The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) (8 page)

No, dammit.

I’m not going to think about that anymore.

Not even a little bit.

She calls once more, but hangs up before voicemail kicks in. I delete all her calls from the log, except for the first message when she blew me off. That one I need to remember, because I just never expected her to be so...persistent.

Make a plan
,
see it through
,
achieve your goal.

I think about what she said after the race, her matter-of-fact approach to life. Her delusional, self-centered, hurtful approach to life.

At one o’clock, Jade transfers through a call. “Line two, Oz.”

“Who is it?”

“Dr. Jones. Who is she? Did you see somebody about your ribs?”

My jaw actually drops as I try to figure out how she got this number. Then it hits me: I gave it to her. I sometimes use my cell for work, so the outgoing message mentions Fitzgibbons & Sons.

Fuck.

If I tell Jade I don’t want to talk to Susan, she’ll get suspicious. But if I accept the call, I’ll have to talk to her. If I take the call and hang up right away, Jade will see the call light go dark and know something’s up.

Jade’s a nosy witch.

“Ah, put it through to my voicemail,” I tell her. “I’m busy. Any calls from any doctors...voicemail.”

“Voicemail.” She sounds unconvinced. “What if it’s important? What if you’re dying?”

“Jade. Voicemail.” I disconnect, and twenty seconds later my voicemail button starts flashing. I call it up and press play.

“
Oscar.
This is ridiculous.
Are you avoiding me because of what happened on Wednesday?
I’ve apologized.
Would you please talk to me?
We can make another date.
I’ll pay.
Please call me.
”

I have to ball my hands into fists to resist the urge to punch in the number she leaves at the end of the message, but ultimately I just delete it. I can’t call her back, no matter how much I want to.

You’re not a masochist
, I remind myself.

Plus, right now, I look like shit.

* * *

Susan calls twice on the weekend, once on Saturday and once on Sunday. No voicemails. I try to tell myself this is a good thing. That I’m not more surprised by her perseverance than I was when she stood me up. That it’s not a little bit...appealing to be pursued by the very woman who’d made herself so unavailable. That I’m not tempted to pick up the phone.

But I don’t.

I’m busy, anyway. I met Francisco at Titan’s on Friday, haggled a bit on the price, and basically agreed to buy the tannery. We’ve already got inspections lined up for this week—he offered to use “his guys” for the inspections, but I said I’d find my own—and once it’s confirmed that the building is up to code, I’ll transfer the money.

Oreo, who pretended to sweep the entryway but was really just eavesdropping the entire time we talked, cornered me afterward and told me I was making a mistake dealing with Francisco. I explained I’m not “dealing” with Francisco, I’m buying a building. After that, our interaction is over. Then it’s full steam ahead with the project I’ve dubbed the Green Space. I tried to sound confident as I outlined my idea, and when I finished, Oreo argued that my heart was in the right place but I was jumping in without properly thinking things through. I should get a small business loan, make a plan, do some more research. I tell him what I’ve finally started telling myself—no more waiting. It’s time to start doing.

What I’m doing at 11:00 a.m. on Monday is sprinting out of my office to Jade’s reception desk when she starts shrieking my name.

“What’s going on?” I demand, looking around and seeing no threat. She’s plastered herself against the wall behind her desk, and points now to something out of sight on the floor in front. Her face is pale, eyes wide, and if it frightens Jade, it frightens me.

Cautiously I round the desk, expecting a dead body of some sort, frowning when I see two large wooden boxes stacked one on top of the other. They’re each a little larger than a milk crate, affixed with standard USPS labels, FRAGILE stickers tacked liberally over each one.

“What is it?” I ask, circling closer. The address label on the top box bears the logo of an unfamiliar company called Queens Keeping, and my office address is scrawled in black marker beneath it. From what I can tell, there’s no threatening message or implication, and I shoot Jade a tired look. “You screamed because of some boxes?”

“Listen,” she whispers, inching away. For a second the only thing I can hear are her heels on the floor but when she stops, I hear it.

