The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) (24 page)

“Where’s your truck?”

I take a second to think about it. “On Grady,” I say. “Near Arthur. Near the Green—near the...place.”

Wyatt’s quiet for a minute. “What the hell happened?” he asks eventually, navigating the way through Camden’s side streets, eerily empty for a summer day.

I rasp out an achy laugh. “Which part?”

“The Green Space.”

I touch my tongue to my lip, the metallic tang of blood warm and familiar. Yeah, I’ll feel it tomorrow—and the next day, and the day after that—but nothing’s going to take away the satisfaction I felt when my fist connected with those smug faces, the give of soft flesh, the grind of bone. Just remembering it makes my adrenaline surge, like a junkie who’s been clean for years getting a taste of what he gave up. Wondering why anyone would ever quit.

And then I realize Wyatt’s taking the long way around so we steer entirely clear of Arthur Street and the debris of the Green Space, and I know why people run away. Jade’s brothers may be assholes who abandoned their sister, but maybe they know there’s nothing worth sticking around for, not even family. Hell—who am I to judge? I left my mother and sisters here to fend for themselves, and look what happened. I put on a suit and tie every morning, I sign paychecks and fork over money to the bank every month to pay my mortgage, but I’m no better than anybody else. I’m a product of this piece-of-shit town, the only difference is I wasted time trying to pretend otherwise.

“Let me call Susan,” Wyatt says when he parks in my driveway and I don’t get out. All I can do is stare at my tidy little house and know it’s dark and empty and that’s my future. You can take the kid out of Camden, but not for long. The guy who thought he could buy a building and grow a garden and fall in love with a doctor—he’s sitting in the front seat of a rusted out van, struggling to breathe, to see, to move. He can barely uncurl his bloodied fingers long enough to open the door, to step outside into the stifling air, shuffling one foot in front of the other until he’s at the front stoop and realizing he doesn’t have his keys.

I’d laugh if I didn’t feel like my chest would explode with the effort.

“I’ll go around back,” Wyatt says. “You got a window open somewhere?”

“Kitchen, probably.”

He disappears around back but I can’t stand up. Not with this heat and the way my head’s spinning.

“Hey.”

The creak of the screen door sends searing pain zigzagging up my spine to burrow in at the base of my skull. I squeeze my eyes shut and curse some more, letting Wyatt help me to my feet, guiding me inside the dim confines of my sturdy little home. I can’t make it to the bedroom so I stagger to the couch and lower myself to a sitting position, mumbling thanks when Wyatt turns the air conditioning on high.

“What’s Susan’s number?” he asks, pulling out his phone.

“You’re not calling Susan.”

“Why not? She’s a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor.” I don’t want Susan to see me like this. I don’t want her to see what remains of the Green Space. And I really don’t want the tragic reminder that she’s out of my league. That I overreached. That I made the same mistake with the Green Space that I made with her—I didn’t do my research. I just jumped in and they both made me look like an idiot. I know it’s not her fault the building got knocked down, just like it’s not her fault she’s gorgeous and smart and successful and I’m a fucking accountant in a shithole town and every time I see her it’s just another reminder that the world’s not fair.

“Oz? Wake up. I’m calling—”

“Don’t call anybody!” I snap, louder than I knew I could. Wyatt’s surprised too because he jumps back from where he’d been leaning in, trying to determine whether or not I’d lost consciousness.

But the world’s cruel, and I’m not passing out any time soon. Not until I sit here and all the fucking depressing parts of today sink in, crushing whatever little tendrils of hope had dared curl up out of the poisoned shadows of this town.

“Just leave me alone,” I mutter. My eyes drift closed, my breathing slow and even, and I know I’ll live. And that’s another kick in the face. I crack open an eye to see Wyatt’s blurry outline sitting in the recliner a few feet away, watching me nervously. “How’d you know where to come?” I ask. “Where I’d be?”

“Oreo,” he replies. “I parked at the gym when I saw what was happening, and he said you’d come by, something about Francisco cheating you. Wasn’t hard to figure out.” He’s quiet for a second, strumming his fingers on his knee. “Do I want to ask about that?” he asks. “If he’s...”

I laugh hoarsely. “Dead?” I supply. “No, he’s alive. So are the other guys. They’re holing up, licking their wounds. Same as me. A bunch of fucking losers, doing what we do best.”

