Time Served (24 page)

“Dean, I can’t—”

He strokes hard on that inner wall, grunting as he finds the spot he’s looking for, stroking it mercilessly.

“Oh God,” I mutter, collapsing onto my elbows. “I can’t take it. I’m not...” I forget whatever it is I’m trying to say. Something is building inside me, something hot and liquid and dangerous, something I have no control over. Something he does.

The world is spinning and everything inside me has focused with pinpoint precision on Dean’s tormenting fingers. I’m vaguely aware of his lips, his tongue, the slight rasp of his jaw against my inner thighs as he adds to the torture, but my strength has fled, every ounce of energy is directed toward my impending orgasm.

Some distant part of my brain registers Dean’s satisfied “Good” as he replaces his fingers with his cock, ramming in deep and hard. My elbows skid forward, knocking me down so my shoulders are on the floor, the position steep and vulnerable. I try to lift myself up but Dean’s thrusts are so rough and frantic that it’s next to impossible.

My eyes open so I’m looking out the window, taking in the views that convinced me to buy an overpriced apartment on the twenty-first floor. I remember how proud I was to tell people my building had a doorman and a gym and even a games room. I remember getting the keys and coming up here alone for the first time, standing in my very own apartment, sipping a glass of wine and taking in the rushing city below. How powerful I’d felt. And how I’d never set foot in the games room.

Now, propping myself up on my hands, my thick hair falling around my face and blocking out that damn expensive view, I admit the thing I’ve been denying for so long: I don’t need the view. I don’t need the apartment or the doorman or the elusive trappings of success. The orgasm washes over me, so strong it obliterates all thoughts except one: the only thing I need is right here, fucking me within an inch of my life.

“Dean!” I cry, the word sounding hollow in my ringing ears. My pussy clamps down on his cock like a vise, holding him inside and wringing out his orgasm. He swears furiously as he spills into me, slapping a hand onto the window over my head as he jerks against my hips, my body demanding the last of his release with its final clenching pulls.

Dean collapses over me, breathing hard in my ear, one arm clasped around my stomach, squeezing us together. Sweat fuses my back to his chest and I feel his heart thunder against my spine, and even when the room grows cool and the position uncomfortable, neither one of us moves.

Chapter Twenty-One

Dean is gone when I wake up. It’s nearly ten o’clock but I’m still soft and sleepy as I roll to his side of the bed and find it cold. I climb out and toss on a T-shirt and panties before roaming down the hall and peering around the apartment, confirming that I’m alone. In the kitchen there’s a note scrawled on the back of an old receipt:
Gotta work.
That’s it. Two words. No name.

I crumple up the paper and pull a carton of apple juice from the fridge, drinking straight from the box. I’m too relaxed to feel alarmed by Dean’s disappearing act; he probably had to leave at five to get to Camden in time for his shift, and after last night’s sexual marathon, I’m sure I’d have slept through any goodbye.

Last night was different for us. It was the first time we’d talked about Riverside without it spiraling into a fight, it was the first time Dean had stopped trying to control everything and it was the first time I’d figured out just what I needed to fill the yawning void in my life. For ten years I’ve put my head down and plowed straight ahead, ambitious and determined, hungry for a better life, failing to recognize that my success came with a heaping side of loneliness. I’ve known all along that what Dean and I have is just temporary, but maybe temporary doesn’t have to mean a few weeks or a couple of months. Maybe there’s...hope?

I take the juice to the living room and stare out at the city below, transformed by the sunlight. Today is the twins’ birthday and I’m supposed to be in Parker and Moira’s backyard in Evanston at noon. I’ve never liked making the forty-minute trip out of the city, preferring the anonymous hustle and bustle of my busy neighborhood, but I’m surprisingly calm today. I’ll spend the afternoon making small talk with their married neighbors, and cross the party off my “be a good friend” checklist.

I shower, tie up my hair, put on minimal makeup and a simple sundress, then find myself with half an hour to spare. I still haven’t bought a gift for Parker’s twins—girls somewhere between the ages of ten and fifteen, he’d assured me—so I go online to search for things tweens enjoy. Then, because I still have time before I have to leave and under no circumstances do I want to be early to a teenage birthday party, I decide to squeeze in a little work and type Ruthie Block’s name into the search engine.

A swath of websites appear. The first one listed is her own, followed by a few art blogs and stores selling her creations—apparently she works in a variety of mediums, including paint, clay and trash—as well as a mention in a list of upcoming Chicago events. I click the link and see that Ruthie has a show opening at a downtown gallery on Monday night. The title of the exhibit is
A
Painful Kindness
and the show promises to showcase “the brutal generosity of the human spirit.” There’s a small photo of Ruthie and some of her wares; she doesn’t look like the heinous monster Reginald has described, rather, she looks like a hippie who has aged well. She’s got long, pin-straight blond hair, big blue eyes and wears a paint-spattered wifebeater with suspenders.