A muted rumbling comes from the second box. I crouch down and frown as I try to discern what it is. But it’s not rumbling. It’s buzzing.

“It’s bees!” Jade shouts, scaring the crap out of me.

I stumble backward as I straighten, then try to hide my alarm with a curse.

“Somebody sent you bees, Oz! What did you do? Who did you piss off?”

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

“What? Was it Lupo? I know he wanted to fight you again—does this mean something? Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee? What’s he trying to say? I think he wants to kill you.”

I sigh. “They’re not from Lupo, Jade. It’s not a threat.”

“It’s a box of bees, Oz!”

“They sent it in the mail. If the postal service agreed to deliver it, it’s fine.”

“There’s nothing fine about a million bees. Who’re they from? You need to call the bastard and—”

“Shut up. I’ll handle it.” I lift the first box and cart it down the hall to my office, then take a deep breath before returning for the second. My only thought as I gingerly place the bee box on the first is,
I
can’t believe she did this
. I close the door, sit at my desk and stare at the...gift...over my steepled fingers. It smells, and none of the windows in here open.

There’s an envelope taped behind the address label on the non-bee box, so I cut it off and open it, removing a single piece of paper that tells me everything I need to know.
So
,
you want to raise bees?
Congratulations on taking the first step in your buzz-worthy new hobby!

The desk phone beeps. It’s Jade. “What?”

“Dr. Jones is on line one. She says it’s important.”

I stare at my new beekeeping kit. “Put her through.”

Jade disconnects and a second later I hear the muted din of background noise from Susan’s end. She must be at work.

“Oscar?” she says.

“Did you send me bees?”

“Yes. It’s a beginner kit. For your rooftop garden.”

“I don’t have a garden, Susan. Or a rooftop. What am I supposed to do with a bunch of bees?”

A pause. “I don’t know. Put them outside. Have you been avoiding me?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Susan. Did you stand me up on Wednesday?” The sarcasm makes me sound bitter, which I suppose I am, though I’d prefer she not know how much her rejection stung.

“Yes,” she answers. “I’m sorry. You must have gotten my messages.”

“I got your messages. I got the bees. You scared my receptionist.”

“Aren’t they in a box?”

I refuse to laugh. “Yes, they’re in a box. They didn’t send a bunch of loose bees in a bag.”

“Then I don’t see the problem. They’re bees. If you don’t want them, set them free. But I thought they could help pollinate your garden.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I heard you.”

She sighs, and I hear someone call her name in the background. “In a minute,” Susan replies, her voice muffled as she covers the receiver. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m at the hospital. But I finish around four. Why don’t you come over? I’ll make dinner. Whatever you want.”

My laugh sounds pained. “No thanks, Susan. I’m not driving forty minutes for a booty call that might not even happen.”

“I am not a booty call, Oscar.”

I feel like an asshole when I hear the wounded edge to her words. But hell—I’m the wounded party here. She doesn’t get to turn the tables because she’s a woman.

“You made it pretty clear you didn’t want to be my date, either,” I tell her. “But if you just want to get laid, I’ll tell you what. You come to Camden. I’ll text you my address.”

“I—”

“I’ll be home after six. I’m not chasing you, doc. I’m going to figure out what to do with these bees, and if you don’t turn up tonight, I’m moving on, understand?”

There’s a long pause, then she hangs up without saying another word. I take a breath and regret it, since the whole room now smells like bee shit. Then I grab my cell phone and fire off a text to the number I’ve been trying not to memorize, but inevitably have. I send her my address, nothing more.

No invitation to the dance for Susan, not this time.

Chapter Six

I bought produce in the city last night, so on my way home today I stop at Carters, the large chain grocery store that serves this area, and buy steaks and beer. No dessert.

I get home a little after five, shower to rid myself of any bee odor, and bring a six-pack with me to the front porch to see if Susan shows up. I’d love to say I don’t care if she comes, but I do. I can’t help myself. As angry as I was, I’ve still felt more since meeting Susan than I have in far too long, and I’m not ready to stop.

