The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) (4 page)

“You’re a chick,” Rian told me on Wednesday as he plied me with so much tequila I’d had to crash on his couch and drive home the next morning. “You want love and commitment and she just wants to sleep with you.”

“I don’t know what I want,” I corrected him, “but she’s the first woman I’ve
really
wanted in a long time, and I don’t want to go into it thinking it’s one time only. And she made it pretty clear she doesn’t have time for more. Or the interest.”

“So bang her and get it out of your system. What happened up on the roof when I was gone? I know something happened.”

“Something,” I agreed. “And then nothing.”

“Because you’re a chick.”

“And you’re a dick.”

He’d laughed, not at all offended. “I’ll fuck her. What’s her number?”

“She told me she wasn’t interested in you. She doesn’t care for pretty-boy gardeners.”

“I’m a chef, asshole. And if she’s not into me, she’s obviously crazy. So maybe you shouldn’t fuck her.”

I shook my head and laughed into the alcohol. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Oscar? Are you okay?”

I blink a few times, remembering where I am. Susan’s shielding her eyes with her hand, squinting at my face, her doctor expression in place.

“I’m fine,” I say, gently pushing her back a step. She’d risen onto her tiptoes to get a better view, and it’s far too tempting to have her there. Plus I’m pretty sure I smell like ass.

She frowns. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I finish the water and look around for another recycling bin.

“No,” she says, putting a hand on my good arm when I turn. She thinks I’m leaving, when I’m pretty sure I couldn’t convince my feet to move if a train was coming. “I mean, I’m sorry about Wednesday.”

I look at her, brows raised. I’m startled by the words, but try not to show it. “For what?”

She frowns as she tries to muster her thoughts. “For how it ended,” she says. “I shouldn’t have just walked away. I know you have the right to say no. I just...” She takes a breath. “I’m very self-absorbed, and I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. It’s not very often I meet someone I want to...” Her gaze flits away for a second, then returns, determined. “...I want to sleep with, and when I want something, I normally just...get it.”

“You get it?”

She purses her lips. “I mean, I work for it, and then I get it. You know, make a plan, see it through, achieve your goal.”

“What’s the goal here?”

Now she looks annoyed. “Listen, sometimes the plan needs to be adjusted. I know how to adapt. And if you’re not interested because of what happened on the rooftop, then I’ll figure out something else.”

It’s so hard not to laugh. She’s talking to me about her sex plan. Her sex
with me
plan. And fuck if I’ll admit why I’m not just jumping on board. “Sorry, Susan,” I imagine myself explaining. “I’d prefer to have a relationship with you, not just no-strings sex. I’m a bit of a chick like that. Thanks anyway!”

A yawn takes over and she covers her mouth, peering around, most likely in search of some sort of over-sugared coffee.

“You said you just finished work?”

“Yeah. Emergency surgery. They woke me up.”

“And now you need one of your drinks?”

She smiles, guilty. “I’m sure I’ll be okay until I get home. It’s only five minutes from here.”

“Walking or driving?” My car’s parked farther away than her apartment, but still I ask, “You want a lift? I really need to get home and shower.”

Susan hesitates. “You can shower at my place.”

My eyebrows raise again. “Oh yeah?”

“If you want.”

“What do you want?”

“An iced mocha. And to scratch an itch.”

“An itch you’ve had since Christmas?”

She laughs, her eyes combing over my chest, reading the random logo printed on the front of the old T-shirt. “Since the evening a tall blond guy came into the ER with a beat-up face and a wrist that got sprained by a watermelon.”

“Okay, it was a whole crate of watermelons, not just one.”

“I don’t do this a lot, Oscar.”

“Oz. And do what? Proposition guys at the end of races?”

“Yes.”

I was joking, but she seems serious. Not that I need convincing. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Susan. But I need a shower.”

“Do you have an itch?”

I smile ruefully. “I have an itch. But I’m not sure scratching it won’t just make it worse.” Because once that starving man has finished the soup course, he’s going to want salad and bread and meat and potatoes and dessert and wine and whatever the hell else they’ve got in the kitchen. He’s going to want it all.

“Where are you parked?”

I nod behind her. “About fifteen minutes that way.”

“Let’s just walk to my place. If you’re tired after I can drive you back over to pick up your car.”

