The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3)

by Julianna Keyes

  I gather up everything I’ll need to grill a steak, stick a beer in my back pocket and head through the flap, smacking once again, right into Susan.

  “Shit!” she squawks, falling over backward, ass planting on the grass. She’s got a pizza box in her hands and she does her best to keep it level as she scrambles to her feet, rubbing her tailbone. “Seriously?” she demands, eyes flashing, cheeks flushed.

  I make myself look over her shoulder like I couldn’t care less, like I don’t absolutely, desperately, pathetically want to bend her over the nearest piece of furniture and fuck her into oblivion.

  “What’s the problem?” I inquire.

  “The—the problem? What the hell are you doing here, Osc—Oh, excuse me, Oz?” She sneers my name, and it’s possible I deserve it. “You were supposed to have gone home.”

  “I’m on vacation. This is where I’m staying. If you have a problem, get out.”

  Her mouth opens, then clamps shut as she stalks past me into the yurt. Suddenly I see the appeal of no doors: she can’t lock me out. Unfortunately, it means I can’t lock her out, either.

  Three roughly hewn logs serve as seats around the fire pit, and I make myself comfortable as I start up a fire, grill the steak, and dump a bag of pre-made salad onto a paper plate. I sip my beer and tell myself to relax and enjoy things. I ignore Jade every day, after all. I can do this. I can pretend Susan’s not fifteen feet away, eating pizza and seething.

  I take my time eating and cleaning up, grateful when the temperature finally starts to drop around eight, the sky easing from blue into purple as dusk sets in. I enter the yurt to find Susan lying on the bed, reading a book, half-eaten pizza sitting in the open box beside her. She shoots me a brief glare, but that’s the extent of her acknowledgment as I pull a pair of swim trunks from my bag, note that there’s no place to change privately in here and strip right in front of her. She doesn’t look up but I see her cheeks turn red, and neither of us says a word as I grab a towel and head back out.

  An hour walking along the shoreline and ducking into the water to cool off half a dozen times works wonders. The steak and beer may have had a hand in that, too. By the time I return to the yurt I’m pleasantly sleepy, not the grumpy, bone-deep tired of the past week, and I’m ready for another beer and an early night.

  Susan’s brushing her teeth at the tiny kitchenette sink when I walk in. She shoots me a look over her shoulder then ignores me again when I strip and change into dry shorts, no shirt. Why bother with propriety? She’s seen it all before. She dug her scalpel into this very same flesh.

  I grab a beer and an old paperback I’d stolen from the Green Space and recline on the bed, which is every bit as comfortable and incredible as it looks. I spread out right in the center, stacking three of the four pillows behind my head, and settle in to read. I’m aware of Susan puttering around, trying to figure out what to do now that the bed is occupied, and eventually she settles for approaching.

  “What am I supposed to do, Oz?”

  I finish the paragraph I’m reading and eventually look at her. She’s wearing a short cotton sundress that shows off her curves and a whole lot of thigh. Dammit. Look at her traitorous face.

  “Do whatever you want,” I say.

  “That’s illegal in this state.”

  “Ha.”

  She inhales audibly. “I’m tired. Please move over.”

  I shift six inches to the right.

  “Oz.”

  “Yes?”

  “Move over more, please.” The last word is such a strain, I know she hates saying it. But more than anything it’s surprising, because the Dr. Susan Jones who called everything to order that first day at the Green Space, that woman would have snatched up the peace pipe sitting next to the door flap and knocked me over the head with it. This one is being as tolerant as she can, which is just barely.

  “It’s not a big bed, Susan. There’s not a lot of room for me to move to.” I’m taking up more than half, but she sleeps curled up on her side anyway, and there’s plenty of room for her to fit if she doesn’t wiggle too much.

  She sighs, then climbs in under the fitted sheet and the thin blanket. I’m on top, so there’s a barrier between us, and for good measure, she turns so her back is to me, covering her head with the remaining pillow.

  It’s torture, being this close to her. It’s torture knowing that beneath two thin layers of fabric is the only woman I’ve wanted with this much fervor in far too long. It’s torture knowing she did what she did, and that I’m so angry I don’t trust myself around her. And it’s torture that I still want her, even knowing the risks.