I prop up my feet on the rail and check my email on my phone, skimming the brief assessment report from today’s building inspection. Despite appearances, the old brick structure is sturdy, the foundation sound. Full speed ahead.

My heart pounds at the news. One more obstacle down. One less reason why I can’t go ahead with this project. One less excuse.

I look up at the sound of an approaching engine, then watch as Susan steers her little red car into the driveway, parking behind my SUV. I stand as she climbs out, looking misleadingly harmless in a simple blue dress and flats. The ponytail is still in place, but she’s added a pair of tiny silver earrings that glint in the sun. She grips a wine bottle in her right hand, the white of her knuckles giving away her nerves.

My heartbeat ratchets up a notch. She’s trying.

“Hi,” she says, stopping at the base of the stairs. There are only two steps to the small porch, but I’m already too tall, and I feel like a giant staring down at her. Not that I don’t need every advantage I can get with this woman.

“Hi,” I reply. “Come on up. Have a seat.” I gesture to the two chairs that sit to the right of the front door and look over the postage stamp front lawn I’ve given up trying to turn green. The grass is patchy and yellow in most spots, but I do my best to keep it trimmed and stay on top of the weeds. The house itself is pretty nice for the area, newer, with white shutters and trim and dark blue paint.

“You want a glass for that?” I ask, nodding at the bottle still clutched in her hand. “Or I’ve got beer.”

Her eyes fall to the five remaining bottles and she sets down the wine and takes a beer. “This is fine. I didn’t want to come empty handed.”

“God forbid.” I open the bottle for her and pass it back, our fingers grazing as we study each other.

“Where are the bees?” she asks eventually.

I smirk and turn my attention to the street, just a couple kids riding bicycles to interrupt the quiet. “Mache. Rian sent someone to pick them up.”

“Oh. That’s a good idea.”

“You hungry? I bought steak.”

“Maybe later.”

“Sure.”

We sit until the silence grows even more uncomfortable.

“Oscar,” she says.

“Oz.” My mother called me Oscar. My sisters. Oscar was the angry young thug who caught a break and got the hell out of here, but he’s not the man who came back, and he’s never going to be.

“Oz,” she echoes. “Would you look at me, please?”

I turn my head to meet her earnest stare. Those fucking eyes. She’s too pretty.

“I’m truly sorry,” she says, oddly formal. “I know I hurt your feelings, and skipping dinner was rude and insensitive. I didn’t consider...how you might feel when I decided to stay at the hospital.”

I try not to let my eyes bulge. “You didn’t consider how I might feel?”

She shakes her head, serious. “No. I’m not...” Her breasts rise, the hint of cleavage too alluring not to peek at when she inhales deeply. “I’m not very empathetic. I don’t think about other people as often as I should.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“That’s different. The nurse can hold their hand, their family members can console them. My job isn’t to cheer them up, it’s to keep them alive. And sometimes that...focus...can feel...cold.”

This is the strangest thing. It sounds rehearsed but not. Like maybe she’s heard the words before but now she’s saying them out loud for the first time. Uncertainty mingling with sincerity.

Fuck. I can’t fall for her. She’ll destroy me.

I stand up abruptly. It’s impossible to miss the way she tenses at the movement. “Let’s go inside,” I say. “I want to get the steaks ready. I’ve got a grill out back.”

She slowly pushes to her feet, but doesn’t move when I hold open the door. “Do you accept my apology?”

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Yeah, Susan. Apology accepted.”

“Are you still mad?”

“I don’t know. Sort of.”

Again I see her knuckles pale where she grasps her bottle. “I’m not going inside if you’re angry.”

I frown, confused and offended. “You think I’d do something to you?”

“You came into the ER with a banged-up face and a wrist you said got sprained by a crate of watermelons. Then you told me you like to fight. Now you look like you’ve rolled down the side of a mountain and hit every rock with your face. You tell me, Osc—Oz.” The edge is back in her voice. She’s no longer the apologetic villain. She’s the doctor I met the first night in the ER. A woman who’s not an idiot. And now that she’s being difficult, I want her so bad it hurts.