We stare at each other for a moment, the undefined “after” hanging heavy in the air between us. The choice should be obvious. I already know what “before” entails, and my cock is very eager to get to the “during” part of the show. But “after” is what worries me. “After” means an ending, and I’m looking for a beginning. Right now, however, I’m either too stupid or too horny to dwell on it.

“Let’s go,” I say.

Chapter Four

This is so fucked. If Rian gets wind of this he’s going to call me a girl forever. Not that it’s not kind of nice to be wooed, if Susan’s awkward, blunt approach could even be called wooing. We work our way through the crowd, heading toward the middle of the city. Susan lives in one of many fancy high-rises on a busy street lined with impressive skyscrapers, homes to high-end businesses, condos and the like.

We cross a spacious lobby where the concierge calls us an elevator, and we ride up to the top floor and step into a quiet hall. Susan leads the way, absently gesturing to the door opposite hers as she says, “My sister used to live there. That’s why I chose this place.”

I think of my own sisters. “Used to?”

She unlocks her door and pushes it open. “She moved. To California. Last summer. Come in.”

I follow her inside. “Were you close?”

“She lived right across the hall.”

I try not to laugh as we both remove our shoes. “I meant, do you miss her? Did you have a close relationship?”

“Oh.” She thinks. “I miss her. She was...is...a good aunt.”

I pause as the word sinks in. “Aunt?”

Susan fiddles with the pocket of her scrubs and takes a breath. “I have an eleven-year-old daughter. She’s spending the summer with her father in Cleveland.”

I’m careful to keep my expression neutral. “Oh.” I can’t tell exactly how old Susan is, and I’m not about to ask, but I imagine she’s around my age, so a kid’s not that farfetched. “What’s her name?”

“Dorrie.” Satisfied I’m not about to run away, she pulls off her top to reveal a plain white tank beneath, breasts straining against the ribbed fabric. I don’t even think she knows she’s sexy, what with the droopy bottoms and the stubby ponytail, but I can’t think of a woman I’ve ever wanted more.

Still, I came here for a shower.

“Which way to the bathroom?” I ask, scanning the spacious suite as I take a few steps in. It opens into a large, pristine kitchen with a marble island and stainless steel appliances. Behind that is a small dining area with a table tucked beneath a crystal chandelier. The living room fills the back wall and corner, the massive floor-to-ceiling windows letting in copious amounts of sunlight. It’s clean, efficient, beautiful, and a little bit cold—like Susan.

“Oh,” she says, pausing as she reaches into the refrigerator. “Down the hall. I’ll show you. Want some?” She holds up a carton of chocolate milk and I shake my head.

“Maybe later.”

“Sure.” She pours a glass for herself, drinking deeply before wiping her mouth on her arm and leading me down a long hallway lined with opened doors. She stops in front of the first room and gestures inside. “You can use this one. Towels are under the sink.” She studies me thoughtfully. “I, um...Hmm. Okay, leave the door open. I can probably find some clothes that will fit you.”

I’m equal parts doubtful and intrigued, but my only other options are to put my sweaty clothes back on or strut around naked, so I leave the door unlocked as I turn on the water and strip down. I keep the water temperature cool in the vain hope it will dampen my cock’s enthusiasm for today’s adventure, but it doesn’t help. And though the white shower curtain is opaque enough that I’m sure Susan couldn’t see anything through it, I’m too nervous to jerk off to smooth the edge of arousal that’s threatening to override all my good intentions.

I wash my hair and soap up, lingering under the cold water for an extra minute before sliding back the curtain and reaching for the towel. To my surprise, there are a pair of blue scrub pants and a black T-shirt resting on the counter, and to further the surprise, they fit. It feels a little bit risky to go commando beneath the flimsy cotton fabric of the scrubs, but it’s better than the alternative, so I collect my sweaty clothes and return to the front door to drop them by my shoes.

“You’re leaving?”

I turn at the sound of Susan’s voice. She’s sitting on a balcony I hadn’t noticed on my first study, sliding doors opening off the living room. She’s swapped her pants for a pair of black shorts, and the glass of chocolate milk sits on the table in front of her next to an open newspaper and her cell phone.

“Just bringing out my clothes,” I say.

“Oh.” She rises and comes back inside, her bare feet quiet on the gleaming hardwood floors, her legs a mile long and pure temptation. Every inch of her makes my unhindered cock hard, and I do my best to hide behind the island as I adjust myself. “Would you like a drink?” Susan asks, stopping in the kitchen. “I have water, chocolate milk, regular milk, orange juice and vodka.”

