I’ve had the wrong idea all along, then. I’ll call the cult and tell them I made a mistake.”

I’m nervous as hell. “Hands only,” I say.

“Okay. One foot?”

“Susan.”

She laughs. “Fine. Is that all?”

“No, that’s not all! What about...What about...” I look around, spotting her phone on the dresser. “No pictures,” I say firmly. And maybe a bit hypocritically, I realize when she scowls at me.

“I wasn’t going to take a picture,” she replies. “Is video okay?”

“Stop making jokes. You know you’re not funny.”

“I’m hilarious.” She pulls off my shirt and I let her, my head dropping back when she runs the flat of her tongue over my nipples, one hand sliding along my ribs to trail up and down my spine.

“Okay, you’re sort of funny, but don’t try anything extreme, okay? Do you have any...props you’re planning to use?”

“Just my fist.”

“Susan!”

She’s doubled over laughing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just want to call the shots, that’s it. I want to know you can’t grab me and take control. I want to kiss and lick and suck everything I want, until you beg me to stop. Is that okay? No games. No props. No pictures. And if you really don’t want to, we can still have sex. No hard feelings.”

“I can’t believe I’m considering this.”

She yanks down my boxers. “Why don’t you consider it on the bed?”

I crawl slowly to the center of the mattress, then lie down, hands stretched out to either side of the heavy wrought iron headboard. I watch warily as she picks up one long piece of rope, climbs up next to me and starts to tie. “Do you know how to tie proper knots?” I ask, flexing my wrist as she works.

“Of course. Haven’t you ever been yachting?”

“
What?
No, I haven’t been fucking yachting.”

She clambers over me and secures the other wrist. I tug, testing the bonds, but they’re not going anywhere. I’m tied down, at the mercy of Dr. Susan Jones. I can’t decide if it’s the best decision I’ve ever made, or the worst.

“Okay,” she says, sounding pleased. “Now where did I start last time? Oh, that’s right. Down here.” She rounds to the end of the bed and sits cross-legged with my feet in her lap. Just like before she lets the heel of one foot press against her pussy, the damp heat already radiating through the fabric of her panties. She picks up the other foot, slowly running her thumbs over the sole, and I tense.

“Is this going to hurt again?”

“It’s going to feel so good,” she assures me, pressing a kiss to my ankle.

Then she begins to torture me. She fulfills her promise to kiss and lick and suck every inch, starting at my toes and working her way up my leg, stopping at the top of my thigh before making her way back down to start on the other side. “First things first,” she says then, tucking my freshly tormented heel against her slit as she massages the other foot. “I need an orgasm before I continue.”

“Please come up here,” I groan. “Sit on my cock. Have all the orgasms you want.” My cock is screaming for release. Unconsciously my hands jerk downward, searching for either Susan or my dick, wanting to strangle both of them, unable to reach either.

“Hold still,” she murmurs, dropping her legs open so I can see the wet mark on the gusset of her pink panties. The spot is immediately obscured by my foot, positioned just so, letting me feel her tender flesh beneath the fabric. She anchors herself with one hand on the mattress behind her, the other on my not-yet-tormented leg, and slowly grinds herself against my heel. It doesn’t take long before she tosses her head back and shudders as an orgasm washes over her, so fucking hot I feel myself tremble in anticipation.

“Susan,” I bark when she straightens, blinking and dazed. “Climb the fuck up here and get me off.”

More blinking, then a small, mischievous smile. “That’s not how this works, buddy.” She starts in on my other foot, her fingers and tongue working in tandem to kill me.

Shit. We didn’t come up with a safe word. “Susan.”

“Mmm-hmm?” She licks the inside of my knee, one hand slipping up my thigh until her knuckles bump my balls, so tight it almost hurts.

“We need a safe word.”

I feel the soft exhalation of air against my overly sensitized flesh as she laughs. “Okay. What do you want to use?”

My mind goes completely blank when I feel her tongue on my balls.

“Oscar?” she prompts. “Safe word?”

“Oh, Jesus, make me come.”

“Not yet. And you can’t use a safe word just to get an orgasm. You can only use it if you’re in pain or truly uncomfortable. And I don’t plan to cause you any pain. And I do intend to make you come.”

“Susan, I’m in so much pain.”

She takes mercy on me then and fastens her mouth around the head of my cock, her tongue stroking, everything hot and wet and perfect.

Until she stops.

