The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) (26 page)

I want to see her and I don’t. And as I push the card around on the table, the last one in need of a signature, I realize it’s really not up to me. This is an invitation, and even if she gets it on time, she’ll probably just set it on fire. I’m the one who slammed the door on this relationship, and no amount of overpriced stationery can undo what I did.

I sigh and pick up the pen. It’s a silly gesture, but what’s the harm, right? I stare at the blank line at the bottom of the invite, the space I’ve been scrawling
O.
Hall
nonstop. O. Hall because it’s a tedious task and I didn’t want to write my full name forty times. But now I stare at the paper and I know I can’t write O. Hall for Susan. She deserves more than that.

I was Oscar when I left, but I was Oz when I came back. Susan’s the only one to ever confuse the two. But is she the confused one, or am I? Because I can’t decide who I am anymore. I liked Oz because he represented all the good things, all the potential and promise of my bright new future. Scholarships and awards, promotions and corner offices. New cars, pretty women, fancy restaurants, tailored suits. But I haven’t been that guy for a long time. Sure, I have a corner office, but it’s in a shitty building. I had a pretty girlfriend, but I fucked that up monumentally.

Oscar’s the guy who loved his mom and his sisters, who grew twice as big as he should have, who learned how to fight, and sometimes did it well, and sometimes did it terribly. He’s the guy who stole a six-pack of beer and got bored on a Friday and did something he’ll never outrun. And still somehow he got the hell out of Camden and started over, got far enough away he thought it was safe to come back. But it wasn’t. And the guy that came back didn’t know how to be here anymore, didn’t know how to survive. If I’m going to stay, I have to know how to fight. To recognize the right things to fight for. Guys like Francisco aren’t worth it. A stubborn doctor who makes me work for every inch?

I set my jaw and scrawl
Oscar Hall
on the bottom of the invite.

Chapter Seventeen

The invitation comes back three days later. At first I think it must have been addressed wrong, because RETURN TO SENDER is scratched across the front in angry red letters. But the envelope doesn’t feel right. It’s lumpy and uneven, and when I turn it over I see a strip of tape holding the flap down.

I take it into the house and dump my groceries on the kitchen counter, sparing a scowl for the thriving jalapeno, then grab a bottle of water while I study the envelope. It’s obvious that somebody opened it, and if that somebody is Susan Jones—excuse me, Susan Dufresne—then this could be poison. Or a bunch of squished up dead bees.

I gulp back the water then slice open the envelope, carefully pouring the contents onto the table. It’s...my invitation. Torn into approximately a hundred thousand tiny pieces. I recall the last time I’d seen Susan handle an invitation, how sweetly she’d checked off the boxes to indicate she had a plus one, how carefully she’d sealed it and set it aside to send back. So she knows how to RSVP. And she clearly knows how not to. I sigh and sweep the pieces back into the envelope, then stick it under a magnet on the fridge as a reminder.

I decide to go for a run. I’m mostly healed from the fight with Francisco and his friends, but Oreo still won’t let me back in the ring, and I need to burn off this sudden energy. I swap my work clothes for shorts and a T-shirt, then head out. I do my best to clear my mind as I wind my way through town, the streets still busy as people head home from work, walk their dogs and try to take advantage of the nice weather.

An hour later I head back, turning onto my street and frowning as I see a skinny figure dressed in dark clothing dart down the block in the opposite direction. I didn’t see which house they were leaving, but they’re near enough to mine that I come to the only reasonable conclusion. An icy sort of calm takes over as I jog closer. I glance at the houses I pass, but nothing looks out of order. In fact, as I walk up the drive, my house looks completely normal, with the exception of the large paper bag sitting in front of the door.

I stop and force myself to exhale, unclench my fists and not turn around looking for a fight. A paper bag. What’s inside? A bomb? Hardly. Not in Camden. If Francisco wanted revenge, he’d send someone in the middle of the night. So then what? Bees?

I wish.

I approach slowly, listening, looking, but the street is empty, no one loitering to watch whatever’s about to unfold. I breathe out cautiously, then nudge the bag with the tip of my sneaker. Nothing. No writhing snakes burst out, no sudden explosion. There’s something in there, though. It’s heavy enough to keep the bag from blowing around in the light breeze but not so heavy it didn’t give when I touched it.

I look around again, but no suspicious witnesses have materialized. I utter a silent prayer and flip open the top of the bag, then leap back in case something jumps out.

Nothing does.

I warily approach, a little embarrassed to be a 6’4” fighter who’s afraid of a bag, but so it goes. I squint to make out the contents, and after a second I realize it’s...money.

Stacks and stacks of cash.

I shake my head in case I’m seeing things, but when I look again, it’s still there. A shopping bag half full of money. On my doorstep. In broad daylight.