“Ah, water, please.”

“Sure.” She grabs a glass and fills it with a pitcher from the fridge. It takes all my effort not to pour it down my pants, warning my overactive libido to play it cool. “Something to eat?” she offers.

It’s strange to see Susan in a kitchen, moving around as though she actually knows how to use it. For some reason I’d pictured her eating takeout and microwave dinners, uncomfortable with domestic life. But then she pulls out a large loaf of brioche and asks if I’d like stuffed French toast.

“Stuffed French toast?”

She shrugs. “It’s Dorrie’s favorite. I make it when she’s here.” A pause. “And when I’m here.”

“What’s it stuffed with?”

“Your choice,” she replies. “We have peanut butter, chocolate spread, cream cheese, strawberry jam, bananas...And any combination thereof.”

“What do you recommend?”

She smirks, sexy as fuck. “Guess.”

“Chocolate with an extra serving of chocolate?”

“Are you going to choose something boring? Asparagus with a sprinkling of sea salt? Side of sliced apple?”

That actually sounds pretty good, but I know a challenge when I see one, so even though I’ll regret it, I hear myself say, “Whatever you like works for me.”

“Ha,” she says, pulling out a knife to slice the bread. “That wasn’t the case on Wednesday.”

For a moment I’m speechless. The woman is just so...forward. I can’t even decide which one of us rejected the other anymore. But I’m not about to argue with the lady wielding a knife, especially not when she knows how to use it.

“Can I do anything to help?” I ask when I get my voice back.

She nods at the gas stove at the opposite end of the island. “Turn on the large burner,” she says. “Medium heat. Then put that pan—” a nod at a series of pans hanging from an overhead rack “—on it.”

I do as ordered, fingering three pans before she tells me I’ve got the right one. I know how to make the basics, but I don’t have a kitchen setup like Susan, and I only have one pan. I don’t even know what the others are for, or why they’re wrong. Still, I don’t argue with her on this either, and fifteen minutes later we’re sitting opposite each other on the balcony, the city view incredible. Hers is the only balcony on this level, and it feels like we’re alone on top of the world.

“How is it?” she asks when I take a second bite.

“Good,” I lie. Because it’s poison. Every bite of this chocolate, sugary, milk-and-egg-soaked monster is torture. It doesn’t taste bad; the bread is crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, the chocolate silky and warm. But it’s just so unhealthy. Not that you’d know, given Susan’s shapely figure and the way she’s shoveling each bite into her mouth as though it might be her last. It’s going to kill me later, but I think it’s a foregone conclusion that I’m going to eat it anyway.

I watch as Susan uses the tip of a finger to collect a smudge of chocolate from the corner of her mouth, and have to look away to resist the urge to launch myself over the small bistro table to consume her. “Tell me about this concept you have for a garden,” she says, surprising me. “You don’t strike me as a guy who has a green thumb.”

“I don’t,” I admit, cutting a tiny piece of French toast, melted chocolate oozing from the middle, and reluctantly putting it in my mouth. “At least, I don’t think I do. I’ve never tried. But Camden’s just...” I try to think of how to phrase this without sounding too melodramatic or doomsday. “It’s dying. There’s a lot of crime, no life, no opportunities. There’s literally no green space—the whole thing is dirt and concrete.” I realize I’m studying my knuckles, and risk a look up to find her watching me, expression serious. She lifts a brow, an unspoken order to continue.

I blow out a breath. I’ve never confessed this to anyone, yet here I am, having seen Susan a total of three times, telling her my silly dream. “I thought maybe I could buy one of the empty buildings and put a garden on the rooftop like Rian did at Mache. It’s hard to find fresh produce in Camden, and healthy eating, healthy minds...that whole idea. I’d like to try it.”

“What’s wrong with growing the garden on the ground?”

“The soil, mostly. The building I’m thinking of used to be a tannery, so I imagine there’re a lot of chemicals leached into the earth. Also, vandals. I figure if it’s on the roof we can eliminate people and animals coming in and damaging things. Plus, maybe if we re-sod it, we could use that space for a playground or something.”

“Are you going to have chickens and bees?”

I laugh. I haven’t gotten that far. “I imagine we’ll start with tomatoes and beans. See if we can get anything to grow in the first place.”

She polishes off her French toast; I still have half of mine to get through. “I don’t see why you couldn’t do it,” she says matter-of-factly. “Are there financial concerns?”

