“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—
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 s
tarts 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 t
o 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.”
The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) Page 9