“I told you what happened to my face. The watermelon story is true. So is the fighting—but only with people who can handle it. I sparred with someone when you stood me up on Wednesday. These are just a few bruises.” I really didn’t think it looked that bad when I checked in the mirror this morning. The split lip has healed, the black eye is more of a pale green, and my swollen cheek is back to normal, if still a little yellow. Hell, even my wrist feels okay.

“Do you do that a lot?”

“What? Fight?”

“Yes.”

“Not enough. Why?”

She looks at me like I’m obtuse. “Because I work in a hospital. I’m not interested in playing doctor on my free time.”

Ironic that a conversation about how I shouldn’t be angry can be so aggravating. “I haven’t asked you to fix me, doc. Come in if you’re hungry. You’re perfectly safe.”

I don’t wait to see if she follows. My skin feels hot, and even though I’m wearing a T-shirt and shorts, feet bare, I’m sweating. Still, I feel some relief when I hear the door swing open behind me, then the soft shuffle of her feet on the hall floor as she trails me to the kitchen. I grab the steaks from the refrigerator, along with a head of radicchio and a package of Portobello mushrooms. Susan’s lingering by the open patio doors, watching.

“You know how to start the grill?” I ask, sprinkling salt and pepper on the steak.

She nods once and disappears outside, the grill just out of my line of sight. There are a few clicks, then a faint roar as the flames catch, and a minute later she’s back, eyeballing the quartered radicchio, the mushroom caps filled with a goat cheese and garlic mixture I’d prepared earlier.

“Look okay?”

She hesitates. “I don’t eat many vegetables,” she says, nodding at the display. “Don’t be offended if I don’t try them.”

I gather up the tray and pass her on my way outside. “I won’t be.”

She sips her beer as she watches me adjust the flames then add the food to the grill, and when I close the lid I know it’s not just the proximity to the fire that’s making me so hot. It’s her. It’s the way she looks and sounds, the way she doesn’t get it but wants to, the way she’s too blunt for her own good. It’s the fact that she’s here when she doesn’t have to be, when not many people would have the nerve to stand someone up then send them bees then come to their house.

“You want another drink?”

“Maybe just water after this.”

There’s a small table on the flagstone patio, four chairs and a yellow umbrella that’s quick to blow away anytime there’s wind. I bring out plates and cutlery, a couple of bottles of water, and set the table. Yeah, it’s a lot like the first time at Susan’s, except now we’re on ground level with a four-foot fence and neighbors on either side. The privacy is questionable, but right now it feels like the most isolated place on earth. Just the two of us, trying to decide if we should stay or go.

We make awkward small talk while we wait for the food to finish, then finally bring everything to the table to sit down. The first few bites are painfully quiet, and I try not to watch Susan cringe as she cuts into the mushroom as though it might leap up to swallow her face.

“What have you been doing these past few days?” she asks, scraping off the goat cheese mixture before reconsidering and piling it back on, tentatively putting a miniscule piece in her mouth.

I hesitate before telling her about the tannery and the inspections.

“You’re doing it?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It just seems fast.”

My laugh is dry. “I’ve been thinking about it for years.”

“Then why now? What prompted this?”

I look at her for a second. “You did,” I say eventually. “You made me wonder what I was waiting for. I wanted to do more, so I finally did. Or I’m trying to, at least. It’s not official.”

“It’s a big deal.”

“I guess.”

“I got here early and drove around for a bit,” she confesses. “I saw where you work and I think I saw the gym you mentioned. And all the rest.”

“It’s a shithole.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “It is. That’s why your idea is so great. People could use something to give them hope. An opportunity.”

I watch her as I chew. She seems sincere, not feeding me crap so I’ll forgive her, which I already have. It’s one thing to be punched in the face by someone who means it, quite another when the person doesn’t even know they’re swinging. “What about you, doc? Where’d your opportunities come from? How’d you get through med school?”

