The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) Page 5

  Despite my grumbling, this particular race is close to my heart. Pace Yourself is a national organization that offers services to people whose lives have been impacted by drunk driving, and though I was in New York when my mother and sisters were killed, the kind people of the New York Chapter gave me the support I neither wanted nor needed. Or so I thought.

  My dad died when I was a toddler, and by twenty-one I was officially an adult and an orphan. The guy who T-boned them was also killed, and though fighting was the thing I did best, the one person I wanted to hurt was dead. The anger and aggression turned itself inward, my grades suffered, and I stopped going to wrestling practice. Stopped caring in general. I drank too much, slept too much, kept to myself too much. Until Rian had enough of seeing his roommate piss away his life and hunted around online until he found the local Chapter of Pace Yourself. He called them, they showed up and they smothered me with kindness and support until I started going to class and practice just to avoid them.

  The ten kilometers pass quickly, helped along by cheering strangers on the sidelines. The finish line is a hundred yards ahead, crowded with runners who have finished, support staff, friends and fans. A huge balloon arch marks the end and soon enough I’m passing beneath it, done for another year. I slow down and peel off to the side, accepting a bottle of water from a volunteer, shooting her a grateful smile as I tug a hand towel from my pocket and mop up the sweat at my temples.

  Around me I can hear exclamations of congratulations, people calling out to each other over the din of the crowd. I finish the water and toss the empty bottle in a recycle bin, wincing inwardly at a pang of self-pity I have no business feeling.

  I’m parked about half a mile away and I glance around for the quickest path out of the throng, frowning when I think I hear my name.

  “Oscar!”

  I hear it again, and shake my head. It’s not the loveliest or most common name, but it’s more likely there’s another guy named Oscar in the group than there’s someone trying to get my attention.

  “Oscar!”

  I pluck my sticky T-shirt away from my chest and shoulder my way through the swarm of sweaty bodies, accepting another bottle of water and downing half as I go.

  “Oscar!” One more shout I’m fully prepared to ignore until a hand clamps on my bicep from behind. I turn, stunned to see Susan standing there, pretty in her blue scrubs and ponytail, dark lashes flickering rapidly as she’s forced to squint into the sun to make eye contact.

  I look around in confusion. “What are you—”

  Someone bangs into her, apologizing before hustling past, and I tug her behind me as I push through the crowd, using the time to gather my scrambled thoughts. Pleasure at seeing her, irritation at being forced to remember the very thing I’m trying to forget, confusion at her arrival. But beneath all that...hope.

  The race ends in an enormous parking lot, with different tables set up for water, food, first aid and donations. I skim the first-aid stations, but there are no other people dressed in scrubs, just plain white T-shirts with giant red crosses on the front to differentiate them from everyone else. Finally I turn and peer down at Susan, releasing her wrist and sipping from the second bottle of water while I wait for her to speak.

  “Did you, um...do well?” she asks when I don’t say anything.

  I shrug. “It was fine. What are you doing here? Are you working?”

  “No. I just finished. The hospital’s not far, so I came over.”

  “Do you know someone else who’s running?”

  “No. I didn’t even know there was a race until you told me.”

  That’s right. On Wednesday I’d told her I’d come into the city to pick up my race packet. And she’d remembered. And now here she is.

  The tiny seed of hope is threatening to grow into something more, but I ruthlessly squash it, a task easier said than done. Because she’s unbelievably pretty, even with faint circles under her eyes and tired lines around her mouth, some indistinguishable stain on the front of her top. She’d only held my arm for a few seconds, but I can still feel the press of her fingers on my skin, and I’d run this race forward and backward all day just to feel it again.

  But I don’t say any of this. Because Dr. Susan Jones wants what she wants when she wants it, and then she wants to walk away. And though that would have worked perfectly for me before we met, it doesn’t work now.

  “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?”

  Sh
e 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.