Perhaps most interesting is the blurb that describes her art as “masterworks,” and lists a rather impressive collection of international museums and galleries that carry her work. Whatever happened between her and Reginald, she moved past it and made an extremely successful life for herself.

* * *

Parker and Moira’s house is a stunning Tudor with dark wood crisscrossing the gleaming white exterior. I park the rental car at the curb and climb out, following the stone walkway around to the backyard where I can hear laughter, music and splashing.

Parker spots me as I walk through the gate and rushes over, a huge smile stretching his handsome face. He’s wearing chinos and a purple V-neck T-shirt, feet bare. “You made it!” he exclaims, kissing me on the cheek.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I reply.

“Liar.” He glances at the bags in my arms. “What’d you get me?
Them
. I mean, them.”

I peek over Parker’s shoulder at the gaggle of tweens frolicking in the large pool as indulgent parents look on. There are probably twenty adults and just as many children, and the gleaming silver barbecue holds enough hamburgers and hot dogs for everyone to gorge themselves.

“I got Lock ‘n Load Lolita dolls,” I say, straight-faced. “They’re underage prostitutes who teach young girls how to be their own pimps.”

“Oh, Rachel,” Moira says from behind me. “I’ve been trying to show the girls how to be more independent, and you’ve found just the thing.”

I stiffen, mortified, and fix Parker with a menacing glare before slowly turning. “Hi, Moira,” I say awkwardly.

She’s holding a pair of tongs in one hand and a first aid kit in the other, and doing her best not to laugh. “It’s so hard to find a good role model these days—thank goodness you’re here.”

She’s just teasing, but still my cheeks heat. Moira is the perfect woman. She’s got a straight blond bob that’s never out of place; the poise, calm and understated arrogance of a surgeon; and the perfect blue-eyed family. And she manages all this without being condescending or annoying or unbearable. This is probably why my mind goes blank whenever we meet. What could I possibly have to say to Moira that she doesn’t already know? Except, of course, to introduce her to imaginary and wholly inappropriate children’s toys.

“I love hot dogs,” I say inanely.

She laughs and wrinkles her nose as if I’m the cutest thing she’s ever seen, then squeezes past me. “Who doesn’t? Now if you’ll excuse me, someone has managed to cut open their knee. And it’s not one of the children.”

“You ass,” I hiss at Parker as soon as she’s out of earshot.

“She moves like a panther,” he says helplessly. “There was nothing I could do. Besides, she adores you. She knows you keep me sane at work. Imagine the shit I’d say if I didn’t have anyone to vent to before I got home!”

I can’t help but laugh. “I know what you mean.” I squint over his shoulder at a tall, lanky figure standing beneath a tree, peering up into the branches at what may or may not be a cleverly obscured tree house. “Is that Baxter?” I ask.

Parker follows my gaze. “Yep. He’s here with his kids.”

“He has kids?”

He looks at me censoriously. “You’ve known him for four years.”

“Right. Right. I knew he had children.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Parker!” a male voice calls from the barbecue. “Do you want cheese on these?”

“Nine with cheddar!” Parker calls back. “Eight with mozzarella. Two with the vegan—Oh, hell, I’ll just come over.”

“He said hell!” a high-pitched voice shouts from the pool.

Moira arches an eyebrow in warning and Parker waves apologetically before hurrying to the barbecue. I wander over to a table laden with beautifully wrapped presents, placing my gift bag next to them and wishing I’d thought to buy paper. I settle for peeling off the price tags from the mini terrariums I’d purchased—they had tiny fairies in them, which makes them good gifts for girls, apparently—and shunting the bag to the back where hopefully no one will ask who brought it.

When I turn back to the party I spot Baxter watching me, smiling as he correctly interprets my discomfort. I grab a beer from the cooler and make my way over to the tree house.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says when I approach.

“I’m forced to come every year,” I reply. “Parker said he’ll stop being friends with me if I don’t show up. You’re the surprise. I didn’t know you had kids.”

“Yep.” Baxter nods and glances up. I can hear tiny thumps and giggles from the branches overhead. “One of each. Six and three. And another on the way.”

I gape at him. “Seriously?” I’d always assumed Baxter was a few years younger than me, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six. “How old are you?”

He smiles. “We’re the same age.”

“And you have two kids?” I know it’s not unheard of, but it still seems unreal. I mean, he wears red pants. In public.

“And a wife and a mortgage.”

“You’re married?” I’ve never seen him wear a ring.

“We got started young.” He peeks around me. “She’s here somewhere. Probably near the alcohol.”

“I think I’d like her.”

Baxter keeps a straight face. “She’d hate you.”

I snicker and drink my beer, watching him. “Is Baxter your first name or your last?”

“How long have we known each other?”

“Four years. I know, I’m a terrible person. Let me fix it. First or last name?”

Baxter heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Last.”

“What’s your first name?”

“If you tell anyone, I’ll destroy you.”