“You’re not like them.”

I shudder when I exhale, like all my ribs are loose, a brittle skeleton ready to break apart at the slightest provocation. Because that’s just it, isn’t it? I
am
like them. I am exactly, miserably, the same. The only difference between the angry kid who left and the banged up guy sitting on this couch is that this guy knew when the fight was over, and actually stopped. But he still started it. And he still loved it. And he’s still dangerous. “You don’t need to stay,” I say. “Bring me some ibuprofen and a bottle of water, then go do whatever it is you do. I’ll be fine.”

“I’d feel better if Jade were here. I don’t think you’d dare die on her watch.”

So many alarm bells go off at that prospect. “You call Jade and I’ll kill you myself,” I warn him. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I—”

I fix him with a stare. “You want to talk about Jade?” I say, sitting up as straight as I can, which is approximately one percent straighter than before. “What’s going on with you two? From what I’ve seen, you won’t even give her the time of day, and now you can’t wait to call her.”

“For you,” he insists.

“What about you?”

“It’s not about me.” He stands. “Where’d you say the medicine was?”

I mumble something about the cabinet in the bathroom, then close my eyes and sink into the soft cushions, misery providing all the company I’ll ever need.

* * *

Wyatt’s still there when I wake up. The room is dark, just the light from the kitchen easing around the corner to confirm that my prayers have not been answered: I’m not alone and I haven’t died in my sleep.

At some point I must have lay down, because it hurts like a bitch when I inch into a sitting position. Wyatt gets out of the recliner like he’s about to help, but I wave him away, mostly because I might throw up and the only thing that could make this whole shitty day worse is hurling on the one person who’s naïve enough to try to help me.

“What time is it?” I mumble, carefully dragging the back of my hand across my mouth. I catch a whiff of myself; I reek. I smell like sleep and sweat and blood and failure.

“A little after nine,” Wyatt replies. He’s fidgeting and checking his phone.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” I ask.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Go,” I order, shoving to my feet, sheer willpower keeping me from toppling onto my face. “Thanks for staying, but I’m fine. See?” I pick up the bottle of ibuprofen from the coffee table and shuffle toward the kitchen. “I’ve got everything I need.”

My head feels like it’s going to split in half when I step under the fluorescent lights, and I wince and brace my hand on the wall while I wait for the pain to abate. Eventually I continue to the fridge, snagging a bottle of water and washing down a few more pills.

Wyatt lingers in the doorway, circles under his eyes, faint rusty smudges on his white T-shirt. I feel bad when I realize it’s my blood.

“Just go,” I say with a sigh. “Really. It’s fine.”

“What day is it?”

I shake my head and try not to laugh. Nothing’s funny, and my mouth hurts when I smile, anyway. “I assume it’s still Friday.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Five. Wyatt, you can go.”

He exhales heavily. “I wouldn’t leave you like this, but I’m—”

“It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, go do it. You’ve done more than you had to already.”

It takes another couple of minutes to convince Wyatt I won’t immediately die if he leaves, and a few more after that to convince myself. I’m not sure that’s the best news I’ve ever gotten, but I strip naked in the kitchen and stuff my ruined clothes in a trash bag before dragging my feet down the hall to the shower. I turn the water on lukewarm to start, barely able to tolerate the pressure at first, but eventually things ease up and the blood and sorrow circle the drain, enough that I can make the water warmer, letting it ease whatever hurts it can.

It should help, but all it does it wind me up again. Because when sadness and self-pity take a backseat, anger and frustration grab the wheel and eventually I’m trembling with it, and there’s only one way I know to make it stop. I climb out of the shower and don’t bother to towel off before heading into my room to toss on a pair of shorts. I tape up my hands, ignoring the shrieks of pain from my torn knuckles, and grab a six-pack of beer from the fridge before descending the stairs into the basement.

Down here it’s gray and cool, the large room unfinished, the same concrete that covers the city coating the walls and floors. A bare bulb hangs from a cord in the center of the room, and off in one corner is my target: a punching bag. Two hundred and fifty pounds of black leather and worn lettering, the welcome recipient of every ounce of my frustrations. I start slow, shifting my weight, mentally cataloguing my injuries so I don’t make things too much worse.

