Time Served (22 page)

“It’s been a long day.”

I catch the server’s eye and signal for the check. “Let me get this,” I say when he reaches for his wallet.

“Fuck no.” The words are flat and unyielding, cold enough to make me pause.

“Dean, it’s just dinner.”

“Don’t push on this, Rachel. I know you’re an evolved feminist and all that now—”

“What?”

“But I’m old-fashioned. I fuck you, I buy you dinner, I teach you how to beat up the coworkers who give you trouble.”

I fold my arms in front of me, unimpressed but also amused. “What do I do?”

Dean sets down a few bills and stands, looming over the table to kiss me in clear view of anyone who might bother to look. “Just show up.”

Chapter Twenty

The next three weeks pass in a similar, lulling routine. I go to work, struggle to find interviews, realize that the people who will talk to us don’t have the strongest cases, sign up the ones with any potential whatsoever and beat my head against the wall. On the plus side, I see Dean more often than not, holing up at his place for takeout and a movie, sometimes falling asleep without sex, waking up in the morning to exchange perplexed looks and unspoken promises that the no sex had been an accident, neither of us ready or willing to add a new element to our tentative arrangement.

I try not to dwell on the shifting foundation of our relationship. How it started out as sex, remote and angry, then slid into something sadder and more plaintive, a temporary cure for loneliness. Without the sex, the landscape of our relationship is transforming again, this time into something I can’t quite recognize. I make no attempt to define it or fight it, letting the pieces fall into their own strange places, telling myself I’ll make sense of things later, just enjoy the peaceful status quo for now, however long it lasts.

I leave work at eight fifty on Friday night, swinging by to pick up the car I’d rented for the weekend. Dean finishes work at ten and we’d agreed to meet up afterward, so after a quick change of clothes, I set out for Camden.

Carters is a large grocery chain and the warehouse where Dean is employed is connected to the rear of the Camden store. Dean had told me to go inside and ask one of the butchers to call him when I arrived. I’m ten minutes early so I take my time, meandering through the store, trying to picture myself with a grocery cart full of food I’d actually plan to cook and then eat. I can’t do it. The majority of my meals come from restaurants, the rest are things that come in a package I take out of the freezer and stick in the microwave.

I’m in the cereal aisle and approaching the back of the store when I hear a low, sexy laugh. I halt abruptly, cocking my head to the side and earning myself a strange stare from a woman walking past with her child. The male laugh is followed promptly by high-pitched female laughter—two, maybe more women. They’re in the next aisle.

Feeling foolish and unexpectedly jealous, I creep to the end of the row and peek around the corner, spotting Dean, Jailbait and two of her scantily clad friends a few feet away. Dean’s back is to me and the girls are too focused on him to notice my attempt at spying, so I shuffle back out of sight and pretend to study the display of breakfast bars while I eavesdrop.

“...Winner’s later?” Jailbait is saying.

“I don’t know,” Dean replies. “Maybe.”

“Come,” a different female voice insists. “It’ll be so much fun.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You have something better to do tonight?” Jailbait asks, sounding like whatever Dean has planned, she’d be up for it.

“I’m working here, girls.” But Dean doesn’t sound stern, it sounds like he’s smiling.

They titter in response.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” somebody asks.

Dean laughs again. “I’m too old for you.”

More laughter, as if that was a joke. “Seriously, do you?”

I roll my eyes, but like them, I’m waiting for the answer.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I do.”

My heart stops for a second. I don’t know how to feel about this information: Does Dean really consider me his girlfriend? He’s the one that proposed this little “deal” we have—one based on the understanding that we wouldn’t fall in love and live happily ever after. I can’t even picture myself buying groceries, can I really see something as far-fetched and juvenile as Dean and me being boyfriend-girlfriend—again?

The girls pout and plead with him to come out later, but he finally grows serious and tells them that he’s working, maybe he’ll see them, maybe he won’t. Satisfied with “maybe” in the way only children can be, the girls finally leave. I take a deep breath, count to ten and round the corner.

He’s crouched down, his back to me, green Carters smock stretching across his broad shoulders as he restocks a shelf with bags of flour from a large pallet. “Hey,” he says without turning around.

I pause midstep. “Hi.” Did he know I was listening? “Are you working late?” I glance at my watch. It’s ten-oh-four.