“That sounds fair. What is it?”

Baxter studies me as though assessing my trustworthiness. Eventually he sighs and mutters, “Theodorus.”

“
Theodorus
? What kind of cruel name is that?”

“Keep your voice down! And it’s a family name. From a family with terrible names.”

“I thought Sterling was your father.”

“He is. Baxter’s my mother’s name. I dropped Sterling when I started working for the firm.”

“You’re a wealth of information today.”

Baxter shrugs and smiles briefly. “You’ve never asked.”

I wince, guilty. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“So make it up to me.”

I squint up at him suspiciously. “How?”

“Tell me about your Camden boyfriend.” He sips his beer and waits patiently.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” I have a
deal
. “And how would you know about that? Are you spying on me? That’s creepy, Baxter.”

“Yep,” he nods. “I have a wife, two kids and a full-time job, but I spy on you whenever I get the chance.”

I roll my eyes.

“Parker mentioned it.”

I look around for Parker, ready to kick him, but he’s busy instructing someone at the barbecue and there are too many witnesses. “Well, I don’t have a boyfriend. He’s an old friend and we’re just...reconnecting.”

“You bringing him to the party next weekend?”

Oh God. The office party. I try to picture Dean in a tux, polished loafers on his feet, a champagne flute in one big hand. I can’t do it.

“No,” I say. “He wouldn’t...” I stop myself before I can say “fit in.” “He wouldn’t be interested.” That’s true too. He’d said as much that night when we’d met Sterling and Morgan and they’d invited him.

You want to go back in there and tell them why I can’t come?
What we’ve been doing?

Nope. Some things may have changed since that night, but that hasn’t. I don’t want to tell people what Dean and I have been doing. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Did you go back to Cranston in the end?”

I look at Baxter, alarmed. Ending up at Cranston has always been the opposite of the plan. “What?”

“To visit your mother?” he clarifies. “Her...grave?” For all his usual strange confidence, Baxter looks tentative now, as though he’s treading on unsteady ground. And I suppose he is, risking bringing up a personal subject with someone who reacted so poorly the last time he tried. The last time he tried to be my friend.

“Yeah,” I say, downing half the bottle of beer. “I went back. It was a disaster.”

“Sorry.”

I shrug. “At least it’s over. I’ll never have to go back again.”

“Speaking of...”

I glance at him from under lowered brows. “Don’t even say it.”

“You don’t have to go back,” Baxter hurriedly assures me. “But I got a call from the elusive Dr. Ash this morning and she may have something for us.”

I perk up. “Oh yeah? Like what?”

“This is a party,” Parker interrupts sternly. “No work talk. Moira forbids it. Keep the conversation party-centric.” He glances over his shoulder to be sure she’s not listening. “At least until she passes out.”

* * *

I walk into my office at seven o’clock Monday morning to find Baxter lounging in one of the seats, eating a bagel and reading the newspaper. “You again.”

“Happy Monday.”

“Uh-huh. What brings you by?” I drop my bag on the desk and turn on the computer before sitting down to face him.

“You look tense,” he observes.

I wince inwardly, but keep my expression neutral. I hadn’t heard from Dean after the barbecue on Saturday. It’s not unusual for us to spend a night apart, but I was a little disappointed. When he didn’t call or text I’d spent the better part of the day forcing myself to ignore my phone, as though that would somehow compel it to ring. But it hadn’t. Before going to bed I’d finally reminded myself that women were allowed to contact the men they were sleeping with and sent Dean a quick text, asking what his plans were for the week. No response. And nothing this morning, either.

I force my shoulders to relax a millimeter. “Better?”

“Perfect.”

“What’s up?”

“You’re going to love me.”

“Even more than I already do? Impossible.”

Baxter pauses dramatically, then whips a white envelope out of the pocket of his denim jacket, extending it toward me like a magic elixir. I study the envelope, suitably intrigued, then take it between two fingers, lift the unsealed flap and pull out a blurry-but-still-legible fax. My mouth falls open as I scan it.

“You’ve done the impossible,” I breathe.

“The third note,” Baxter confirms. “Dr. Ash found it.”

I read the paper again. It’s a copy of the doctor’s note Ash had written to the management at the Fowler plant in Camden, recommending that one Jason Bennett be given an extended sick leave. And there, plain as day, are the words we’ve been looking for:
Symptoms attributed to exposure to harsh chemicals in the workplace
,
Harco-99 in particular.

“Fowler?” I ask, looking at Baxter hopefully.

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “Didn’t get to him.”

“Do we have contact info for Bennett?”

Now Baxter frowns. “He died about a month after this note was written. Car accident.”

“You aren’t suggesting...?”

“No, Fowler didn’t crash his car. But they did force him to use a cleaning product that affected his central nervous system so badly he had a seizure while driving to visit his family over the holidays and caused a six-car pileup.”

“Why hasn’t Fowler bought them off?”