“It’s my professional opinion that you’re going to be fine,” she says, an evil glint in her eye. “And if you stop bitching, you’ll be even better.”

My head thrashes against the pillow and I take deep breaths to calm myself. I want so many dirty things right now. I want to break out of these ropes and flip her over, hands on the floor, ass in the air, and ram into her hard. Ten strokes, max, before I come.

Or I want to break out of these ropes and fold her legs over my shoulders and shove inside her deep and heavy, making her wail as she comes until she passes out, leaving no question about who’s really calling the shots. But most of all I want to do this for her. I want to see that light in her eye and the flush staining her chest, her tight nipples poking through the blue lace of her bra, the moisture seeping through her panties. I want to be the man that does this to her. For her. With her.

“Please,” I mumble, turning my head to bite my own arm to stop myself from begging pathetically as she licks her way over my stomach, tongue tracing the grooves of my hipbones, the scar I got when someone stabbed me at a party when I was sixteen. She’s already heard the story, and other women have kissed that fine white line, too, but Susan’s the first one to take off her bra and nestle my aching cock between her tits while she does it.

“Susan!” I beg. “Doc. Enough. I need to—” I break off when she rises onto her knees and finally discards the panties, showing me her pussy.

With my erection pressed against my stomach, she very carefully straddles my ribs and lowers herself, sliding back and forth over the underside of my cock, flooding me with hot moisture and desperate, aching need. When she decides I’m slick enough she stops and eases back, using her hand to jack me, watching the swollen head of my cock as more precome beads there, an unmistakable plea.

She lifts up and spreads her legs, pushing two fingers inside her pussy. I’m so fucking jealous and horny. I want to be those fingers. I want to be the thumb rubbing her clit, the shiny juice leaking over her hand.

“I’m so turned on,” she gasps, finger fucking herself. “You did this to me.”

“Suze—”

Her gaze is locked on her other fist, still jacking me off. “I want to see it.”

“No. Don’t. I want to be inside you. I’m going to—”

I break off when the second orgasm overtakes her, her hand moving feverishly between her legs as she cries out. She stops stroking me when she comes, and now my hips buck instinctively as I watch, in desperate need of the most primitive type of release.

“I’m going to come soon, Susan,” I gasp when her gaze finally refocuses on my face. “I want you to get up here and untie me so I can be inside you when I do.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? Get up here.”

“I want to see,” she says, chewing on her lower lip. “You watched me. Now it’s my turn.”

I can’t look away when she slides her slick, wet fingers out of her snatch and uses that hand to cup my balls. Her eyes lock on mine when she slides a finger down to tease my backdoor, though she merely smiles and stops when I shake my head. Instead she wraps those fingers around my straining cock, stroking so, so slowly I could kill her.

“I want it inside you,” I mutter, head lifted from the pillow, shaking with the effort. “I want to come inside you.”

“Too bad. I want to watch.”

“Susan.”

“Mmm-hmm?”

My head flops back, the pillow damp with sweat. “I swear to fuck, Susan, if you make me come on myself, you’re licking it all up.”

She laughs and strokes harder, straddling one thigh and pressing her pussy against my bare flesh. Oh fuck. I’m going to come.

“I can’t—” I grit out the words through my teeth, back arching off the bed as I explode. It feels endless, sensation sizzling through every part of me, every muscle shuddering with exertion, all my energy channeled through my cock and spurting over my stomach, thanks to Susan’s slick fist.

I blink rapidly, sweat stinging my eyes when I try to clear away the black spots obscuring my vision. I think I might have died for a minute. Slowly her face comes into focus and I see her smile as she takes in the splashes of come on my stomach. New adrenaline surges through my veins, my voice brooking no argument when I order her to lick it up. “I warned you,” I tell her. “I told you what would happen.”

“I’m the one calling the shots,” she reminds me. Then she lowers her head. “But just one, for your spank bank.”

I shiver uncontrollably as I crane my head to watch her pink tongue slip out to trace through the mess on my stomach. She watches me as she swallows, and I don’t care how many times she kills me. I’ll die happy.

As soon as I have the thought, she stands and heads for the door. “Where are you going?” I call. “Susan? What are you doing? I swear to God, I will Hulk out of these—” She disappears without a word, and the threat goes unfinished. I jerk against the ropes but they’re not budging, and I feel them chafe my skin. “Sus—”

She returns, a pair of scissors in hand. I bring up my knees protectively as she snips the scissors open and closed, the sharp sound making my heart pound. But she merely goes to the headboard and saws through the rope at my wrists. “I lied about yachting,” she says. “I just made up how to tie these knots, and given how much you pulled at them, I think they’re probably too tight for me to untie now.”