He drags the last bag from the pallet and tucks it in with the others. “No. Just finishing up.”

“Okay.” I shuffle my feet, feeling as fawning and silly as Jailbait, just lingering here. “Do you want me to wait up front?”

Dean straightens and dusts off his hands on his black work pants. “No. Here’s fine.” He closes the small distance between us and kisses me briefly. “It didn’t mean anything.”

So he did see me. Shit. How
embarrassing.

“I shouldn’t have been listening. I’m sure girls hit on you all the time.”

“I’m not talking about the flirting. I mean the last part. I just said it to get them to go away. I know what we are.”

My indecisive heart kicks up a notch, drumming almost painfully hard in my chest. So he doesn’t consider me his girlfriend. Our “deal” is still firmly in place. Terrific.

I force myself to smile. “Good. Let’s get out of here. I’m starving.”

“You waited to eat?”

“Yeah. Hurry up.”

Dean smiles back, a brief, sexy smile that makes me hate Jailbait & Co. for even existing. If those are the kind of girls he flirts with—the kind he sleeps with, if their little exchange at the bar was any indication—then what does he see in me? I’m nothing like those girls with their short skirts and overplucked eyebrows.

“Stop thinking whatever you’re thinking,” Dean warns, chucking me under the chin. “Let me change real quick. Don’t move.”

Another strained smile. “I won’t.”

I watch him go, those big arms maneuvering the heavy pallet with ease. He disappears through a set of swinging doors and I shake off my hurt feelings. I’m being stupid; nothing has changed, everything is the same and I am absolutely okay with that.

“You again.”

I turn at the sound of a deep, vaguely familiar voice, and find myself looking way up into the face of Oscar Hall.

“Are you stalking me?” he asks, mock frowning.

I smile, a real one this time. “I heard this was a popular place to meet boxers,” I tell him. “So I hang out in the baking aisle on Friday nights.”

Oscar taps the side of his head. “I knew you were smart.”

I gesture to his enormous body, clad now in a fancy suit, complete with silk tie, cuff links and polished shoes. “Speaking of smart.”

Oscar laughs. “It’s my boxing outfit. I wear it to intimidate my opponents.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m an accountant.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope. I’ve even got a pocket protector.”

“You’re lying. Nobody would ever try to steal your calculator.”

We both laugh. “What are you doing here on a Friday, Rachel Moser?” Oscar asks, eyes warm on my face. “I didn’t get the impression you lived in Camden.”

“I don’t. I’m meeting somebody.”

“A boyfriend?”

Ha.
“A friend.”

“I see.”

A shadow falls across the floor and I glance over my shoulder to find Dean standing at the end of the aisle. The smock is gone and he’s changed into a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt that clings to every well-defined muscle. His arms are crossed and he looks extraordinarily unhappy to see Oscar. And me talking to Oscar.

“You ready to go?” he asks, stepping forward to stand beside me.

“Ready when you are.”

He gives Oscar a curt nod. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Oscar’s gaze flickers between us curiously, but he doesn’t look quite as mutinous as Dean. Then he hoists up his shopping basket and smiles. “Better get back to my grocery list.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, pressing a hand to the small of my back to steer me down the aisle. “Take care.”

“Bye, Oscar.”

“Bye, Rachel. Good seeing you again.” He winks at me before carrying on with his business.

Dean doesn’t say a word until we’re in the parking lot. “Again?” he echoes. “What the fuck did that mean? You two know each other?”

We stop next to a cart corral and I stare up at him, unimpressed with the jealous routine. “Reginald introduced us.”

“When was this?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks ago when I was at the gym.”

“Where was I?”

“Beats me.”

“You like him?”

“Are you serious right now?”

“You tell me, you’re the one who fucks accountants.”

I blanch. “Take that back.”

Dean stares at me furiously, but when I don’t back down he drags in a deep breath and looks away for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

He rolls his eyes. “For being insulting?”

“You should be. I didn’t attack you for talking to Jailbait back there.”

“Who?”

Shit. “What?”

“You got a nickname for her?” Dean’s grin is more than a little conceited.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let’s go. I rented a car. It’s over here somewhere.”

“Gimme the keys.”

“Absolutely not.” I stride off in the general direction of where I think I parked, eventually pressing the unlock button on the key chain so the lights flash on and I can locate my rental.

