The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) (7 page)

Jade yelps when I fling back the curtain, then covers her mouth in horror at whatever she sees. True enough, there’s a brick clutched in her hand. She’s fucking crazy, but at least she shows up, whether you want her to or not.

I glance down to make sure I’m dressed. No shirt, but I’m wearing boxers, not that she can see that low, anyway. “Go away,” I order, pointing to the front of the house. She must have scaled the fence to get back here when I didn’t answer her pounding on the front door.

“What did you do?” she demands. The words are easy enough to ignore, but the tears in her eyes are not.

“Nothing,” I say, forced to raise my voice to shout through the glass. I glance at the clock on the bedside table. Ten o’clock in the morning. I’m usually in the office by nine. “I’m not coming in today,” I add, pointing out the obvious. “Go to work.”

“Let me in.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Let me in or I’m calling Sheree to come check on you. She’s a nurse.”

Fuck nurses. Fuck doctors.

The splitting pain down the back of my skull suggests rethinking that mantra, but I snatch up the ibuprofen and swallow three dry. “I’ll be fine,” I say, shaking the bottle for emphasis. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’ll see me right now, Oscar Hall. Go open the front door or I’ll use this brick. I don’t care if you fire me. You look like shit and you probably have a concussion and you went to sleep like an asshole. I heard about the fight last night. What the fuck were you thinking?”

Uh-oh. The brick’s trembling in her hand. I felt no fear stepping into the ring with Lupo Aguilar last night, only the sweet anticipation of being able to take out my anger and frustration and resentment on someone my own size. He’d been in a mood too, and we’d pounded the shit out of each other for an hour until Oreo blew the whistle and ordered us apart.

Despite Jade’s annoying concern, I’ll be fine. The cuts and bruises she can see aren’t exactly what’s hurting the most.

Speaking of which. I snatch up my phone, still turned off, and wait for it to power up, then scroll through my missed messages. A dozen calls from Rian, two dozen from Jade, none from Susan.

Bitch.

I toss the phone on the bed and gesture for Jade to go around to the back door. I drag on a shirt, hissing when my ribs and wrist scream in protest, then pad out to the kitchen to let her in. Today she’s wearing flip-flops and a long cotton dress that’s belted at the waist, her dark hair twisted into a knot at her nape. I can’t see a scrap of makeup on her face. Uh-oh. This means Jade’s...worried. And the last thing I want is her terrifying version of TLC.

One of her brothers is in jail and the other took off for parts unknown, but I knew them both growing up, and every time they got in a fight they regretted it. Jade would nurse them back to health, whether they wanted it or not, and they were always sorrier after the fact.

“You look like shit,” she announces. “Why the hell would you fight Lupo? You know he’s good.” Without waiting, she opens up the freezer and yanks out a package of frozen Brussels sprouts, thrusting them into my hand. Then she starts poking and prodding my face, making everything hurt ten times worse.

“Jade,” I protest, swatting away her hand. “Stop. That hurts.”

“You should have thought about that last night,” she scolds. “You’re thirty-four, Oz. You can’t do shit like this.”

“Please go to work.”

“I’ll go when I’m convinced I won’t come back here tonight to find you dead on the floor.”

“I don’t have a concussion. Oreo looked me over.”

“Oreo has one eye, ass hat. And you’ll know you’re okay when I say so.”

“Fuck.” I sit up straight when she tries to pull off my T-shirt. “Jade!”

“What?”

“Knock it off!”

“Let me see your chest. I know he got you in the ribs.”

Lupo’s a solid fighter, same weight class, but five years younger. Five years faster, and desperate to make it out of Camden, same as me. Unlike me, he’s probably smart enough not to come back. Lucky for me, he’s cocky, which levels the playing field. However bad I look, he’s equally messed up.

“Everybody gets everybody in the ribs,” I say, clutching the hem of my shirt to prevent her from lifting it. “They’re not broken. I’d know.”

Jade sits down and looks me dead in the eye. “What happened last night?”

“Sounds like you heard already.”

“Before you showed up at the gym looking to kill somebody, idiot.”

“Nothing.”

“Oz.”