  I read until my eyes start to drift shut, promising that each page is the last, that I’ll get up and brush my teeth any second. But I don’t, and when I next open my eyes, the yurt is pitch black, the only sound the faint roll of the waves on the lake and Susan’s gentle snoring.

  Susan.

  I stiffen when I remember where I am and who I’m with.

  Who I’m not with.

  Who’s...right there.

  I’m still on top of the covers, but I feel the welcoming warmth from her body through the blankets, and when my eyes adjust, I can see the dip of her waist and the curve of her hip. She’d come out from under the pillow at some point and when I push up onto one elbow I can see her pale skin profiled against her dark hair.

  I shiver slightly, the nighttime temperatures here considerably cooler than in Camden’s concrete enclosure. I stand carefully, then slowly inch my way under the top blanket, leaving the flat sheet between us for protection. Ha. It’s like using a piece of tissue to stop a shark attack. It’s only been five days since I was last inside her, last thought I was falling in love with her, but my cock reacts as though it’s been years, standing at attention like a dog expecting a treat.

  No, I tell myself. Knock it off. Go to sleep.

  It takes approximately eight seconds to know that plan isn’t going to work. And it’s a three-minute hike to the communal bathroom if I want to jack off and take care of this myself.

  I don’t want to walk. My back is sore from the driving and the fighting, and all I want to do is fall asleep and enjoy one whole day of my “vacation” from reality. But reality is an erection that’s not going anywhere, so like a teenage boy I pick up my sock from the floor where I’d left it and stroke myself as quietly and unobtrusively as I can.

  I tell myself I’m listening to Susan’s breathing to make sure she stays asleep while I do this, but the truth is, it’s getting me off. If I keep my eyes closed and don’t think about anything, I can rewind to last week, before the truth came out, and this was my reality. Sleeping next to Susan. Waking up next to her. Sure, I’d never jacked off while she slept three inches away, but I’m not in a position to be picky.

  I squeeze my eyes shut tight and bite my lip to keep in a groan, stroking myself fast and hard, muscles straining toward that ultimate goal.

  At first I think it’s my hitched breathing that interrupts things, then Susan sits up and turns on the lamp on the beside table and I freeze, opening my eyes to find her gaping down at me. I’m covered by the cheap white blanket, but there’s no mistaking what’s happening. It’s a little embarrassing, but she’s not even supposed to be here and I use that as motivation when I say, “If you’re not going to help, turn off the light.”

  “What is the matter with you?” she hisses. “Is that a sock?”

  I’ve got one arm cocked up over my head, and now I turn my face and laugh into the crook of my elbow. “Yeah, Susan, it’s a sock. Sue me. Turn off the light so I can finish.”

  She gets out of bed and stalks to the door. “I’ll be back in five minutes. Make sure this is done when I get back.” There’s the doctor again.

  It doesn’t matter. Picturing her angry face, her tits heaving in that littl
e dress, I come in two minutes flat, not bothering to hide the deep moan that starts somewhere low in my belly and rattles up through my chest. I haven’t gotten off since that last night, either, and despite the unusual circumstances, it feels good.

  I get up to wash my hands, brushing my teeth for good measure, and that’s where I’m standing when Susan returns.

  “Is it safe?” she asks, pausing at the flap.

  I rinse my mouth and spit in the sink. “As it’s ever been.”

  Silently we return to opposite sides of the bed, Susan climbing under both covers, eyes on my bruised torso as I climb under the top one. “Are you fighting again?”

  “Just training.”

  “I see.” She grips the pillow and uses it to cover her head, keeping every inch of her body but her right hand covered.

  I frown as I catch a whiff of something, then carefully edge my way over to sniff her fingers, jaw dropping as I realize what I’m smelling. “You got off,” I whisper.

  Her entire body stiffens under the sheets and she yanks her hand out of sniffing distance.

  “You went for a ‘walk’ and fingered yourself, didn’t you?”

  No answer.

  “Susan.”

  “Sleep well, Oscar.”

  I flop onto my back and laugh uproariously. “It’s karma, Susan.”

  “Shut up.”

  “If you hadn’t fucked me over, I’d have given that tight little snatch the fucking it needs.”