I reach the car first and open the driver’s side door, tossing my purse into the backseat. Dean squeezes between me and the car, hooking a finger under my chin and forcing me to look at him. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “Let me drive. Please.”

“No.”

“Rachel...” he wheedles, kissing me softly.

“I won’t be convinced,” I say piously.

He smiles and I go a little weak in the knees. “I told you I was old-fashioned.”

“Your list only had three things on it.”

“Yeah? What were they?”

“Pay for meals, teach me to beat up coworkers and...” I lower my voice. “Screw me.”

“I don’t think that’s what I called it.”

“Close enough.”

“You missed the fourth item.”

“There was no fourth item. Come on, I want to drive. I didn’t get to drive the last time. Plus I have something for you.”

Dean’s ready to argue, but the last line stops him. “What is it?”

“You have to be sitting in the passenger seat to get it.”

His brows pull together. “You could blow me in either seat.”

I shove him out of the way and he allows it, giving me a patronizing look as he rounds the car and pulls open the passenger side door, glancing in and going still. I climb in and watch as Dean’s big hand reaches down to pick up the small pink box sitting on the seat. He cradles it in his palm as he gets in, studying it for a moment before turning to look at me.

“What is this?”

“Open it.”

“Rachel.”

I stare at him until he sighs and pries off the lid, revealing the chocolate cupcake inside. I reach over with the lighter I’d stashed in the cup holder and light the candle stuck in the frosting. “Happy birthday.”

“You didn’t have to do this.”

“It’s just a cupcake.”

“I didn’t think you remembered.”

“Blow out the candle. Make a wish.”

Dean glances at me, then lifts the cupcake and blows out the flame, leaving us in darkness.

“What’d you wish for?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Come on. I got you a cupcake.”

“Forget it. If I tell you, it won’t come true.”

I start the car, smiling as he lifts the cupcake out of the box, peels off the wrapper and takes a bite. “Fuck, Rachel,” he groans, making me laugh. “This is going to mess with my diet.”

“You’ll still be beautiful,” I assure him, steering us out of the parking lot and back toward the city.

“Where are we going?”

“You mind if we stay at my place tonight? I have to go to a birthday party tomorrow, and they live on the other side of town.”

“Whose party is this?”

“Are you going to eat that whole cupcake by yourself?”

Dean swipes a finger through the frosting, then leans over and pushes it unceremoniously into my mouth. “Whose party?” he asks again.

“Parker’s twins. He’s my coworker. He invited me a month ago.” Actually, he’d forced me to agree to go, but that’s neither here nor there.

“You like him?”

“Yeah. I love him. He’s my best friend.”

Dean looks over at me as he polishes off the cupcake. “He married?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I roll my eyes. “Tell me about Jailbait.”

“She’s not jailbait.”

“How old is she?”

“I don’t know. Twenty?”

“Did you...sleep with her?” I try to keep my tone cool, as if I’m just casually inquiring and not seriously pissed at the possibility.

“Why?”

“You ask me about everyone I talk to, I’m asking you about one person. Answer.”

“Would it bother you if I had?”

“If it were between now and the day we met,” I answer, only half lying.

The pause goes on so long I nearly give up on Dean replying until finally he says, “Almost. But no.”

“What does ‘almost’ mean?”

“Oral.”

I give a startled bark of laughter. “Jesus.”

“What?”

“Is she your...type?”

“My type of what?”

“Your type of girl, Dean. The kind you’re into.”

I risk a look over and he’s staring at me oddly. “You know what I’m into.”

“You’re only with me because we have history. I’m not your type. You said so yourself.”

“When?”

“When you told me to take the stick out of my ass, throw away my beautiful purse, take down my hair.”

“Oh yeah.”

I huff, offended when he doesn’t dispute the argument.

“Relax, Rach. You’re fine.”

My nose wrinkles in distaste but I’m determined not to show my hurt feelings.
Fine.
Fine, as in, all right. Passable. Like getting a C on a report card: not quite a failure, but certainly nothing to boast about.

Dean sighs and stretches back in the seat, folding up the empty cupcake box and wedging it into the cup holder. “When I got out of prison,” he begins cautiously, “those were the kind of girls I met.” He shoots me a wary look. “They were cute, they were willing, just...easy.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I’d been stuck in a cage for eight years with nothing but my hand to keep me company.”