My muscles go slack as she frees both hands, then tosses aside the rope and grabs some tissues from the nightstand to tidy me up before joining me on the bed.

“Was that okay?” she asks eventually. I feel like I just survived a near-death experience, like a guy whose parachute opened fifty feet from the ground but who spent the previous twenty thousand feet screaming at the top of his lungs, preparing to die.

“Susan,” I mumble, turning to bury my face in her neck. “You’re a sadist.”

And it’s only when she snuggles into the crook of my arm and I feel the weight of her head on my shoulder that I realize that it’s the
only
thing weighing on me. For the first time in a long time, I feel like everything is going to be okay.

Chapter Fifteen

All too soon, it’s time for Susan’s fundraiser. In order to get changed and navigate rush-hour traffic into Chicago, I’m only working a half day. To compensate for the lost time, I head in to work early, arriving shortly before eight. I like the office this way, dark and quiet, no one around as I flip on lights and take a second to appreciate things. My life is in a good place, finally. I’m fighting, I’m fucking, I’m fundraising. If it starts with F, I probably like it.

I bite into an apple and make my way to my office, fiddling with my phone as I wait for the computer to power up. Camden’s awake at this time of day, the white noise of cars, buses and pedestrians filling the air, but what we don’t normally hear is development. Construction. Wrecking balls.

That’s what I see first. From the corner of my eye, something large swoops down, swinging right toward the Green Space. I turn in slow motion, the apple slipping from my fingers, and stare in shock at the destruction that sits where the Green Space used to stand. Because there’s no more green. No plants, no grass—no building. It’s a gaping hole in the concrete sea, a sickening void where we’d been building up hope.

I run out of the office and jump in my car, burning rubber the whole way over. I can’t even get on the block because of the construction vehicles. There are big orange caution signs announcing the detour, unnecessary flashing lights informing passerby that there’s a demolition in progress. I park and hurry down the road, covering my mouth with my sleeve to avoid breathing in the dust and chemicals hovering in the air. The construction workers mostly ignore me as they prepare for the next phase of the project, dump trucks at the ready, waiting to cart away debris.

I stand on the opposite sidewalk and stare at the ruins of the Green Space, piles of bricks and dirt, the occasional flicker of color where a dying plant pokes out of the rubble. I can barely breathe. I’m doing well just to remain standing. I feel like I did when I got that knock on my door in college and learned everything I loved was gone. No warning. No time to prepare. Just...over.

“Hey. Buddy. Can we help you?”

It takes a second for the words to penetrate, and when I turn the big construction foreman is approaching, phone pressed to his ear. He hangs up when he nears and I see a couple of other guys lingering behind, just in case.

“What...” I shake my head to clear the ringing in my ears. “What’s going on here?”

“What does it look like?” He retrieves a folded sheaf of papers from the back pocket of his jeans and waves them in front of me as though I’ll somehow be able to read the pint-sized writing. “Demo orders. Condemned building.”

“It’s my building.”

“It’s your building?” He laughs without humor. “Then I guess you already know, huh?”

“No.” I can’t stop staring at the wreckage. “There’s some sort of mistake.”

He sighs and looks me over. The suit and tie do their job and convince him that maybe I’m not just some nutjob wandering by to interrupt his day. He unfolds the paper and skims, then turns the top page over so I can see. It’s a permit for a commercial demolition. It’s got this address, 4411 Arthur Street. And just in case it wasn’t perfectly, horrifyingly clear, next to the words “Work Description” it reads “Remove office building.” Which they have done.

“Don’t you...Don’t you have to notify people?” I hear myself ask. “Shouldn’t there be signs? Some sort of warning?”

“Yes and yes,” he says, nodding at the electrical poles and fence that line the road in front of the Green Space. Sure enough, there are little white papers flapping in the breeze, papers that most definitely weren’t there yesterday or any of the days before. I want to kill this guy. I want to blame someone for whatever the fuck just happened here, and he’s the closest person. But I know he’s not the problem. Whatever’s going on, he’s just a guy showing up to do his job, paperwork in order.

“Why are they doing this?”

He scratches his ass. “Unofficially, the city wants the land to use as a dumping ground. The soil’s fucked from the tannery, so they figure why not make it worse. But you didn’t hear that from me.”