I hesitate. It doesn’t take a genius to see that Susan’s very well off. Every item in her apartment is top of the line, and she’s a surgeon to boot. “Ah...” I begin, reluctant to talk about money. I don’t want to tell her I’ve got more than I’ll ever need, but I also don’t want her to think I’m broke. “It’s more of a practical concern,” I hedge. “Can it be done? Can I do this? Will it succeed?”

She drinks the last dregs of her chocolate milk. Seriously. How does the woman have any teeth left? “You won’t know if you don’t try,” she says, standing and collecting both plates, even though my second piece of French toast is untouched.

“I’m not—”

“You don’t have to force yourself to eat this, Oscar. It’s obviously killing you.”

“It would kill an ox, Susan.”

“Did you just call me a cow?”

I freeze. “No...?”

Her laughter carries over her shoulder as she brings the plates to the kitchen. I watch her ass shift beneath the tiny shorts and wonder what the hell I’m doing. And why I’m not doing more. She returns a moment later with an empty glass and the water pitcher, topping up my drink and filling her own, then sits down opposite me, legs crossed at the ankle, expression indecipherable.

“Thanks for brunch?” I try.

Her mouth quirks. “You’re welcome. Thanks for trying to choke it down.”

“I like to eat healthy.”

Her gaze combs over me. “I can tell.”

Normally I feel too big, shoulders too broad to fit in a suit jacket that isn’t custom made, arms and elbows bumping things, always looking down on people, not by choice. But the heat in Susan’s dark eyes vanquishes those insecurities, and when my cock comes to life I don’t try to hide the bulge at my crotch. Not even when Susan’s eyes land there—and stay there.

“What do you like, Oscar?” Her voice is soft but serious. It’s a flirtation but it’s also an inquiry.

I say something I haven’t admitted in years. “I like to fight, Susan.”

Her eyes flicker up to mine. “What?”

I sip my water and look over the city. It’s not a secret, but it’s not something I say terribly often, either. Fighting has gotten me into more trouble than it’s ever gotten me out of, and that’s why I tried to stay away from it so long. But like an alcoholic who hits up a bar just for the “ambiance,” it wasn’t long before I took a sip. And just like that, I was hooked. So far I’ve kept it simple—sparring, nothing more. Testing my limits. Trying to see if I know when to stop now. How to stop.

I’m not about to unload that shit on Susan, so I shoot her a haphazard smile and tell her a different truth instead. “I went to school in Boston on a wrestling scholarship, but I don’t do that anymore. I prefer boxing, kickboxing, that type of thing. I work out at a boxing gym in Camden, though there aren’t many guys in my weight class who hang out there, so I don’t get to fight as much as I’d like.”

“You’re a fighter?”

“Nothing serious. It’s just a way to blow off steam. Release tension.”

“Did you really get hurt by a watermelon?”

“I told you, it was an entire crate of melons. And yes.”

She takes a drink. “Do you fight with women? Does that get you off?” She narrows her eyes. “Jello? Mud?”

I laugh. “If you have a pool filled with either one, lead the way.”

She smiles. “I don’t.”

“That’s fine. I don’t mean fight sex. I don’t get off on pain or any of that shit. But I like a challenge. Someone who gives as good as she gets. Someone whose next move I can’t predict. Not just with sex, either. In all things. Like you showing up at the race.”

The smile fades. “I’ve been called challenging before.”

I’ll bet. “By who?”

“My ex-husband. Well, my husband, I suppose. It’s not official yet. Have you ever been married?”

“No. I came close once, but that was a long time ago.” I’d had a fancy New York apartment, a high-paying job and a gorgeous girlfriend who wasn’t about to give up her own hard-earned spot on Wall Street to move to Illinois.

“Kids?”

“No.”

“Do you want any?”

I hold her stare. This is a subject people talk about much further down the line, not on the third date. Well, third encounter, since we’ve never actually been on a date. Still I say, “Yeah. I do.”

Her expression doesn’t change, she just nods once, accepting the words. The eye contact is broken when her phone vibrates, the screen lighting up to reveal a screensaver picture of a grinning gap-toothed little girl.

“Dorrie,” Susan says, picking up the phone, skimming the waiting messages, and putting it back down. “When she was six.”

“She’s cute.”

The phone buzzes again and Susan rolls her lips as she considers picking up. “I guess you never made that bet again,” I remark when she taps the screen and reads the newest message.