I drink and I swing, and when I nearly pass out from the pain, I drink some more. Sweat trickles down my temples and burns my eyes, the myriad fresh cuts, but I don’t stop. More beer, more energy. I go at it until I reach for a bottle and find the box empty, and only then do I realize I’ve been down here for hours and I can barely stand up.

I have to eat something before I pass out and justify all of Wyatt’s reasons for lingering. My knees are screaming when I climb the creaky wooden steps to the kitchen, my heart pounding too hard, blood roaring in my ears. That’s what I think I’m hearing when the knocking filters in, then I realize there’s someone at my front door. A glance at the clock on the microwave tells me it’s nearly midnight. I know the best thing for everybody is for me to go back in the basement and turn off the lights and play dead for a while, but I don’t.

I’m barefoot, sweaty, bruised and bloodied, my hands taped, a veritable Frankenstein stalking down the hall to pull open the front door to find Sheree on the other side. I’ll be honest—I thought it was Susan. I sort of hoped it was Susan. Now I’m gaping at Sheree like some kind of caveman seeing fire for the first time.

“Hi,” she says eventually. She’s wearing capri workout pants and a pink tank top, perfectly showcasing her trim figure. Her long hair is scooped up in a messy bun, and she’s wearing minimal makeup and no jewelry. Even before she says it, I know why she’s here. “Wyatt called me,” she explains. “He said you didn’t want Jade to know and you didn’t want a doctor, and he didn’t know who else to call. So I just...I don’t know. I’d feel bad if you died, I guess.”

I laugh wryly and after a second she smiles a little bit. This is just so fucking weird. “I’ll be fine,” I say, even though I wince when I laugh.

She looks me over. “Let me see for myself,” she says. “Five minutes. I don’t think Wyatt will sleep if I don’t tell him I at least checked.”

I shake my head even as I step back to let her pass. “Fucking Wyatt.”

I watch her ass as she heads down the hall into the kitchen, the only room with a light on. That’s the woman I should want. The one who grew up in Camden and knows exactly what this town is about. The one who does the best with what she has and doesn’t dream about more. She’s pretty, she’s nice. She’s here.

I sigh and close the door, following and taking a seat at the kitchen table when she tells me to. “Did he wake you up?” I ask as she tentatively feels around my scalp.

“Who? Wyatt?”

“Yeah.”

“No. I was at work. I had eight messages on my phone when I got off. I changed and drove over here.”

“I don’t know if you’re nice or crazy, Sheree. You hardly know me, and I’m a fucking mess.”

“No kidding.”

It hurts to breathe. My ribs hurt, my head hurts, my heart hurts. Everything
aches
.

“I have this leak in my kitchen,” she says after a moment. “One of the pipes is cracked, and the landlord won’t do anything about it. Wyatt said he’d come look at it if I did this, so here I am.”

“You—”

Another knock at the door interrupts us. “Fuck,” I mumble.

Sheree steps back and looks at me, waiting for instructions.

“Can you stay in here?” I ask as I stand, grimacing. “Out of sight?”

“Is that—”

“Yeah.” She doesn’t have to say Susan’s name; my shitty lucky guarantees that’s her. “If it were Jade, she’d have already thrown a brick through the window.”

Sheree shoots me a terse smile and slips back so she’s out of sight, and I trudge up front to do something I should have done a long time ago. I take a breath before opening the door, and sure enough, Susan’s on the other side. A small part of me is flattered she showed up, but mostly I’m miserable. I’m angry. I’m depressed. And evidence of that is stamped all over my body.

For a second Susan freezes, like she can’t believe I’m opening the door, then she can’t digest what she’s seeing. For a minute we just look at each other, Susan in her gauzy green dress, the soft fabric clinging to her tits and flowing all the way down to her feet, painted toenails and sparkly silver shoes peeking out beneath the hem. Her hair is down and loosely curled, making her look softer and younger, more vulnerable. But as always, it’s her eyes that get me. The eyes taking me in and assessing the situation, putting the pieces together and trying not to see the inevitable conclusion.

“What are you doing?” she finally asks.

I run my tongue over my teeth, tasting blood. “Working out.”

The porch light is on and a moth bangs into the frosted glass, its frustrated buzzing the only sound for a long minute. Behind Susan the street is dark and quiet, her little red car parked at the curb. I picture her leaving the gala, her shiny new award sitting on the passenger seat as she drove all the way out here in her fancy dress, not sure what she would find.