“That’s it, Jade. Nothing. I had a date. Got stood up. End of story. You tell anybody, you’re fired.”

She studies me. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“That you can’t find a good woman. That you’re too dumb to pick Sheree.”

“Sheree doesn’t interest me.”

“And this does?” She gestures to my banged-up face and I look away, the first pinpricks of shame making their appearance.

“Please go to work. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She stands. “Text me every hour. If you don’t, I’ll be back here faster than you can say ‘Jade, put on some clothes.’”

“You look nice today.”

She flips me the bird and walks out.

* * *

I sit at the kitchen table until the Brussels sprouts have thawed, the icy drip of condensation trickling down my thigh to form a pool on the floor, ignored. Eventually I push to my feet, wincing with every step as I make my way to the bathroom. I avoid my reflection and brush my teeth, the toothpaste stinging my lip where it’s split in two places.

Things aren’t any better in the shower. I don’t remember much about getting home last night beyond collapsing into bed, and I guess I didn’t clean up at the gym, because the water swirling the drain is stained pink from the dried blood. The shampoo hurts my hair, the soap hurts my skin, the hot water hurts the muscles it’s meant to soothe. The cold water hurts more but I stand beneath it until I absolutely can’t take it, and that’s when I rub a circle in the fogged up mirror and curse at what I see.

When I returned to wrestling after my mom and sisters were killed, my coaches made me work out by myself. They made me run laps, lift weights, go through routines, flat out refusing to let me touch anybody else. And this is why. Because I make bad decisions when I’m angry, and I’m lucky that this is the result of last night’s lapse in judgment. It’s less about concern over what happens to me, and more about what happens to the other guy. Because the other guy can get hurt, whether you intend to hurt him or not. That’s a lesson I learned the hard way.

I refuse to go down that path right now, so I dry off and use the towel to clean the puddle of water off the floor, then stride naked back to my bedroom. What I’d really like to do is sleep for the rest of the day, but the white sheets are stained with all manner of blood and sweat and yellow smudges I hope is medicine, so instead I strip them off and chuck them in the washer, then dutifully remake the bed, trying to keep my mind occupied.

It doesn’t work. At noon I make a sandwich and sit with a beer in front of the television, watching sports highlights from the day before. I don’t even care that much about sports outside of fighting, but it’s the best of my limited options. I obey Jade’s order and text every hour, just to keep her away, then I listen to the first of Rian’s messages before deleting the rest. I can’t take his pity. More so, however, I can’t take his company, and the most recent text message threatens a visit if I don’t reply, so I suck it up and call him.

He answers on the first ring. “Oz.”

“Yeah.”

“What the
fuck
, man?” His voice is shrill, and I cringe. He was worried.

“Sorry, Ri. Rough night.”

“Did you talk to her?”

I exhale noisily. “She texted. Blew me off for some work thing.”

A pause. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. Anyway, I’m sorry about just taking off. Let me know what I owe you for the dessert and whatever, and I’ll send the money.”

“Dude, I don’t want your money. I called you all night. What’d you do when you left?”

Rian saw me at my worst in college. He doesn’t need me to tell him what I did. Still, I say, “I went to the gym.”

“Alone?”

I feel like an ass admitting, “I didn’t fight alone.”

Another pause. “How’s the other guy look?”

“I don’t remember. Same, probably. It’s fine. He’s fine. I’m fine. There was a ref. We were just letting off steam.”

“Right. Steam.”

“Ri.”

“Why don’t you come over for dinner tonight? Eat with me in the kitchen. Chef’s table. There’s a yearlong wait for that thing.”

It hurts when I shake my head. It feels like someone smashed up a million light bulbs and stashed the pieces in my skull. “No thanks. I can’t show my face there again. Especially not when it looks like this.” I try to laugh, but it falls flat.

“Jesus, Oz.”

“I’m kidding. It’s not that bad.”

“You want some company? I could drive out there.” Rian’s got a nice house in Evanston, a pricey suburb outside of the city. Very much the opposite of Camden.

“No. Thanks, though. I’m not up for it. Another time.”

Rian sounds doubtful. “Right. Another time.”