What the ever-loving fuck?

I tiptoe around the bag and go inside to grab my phone, returning to the porch to sit down, eyeball the money bag and call Oreo.

“Who’s this?” he says by way of greeting. In the background I can hear the familiar din of gym sounds, grunts and smacks echoing in the cavernous space.

“It’s me,” I say. “I’ve got a bag of money sitting on my front step.”

“I don’t know who ‘me’ is, but tell me your address,” Oreo replies.

“It’s Oz, you ass. There’s a paper bag full of cash just sitting here, and I don’t know why and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Huh.” I hear muffled words and figure he’s covered the mouthpiece as he talks to someone. I don’t realize he’s told them about the money until he comes back and says, “Okay. We’ll be right there.”

“What? We? Who the hell—Don’t tell Jade about th—”

But he hangs up and leaves me staring between my phone and the mystery bag, not sure which threat is worse: the contents, or the arrival of Oreo and friends.

I get an answer in ten minutes, when Lupo pulls up in a brand new car, Oreo riding in the passenger seat, green tracksuit in place. Lupo’s wearing workout gear and they look like extras in some gritty boxing movie, not the guys a smart person would call for help.

“That’s it?” Oreo asks, stopping at the base of the steps, Lupo right beside him.

“That’s it.”

“You count it?” Lupo asks.

“Count it? I’m not putting my hand in there!”

“Why? You think there’s dog shit on the bottom? That’s an expensive prank.” He squats down and uses two fingers from each hand to hold open the bag as he peers inside, then sniffs. “Smells fine.”

“I wasn’t worried about dog shit, Lupo.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“If you found a bag of cash on your doorstep, wouldn’t you wonder who the hell put it there? And why? And what the catch was?”

Lupo shrugs and jiggles the bag. “It’s just money, man. And a lot of it.” He glances over his shoulder. “Let’s go inside and count it.”

“Yeah,” Oreo agrees. “Good idea.”

“
Go inside and count it?
” I echo incredulously. “What if—”

But they’re already marching past me with the bag, no doubt adding up the ways they can spend this newfound loot.

Oh Jesus.

* * *

“Three hundred and fifty thousand?” Lupo repeats the number half a dozen times, looking more shocked with each iteration.

Oreo’s less impressed by the figure, which is not to say uninterested. “That’s a lot.”

We’ve been counting and sorting so long it’s gotten dark outside, and now we’re gathered around my kitchen table, the invitation signing replaced by a seedier task. The bag was full of bills, random, unmarked, ranging from fives to hundreds. We’ve got it arranged in stacks, and counted it three times just to be sure. With each counting, I realize I know exactly what this is.

“Francisco,” I announce to no one and everyone.

Oreo frowns at me. “What now?”

“It’s Francisco,” I tell him. “This is what I paid for the building.”

Lupo scratches his brow. “So it’s...a refund?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Why the hell would he give you your money back? Did you go see him again?”

I shake my head. “No. I didn’t even go to the police.” Not only was I too busy feeling sorry for myself, I didn’t think pointing the police toward Francisco and his friends and their freshly broken bones was the wisest thing to do. As for what I
was
going to do...well, I hadn’t quite gotten that far.

“Then why—”

“Dean,” Oreo interrupts.

Both Lupo and I look at him. “What?”

“You think Dean threatened Francisco? Why would he—”

“Not Dean, geniuses. His wife. The lawyer.”

I can’t imagine why Dean would go out on a limb for me when he has a new life of his own to look after, but neither Lupo nor I argue as Oreo pulls out his ancient cell phone and punches in a number.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Sure did. Sounds about right. Figures. Okay. Bye.” He hangs up and stares at us each in turn with his one good eye. “Francisco got served.”

“What?”

“With a lawsuit,” he adds. “From that big firm Dean’s wife worked at. I’ve been there. It’s fancy. If they wrote you a letter, you’d listen to it too. Apparently they told Francisco to give you back your money or they’d sue him.” He nods at the money. “So here you are.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “Oh my God.”

“Guess you don’t need a fundraiser anymore,” Lupo says.

I freeze at the mention of a fundraiser, then slowly turn my head to look at my fridge. Pinned in place by a magnet shaped like a bunch of bananas, Susan’s non-RSVP hangs on the door. It reminds me of the time she
did
RSVP. For two events.

I look at my new bag of money.

* * *

On Friday night I drive into the city, praying I don’t sweat through my brand new suit. I decided against wearing one of my old ones and bought this off the rack, paying through the nose to have the alterations completed in time. It’s dark gray and paired with a navy silk tie, which, at the moment, feels like a very expensive noose. I tug at my collar and make the turn into the underground parking garage at one of Chicago’s most elite hotels. The hospital had a website to promote the auction, and because I didn’t tell Susan I was coming and she’d never forwarded me the invitation, I’d had to do a bit of digging to find out where this thing was being held. I also have to do a fair bit of praying, hoping she forgot to have my name removed from the guest list. If the six-figure cars being parked by valets in maroon suits and tiny hats are any indication, this thing is a big deal, and I can’t imagine they’re letting just anyone in. Especially Camden accountants with mostly healed bruises.