“What do I...Who...”

He takes pity on me and peels off the yellow carbon copy of one of the bottom papers. “Details are on here. You want to question the work order, contact information’s all there.”

“This is my building,” I say. “I bought it.”

He jabs a thick finger at a spot near the bottom of the paper. It was filled in with pen, the scrawl barely legible. “Are you Frisco Bay Properties Inc.?”

I frown. “No.”

“Then you’re not the owner, my friend. Now, you’ve gotta clear out.”

I reach for my phone to take a picture of the destruction, but my pocket is empty. I want to call somebody, call Susan, call Jade, call whatever authorities deal with this kind of...issue, but I’m not sure what anyone could do at this point. I don’t understand how this could happen, only that it did.

I walk toward Titan’s, where I know Oreo will let me use his phone. Except when I get there the place is still locked up. It’s not even nine o’clock.

“Fuck!” I shout, slamming my fist into the metal door, enjoying the shuddering pain, the way I feel something more than shocked and lost and embarrassingly helpless. Because I don’t know what to do right now. I don’t know how an hour ago I thought I had everything and now I have a pile of bricks that may or may not even belong to me. Because if they don’t...Where the hell is my money?

I turn to jog back to my SUV just as a rusted old car rolls past, driver’s window down. Marco’s grinning he slows. “You want your typed invoice, motherfucker?” he calls, flipping up his middle finger. “Here it is!” He hits the gas and roars away, his laughter wafting back to haunt me.

A second screech of tires has me turning to see Oreo’s battered pickup squeal into the lot. He parks and jumps out. “I just heard,” he says as he nears. “What the hell’s going on?”

I can’t decide where to start. “I don’t know if I own the property,” I say, staring at the paper in my hand. “They said something named Frisco Bay Properties owns it and okayed the demolition.”

“No.” Oreo shakes his head firmly. “No way. That’s not possible. I heard you talking to Francisco. I know you paid for it.”

We freeze at the same time, hearing the words out loud. Francisco. San Francisco. Frisco Bay. Oh fuck.

“I have to use your phone,” I say. “I don’t know where I left mine.”

“Sure,” Oreo says, unlocking the door. “Use whatever you want. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Marco drove past,” I add, following him inside the dank, smelly gym. “He seemed pretty happy.”

“Marco’s Francisco’s second cousin or something,” Oreo tells me. “You think he knew about this? Had something to do with it? The fire and all the rest?”

I stop midstride. “What?”

“What what?”

“They know each other?”

“Everybody here knows each other.”

“You think it was some kind of set up? Fake-sell me the building, get me to hire Marco and pay him for his half-assed work?”

“What’s the point?”

“The point is, he takes my money for the building, then sells the land to the city and gets paid twice.”

“Didn’t you sign a contract?”

“Of course we did. It’s at home. I had a fucking lawyer look at it.”

“Any chance that lawyer was related to Francisco?”

I shake my head. “Definitely not. I used someone in the city. No way he could predict that.” The chill of shock is wearing off, turning into a simmering rage I have to work to keep under control. No point flipping out until I talk to Francisco. And now that I’m in Oreo’s office, staring at his phone, I realize I can’t talk to Francisco, because I don’t have my phone, and that’s where his number is.

I turn over the paper in my hand and squint at it. There’s no phone number, but I recognize the address scrawled beneath Frisco Bay Properties. It’s about twelve blocks from here, a shitty place in an even shittier part of town. “I’ve gotta go,” I tell Oreo.

“What about the phone call?”

I can’t stomach the thought of walking past the destroyed Green Space to get my car, so I run the twelve blocks, undoing my tie as I go. I take off my jacket around block five, and have sweated through my shirt by block ten. The farther I run the angrier I get, the more my grief morphs into fury, the way it had so long ago. But I’m not a twenty-one-year-old kid looking to drown his sorrows in a bottle of Jack. Those days are behind me. What’s not behind me is the burning need to fight someone, to use my fists to express my feelings when words are inadequate. And though I’ve worked long and hard to control that need, right now I feel no such urge. Whatever happens here, happens. Beginning, middle, end of story.

I slow as I reach Francisco’s house, a rundown single story bungalow painted pale yellow. The lot next door has been razed, just a large patch of dirt with a few scraggly dandelions popping up. The front porch is listing and the screen door is propped open with a rock, the sickly sweet smell of marijuana filtering out alongside canned applause from a game show playing on an unseen television.