“I appreciate you calling. And everything you did to help last night.”

“You’re welcome. And if Dr. Jones ever comes in here, I’ll spit in her food.”

“That means a lot.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

* * *

I doze off and on for the rest of the afternoon, waking up in panicked starts when I remember to text Jade. She brings me dinner at seven—chicken soup and empanadas—staying long enough to shine a penlight in my eye to make sure my pupils react properly, something she read about on the internet.

“The last thing I need is a doctor, Jade.”

“A shrink, maybe,” she throws over her shoulder, hips swaying as she walks away.

I shut the front door, relieved to know she’s not expecting any more texts, and take the food into the kitchen to eat. Alone. This is par for the course for me. And until recently, I hadn’t really cared. Hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t wanted company, so I’d preferred to be alone. And then last night I’d wanted somebody and she never showed up. Couldn’t even be bothered to tell me ahead of time, just let me sit there like an asshole with a celebratory bottle of champagne that’ll have to celebrate somebody else’s big night.

The empanadas get stuck in my throat and I grab another beer to wash them down. Why the fuck had I waited so long? She’d made herself clear. She didn’t have time for this. She didn’t want to make time. She hadn’t exactly been jumping up and down with joy at being asked on a date, so why did I sit there? What was I waiting for?

I pick up my phone and flip through the call logs, dozens of entries before Susan’s text blowing me off. Then, not far below that, an outgoing call to an unfamiliar number. The tannery.

I know this project is possible. It’ll take time and money and effort, but I’ve got all those things. I brace myself and press the call button.

No more waiting.

* * *

Susan texts me at nine. I’m halfway to drunk, but still sober enough not to write back.

Sorry
about
last
night
, she writes.
Hope
you’re
well.

What the fuck, Susan? Delete.

Half an hour later, the phone rings. Same unknown number, now too familiar. I let it go to voicemail, but she doesn’t leave a message.

I delete the entry from the call log. I plan to get drunk and not remember any of today.

She calls again at ten-thirty, but this time she leaves a message.

“Hi, Oscar. It’s Susan. I’ve been thinking about yesterday, and I’m truly sorry for canceling at the last minute. Or...half an hour past the last minute. I apologize. I hope you’re not upset. Okay. Bye.”

She’s the absolute worst. I hate her.

Delete.

I stop drinking. I’m thirty-four. I’m not going to drunk dial anybody.

Another text at eleven:
Is
this
the
right
number
for
Oscar
Hall?

I turn off the phone, then leave it in the spare bedroom, just in case.

* * *

There are two other accountants at the firm, two assistants and Jade. And only Jade stares at me when I show up at nine the next morning. I guess she told the other workers about my face—not that word wouldn’t have spread about me and Lupo going at it—and now they all appear absorbed in their work, too busy to ogle the black eye, split lip, and re-bruised cheekbone.

And that’s the stuff that’s not hidden under my clothes.

I wince when I sit, my hip and thigh screeching, then pull up the payrolls I have yet to complete. I’m good at my job, hard working, honest, efficient, and that’s not going to change because some woman stomped on my ego. I’ve endured far worse. This is just a temporary setback.

Plus, odd as it may sound, I’ve got another date. There’s nothing romantic about it, but I’m meeting the mysterious Francisco at Titan’s today at three to talk about the tannery. He’d insisted on meeting in person and I’d insisted on Titan’s, where I’d have plenty of witnesses—and hopefully backup—if things went sideways. But I don’t think they will. And if I get stood up twice in one week, I’ll just give up and go out with Sheree. At least Jade will be happy.

I’m making progress on the first payroll when my cell phone rings. I glance at the display. Susan.

I hesitate, then send the call to voicemail. She hadn’t called or texted again since the message last night, even though I know my outgoing message says my name, so she knows she’s got the right number. She’s a smart woman. By now she has to know I’m ignoring her, but she doesn’t care, following the missed call with a text.

Oscar, would you please talk to me?

I make myself delete the message.

Despite my current litany of injuries, I’m not a masochist. There’s a difference between liking a fight and being a bitch, and I’m the bitch in this situation. And I’m not having it. No matter how hot she is. No matter how tight—