I find a spot on the second level and park, taking a deep breath before climbing out and following the signs for the elevator. It’s a muggy late August night, the sun only just starting its descent, and I wipe beads of sweat from my temples as I step into the car and push the button for the lobby. Accosting a woman at an auction might seem like a bad idea, but I don’t really know where else to approach her. I mean, Susan’s a doctor—stalking her at the hospital seems like a good way to get arrested. And I know she’s getting her daughter back any day now—I don’t want to be the strange man with a black eye showing up at her door unannounced. So showing up here in an overpriced suit with several hundred thousand dollars burning a hole in my pocket—not literally; I’m an accountant, for crying out loud, I put it in the bank and brought some checks—is the next best thing.

The bell dings as the elevator doors glide open to reveal an opulent lobby with polished marble floors, matching walls, gleaming elevator banks, tables of flower displays that cost more than my mortgage payments, and a crowd of men and women dressed in designer suits and dresses that look like they actually belong here.

I felt like this the first day I stepped onto that college campus in Boston. Everyone was waving goodbye to their parents, making several trips to their dorm rooms, toting up all the security blankets from home. I had a duffel bag and a bus ticket, three hundred dollars in cash, and a stern warning not to misbehave. I knew I didn’t fit in, and I didn’t care. I was that Camden kid with a chip on his shoulder and a skeleton in the closet and as much as I wanted to belong, I knew I never would. Until I did. Until I met Rian and started wrestling and started to believe that this crazy twist of fate wasn’t a cruel joke but my new reality, and if I made the most of the opportunity, I could do something with my life. It wasn’t easy to embrace the idea, but I realized I wanted it more than I thought possible, and that’s how I feel now. I can’t imagine Susan will make this easy, but I want her. I want us. I want all the challenges and the headaches and that stubby ponytail and the way she tastes like chocolate no matter what time of day I kiss her. I want it all and I’m here to get it.

If I can get past security.

I fall into the short line waiting to enter through ornate wooden doors that look like they were stolen from a castle. I used to do fancy stuff like this all the time in New York, taking it as part of my due, figuring I’d worked for it, I’d paid enough for it, I was entitled to it. Now it’s all I can do not to gawk at the million dollars’ worth of diamonds draped around the neck of the woman in front of me, the gold Rolex on the wrist of the man whose hand sits on her waist. Maybe this suit wasn’t so pricey after all.

When it’s my turn I step up to the lady holding a tablet with the guest list, flanked by beefy security guards with headsets and humorless expressions. We exchange looks, the three of us, and I think I could take them. But that’s hardly going to get me back into Susan’s good graces, so if I’m not on the guest list, I’m going to have to find another way into this thing.

I clear my throat. “Oscar Hall.”

The hostess doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t look at me suspiciously or derisively, just smiles and trails her nail down the screen, stopping somewhere near the bottom. “Oscar Hall,” she says. “Here you are. Go right in. Enjoy the evening.”

For a second I freeze. I think the security guards and I are equally surprised I’m being granted admission. “Thank you,” I manage, returning the smile as best I can and stepping through the doors, feeling like every teenage girl in every teenage movie as she arrives at prom, giddy and nervous and hopeful and overwhelmed.

The ballroom is enormous, so large and crowded I can’t see either end from where I’m standing. It smells like champagne and money and hors d’oeuvres I’d never be able to name, and I take a glass when one is offered and try to look like I belong. I’ve thought a lot about tonight, but given how easily I’ve always been drawn to Susan, I hadn’t really considered trying to track her down in a throng of approximately a billion rich, successful doctors. No wonder she feels like she has to work so hard to keep up.The perimeter of the room is lined with tables boasting countless auction items, and the website advised the minimum bid was a thousand dollars, which, even with three hundred large sitting in a paper bag, still made me want to hyperventilate.

I go to take a sip of champagne and realize I’ve already finished the glass. I swap it for another one—dark-suited servers with long white aprons are everywhere—and vow to quit after this. The last time I saw Susan I was drunk and stupid, I don’t want her to think that’s the norm.

I kill an hour studying the auction items, and I’m not even halfway through. There are luxurious trips, dinners with celebrity chefs, spa visits, artwork and more. By the time I get to the midway point some of the bids are topping fifty thousand dollars and any romantic notions I’d had of buying up everything in the room to show Susan how serious I am fly straight out the window. I’m an accountant. I live in Camden. Let’s be reasonable.