There are two cars in the narrow driveway, Marco’s and one I don’t recognize. I stalk to the porch and stop at the base of the steps, yelling through the doorway. “Francisco!”

A pause. The television shuts off, then Francisco materializes from the gloom. He’s wearing a red T-shirt and black boxer briefs, his eyes red-rimmed. The first time we met I thought he looked like a toad, with bulging dark eyes and a protruding stomach, skinny arms and legs. Then he’d represented an opportunity; now he’s an obstacle. Now he’s the guy who may have fucked up something very important to me.

“Oz,” he says, his grin showing grimy yellow teeth. “Surprise, surprise.”

I hold up the paper. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on with what?” He’s trying not to laugh. I’m trying to remind myself to ask questions first, throw punches later, but this guy is making it hard. This is some big joke to him. My life’s in tatters, and he’s smirking. The last time someone ruined my life he died before I could get to him.

“You sold me that property, but this paper says it still belongs to you.”

“Does it?” He doesn’t even glance at the paper. He already knows what I’m talking about.

“What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know, pal. You seem to think you own something that belongs to me.”

“I paid you. We have a contract.”

“Nah,” he says, scratching his stomach. “I think you misunderstood. You paid me half, and then we agreed that you’d pay the second half after thirty days. You didn’t pay, so the building’s still mine. And so is your money.”

I cannot believe what I’m hearing. Is he trying to convince me this is true? Does he think I’m recording the conversation? “No,” I say firmly, still trying to be civil though I know it’s a wasted effort. “You’re remembering incorrectly, Francisco. I bought that building outright. I put a lot of time and money into it, and you’re going to need to reimburse me for my trouble.”

Francisco busts out laughing. “Reimburse you? Can you hear this guy?” He glances over his shoulder and Marco slinks out of the darkness to stand next to him.

“I hear him,” Marco sneers. “I heard him loud and clear the other day, too. When he threatened me.”

“Uh-oh,” Francisco says, a mocking note in his voice. “Did you threaten my cousin?”

“You don’t want to make me do this,” I say, even as my fists curl in anticipation. Because I
want
to do this. I want to do to them what they did to the Green Space. I want to walk out of here knowing they’ll never get up again, that they’re just two crumpled bags of bones and blood, wasting less space than they did when they were standing. Francisco’s fat and stoned, Marco’s skinny and stoned. Neither one of them are any match when I step onto the porch.

Francisco arches a brow in challenge, his smug expression replaced by shock when I hit him. My fist sinks into his bloated stomach and he gags, eyes bulging even more than normal. I hit him again, this time in the face, hearing the satisfying splinter of bone on bone.

Marco’s standing there stunned when I land the first blow, and he slumps to his knees muttering something through bloodied lips.

I hear the footsteps when it’s too late. The house was dark and quiet, but the three guys creeping up the hall to check on their friends were even quieter. When they jump me, I finally get the fight I’ve been missing. Teeth and ribs crack, blood flows, bones break. It hurts and it’s glorious and I never want to stop.

* * *

Wyatt’s the one who finds me. I’m sitting on the curb, my shirt bloodied, a hole ripped in my pants, my suit jacket gone, probably for good. One eye is swollen most of the way shut and my lower lip is so busted I can barely grimace when I watch him cruise down the street in his creepy white van. I stand painfully slowly, but that has more to do with the overwhelming sense of failure that’s crushing me than any of my injuries.

“What the hell?” he asks, jumping out and rounding the van. He braces a hand on the hood as though he’s the one who needs support right now. For a long moment we just stare at each other. Then he reaches for his phone.

“Don’t,” I say, cracking open the fresh scab at the corner of my mouth and tasting blood. “Don’t call her.” It says a lot about Camden that I’m more worried about Wyatt calling Jade than the police.

His mouth opens but nothing comes out. Then he puts the phone in his pocket and opens the door. “You need help getting in?”

Yes. “No,” I lie. I could cry, it hurts so much to boost myself into the passenger seat, but I manage with only a muffled string of curses I’ll probably go to hell for.

“You gotta see a doctor,” Wyatt says when he climbs in the driver’s seat. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

I know I’m not in the best frame of mind right now, but this isn’t exactly my first time being beaten up. Everything hurts, but until I’m pissing blood, I’m not worried. What I am is...sad. I’m so fucking
sad
I can barely feel anything else. Still I muster up the brain power to say, “No hospitals. No doctors. Just take me home.”