“Family money,” she answers. “My father has a big law practice in New York. I finished high school at sixteen, went to Harvard, then Harvard Med, where I met Stephen—my ex. He’s a psychiatrist. He got offered a position in Cleveland and I got pregnant, so we moved to Ohio. I had a baby, then got a job at the same hospital and had to work extra to make up for the time I’d lost with Dorrie.” That seems like a harsh way to refer to maternity leave. “But I knew what I wanted, and soon enough I had it. Then we split up and I got headhunted by Chicago-Davis, so here I am.”

“You said you had a sister, right? Is she a doctor too?”

“No. Lawyer. She actually did some work out here. There was a factory or something that poisoned its workers.”

“Fowler. I know the case.” Everyone in Camden knows it. Even though they poisoned their employees, people still showed up to work because jobs are in short order around here. People were equally divided between supporting the case and hating it. I think of the pretty dark-haired lawyer who’d come around a lot and ended up dating one of the fighters I knew at the gym. “Is your sister’s name Rachel by any chance?”

She looks confused. “No. Caitlin.”

I stand up to get another steak, limping slightly when my calf seizes, a holdover from an old college injury. It loosens after a couple of steps, but Susan’s squinting at me when I return to the table.

“It’s nothing,” I say before she can pry.

“Huh,” she says, not blinking as she stares, sipping from her bottle of water.

“Don’t.”

She gazes back, deceptively innocent. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t give me that doctor look. You said you didn’t want to, and I don’t want it either.”

She lifts a slim shoulder. “Fine. If you want your leg to fall off, just ignore it.”

I laugh around a mouthful of food. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“You can’t afford my professional opinion.”

I laugh again, so hard I have to cover my mouth. After a second, she smiles too, and relaxes for the first time since arriving. I feel myself soften toward her a little bit more. It takes balls to show up here, to keep calling, apologizing. She persisted when I would have given up, kept up the fight when it had to look like she had no shot at winning.

My neighbors come out, a young couple with three noisy little boys, and they bang around on a trampoline, squealing every time they peek over the fence. So much for quiet.

“You still hungry?” I ask, gesturing to her mostly empty plate. She did a better job with the scary vegetables than I think either of us expected.

“No. I’m good.”

“All right. Let’s go inside.”

This time she doesn’t flinch when I stand up, just collects her plate and drink and precedes me into the house. I close the patio doors to block out the noise, but it’s too hot in here. I only have air conditioning in the master bedroom and living room so I can sleep and watch TV in some semblance of comfort.

I don’t want to watch TV with Susan.

She ignores my protests and loads the dishes in the dishwasher, and I feel bad I didn’t buy dessert. I’d give her every chocolate concoction ever made if I could. “It’s hot in here,” she remarks, straightening and smoothing her dress. It ends right above her knees, revealing pale skin and bare feet.

“I’ve got AC in the bedroom.” She hesitates until I make the first move, crossing the small kitchen to stand in front of her, just a little too close. I hear her inhale, but she doesn’t back up, doesn’t try to stop me. I trail my fingers down her arms, linking my fingers with hers, bringing her hands behind my neck and leaving them there. I drag the elastic from her short ponytail and twine my fingers in her hair to draw her head back so she’s looking at me.

“Kiss me,” I murmur, and she rises onto her tiptoes to press her lips to mine. I cup her ass and boost her up onto the counter so I don’t have to stoop so far, opening my mouth when I feel her tongue seeking entrance.

I love the way Susan kisses. No games, no pretense. She spreads her legs, skirt bunching around her waist, and I step in, splaying my fingers over her lower back to bring her forward, pressing my growing erection against the gusset of her panties. We kiss until my cock is so hard I have to unzip my shorts to give it some room, until I can smell her arousal. Her chest and throat are flushed pink, and I feel sweat trailing down my back.

“Bedroom?” I ask, hoisting her up. She wraps her legs around my waist and holds on as I carry her down the short hall and into the blessedly cool, dim room.

“Oh,” she groans when the cold air hits her skin. “That’s so much better.”