  She turns onto her stomach and clasps the pillow on either side of her head, blocking me out.

  Chapter Twelve

  Susan wakes up before me. I feel her move and peek at the clock on the nightstand: it’s 7:10 a.m., and there’s no way I’m moving right now. I yank the blankets over my head, stretch my legs out over Susan’s vacated space, and go back to sleep.

  The next time I open my eyes it’s nearly ten, and I am fucking content. That was the deepest, most peaceful sleep I have ever had. Maybe it’s the yurt, maybe it’s something in the air, maybe it’s finally feeling like things with Susan are real. Not perfect, by a long shot. Not even healthy, maybe. But real. Honest. She used me and I got pissed and somehow we slept side by side and nobody killed anybody. All our issues are right out in the open.

  I sit up and look around, but she’s not here. Her suitcase is still on the floor, though, so I know she hasn’t made her escape yet. I stretch and put on my swim trunks from yesterday, then polish off a banana as I make my way down to the beach. There are maybe a dozen people stretched out on towels at random intervals along the sand, but there’s only one person in the water, a fair distance out. When a wave lifts her, I catch a glimpse of a bright blue bikini. Of course.

  I drop my towel and toss the banana peel in a trashcan, then jog into the water and dive headlong into a cresting wave. The chilly water wakes me up and I swim out to Susan, who sees me coming and treads water as she waits. The water’s over our heads but only by a few feet, and for a minute we bob along on the surface, staring at each other.

  “Good morning,” I say finally.

  “Good morning.”

  “Sleep well?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Yep. You got up early.”

  “I’m an early riser.”

  “Have you been out here this whole time?”

  “No.”

  The sun’s orangey rays bounce off the surface of the water, and Susan squints and looks away. I can tell she’s thinking about saying something, so I wait, not closing the short distance between us, using the brief opportunity to check out her cleavage when the water dips.

  “I’m sorry,” she says finally.

  I spit out a mouthful of water when a wave hits me square in the face. “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I realize I never said that when you came over on Thursday to...confront me.”

  Is that really what I want from her? An apology? I mean, maybe. If it’s sincere, which I think it is, though it’s hard to tell with Susan. She could be reciting one of those scripts again, as far as I know.

  “Do you accept my apology?” she prompts. Her head is tilted to the side, her bangs sticking up, and she looks so young and naïve right now. So completely and utterly hapless.

  “It doesn’t change anything,” I say eventually. “Whether or not you regret it. You used me, and that’s really fucking humiliating.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Whatever looks she sees on my face cuts her off.

  “I should have told you the project would help rehabilitate my image,” she tries, “but that was the only part that was at all...manipulative.” She winces at the word. “I don’t know how to fake things, Osc—Oz. Is it not obvious? If I knew how to say the right things at the right time, I wouldn’t have been in that position to begin with.”

  “What about Larry?”

  She sighs. “Larry wrote what he wanted to write. He thought he was helping. I told him it was your project and your money, but he didn’t believe me. He said it didn’t matter anyway. I called him from the conference and told him he’d gotten it all wrong.”

  “What’s he going to do about it?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, probably. He didn’t seem to care.”

  I nod and look away, another dent in my ego.

  “How did things go on Sunday?” she asks. “I tried to look at the news online, but the internet’s patchy out here.”

  “It went well. Big turnout.”

  “Oh. That’s good.”

  “Yeah.” I’m so fucking confused. She’s not denying anything, which means nothing has changed, but my head and my heart and my dick can’t figure out what page they’re supposed to be on. Am I a pussy if I forgive her? A jerk if I hold a grudge? What does she want? “I’m going to head back,” I say. “I need a shower.”

  “Okay.”

  I return to the yurt and grab some soap and shampoo, then duck into the communal bathroom. I shower too quickly to come to any kind of decision, and when I get back to the yurt Susan’s sitting at the fire pit making s’mores. In the morning.

  “Want one?” she asks, holding up a marshmallow on a stick.

  “No.” My stomach’s growling but her poisonous snack foods are the last thing I want.

  I’m cutting up a mini watermelon when I hear her come inside, crunching a graham cracker as she walks.

  “Want to play minigolf?” she asks from over my shoulder.

  I concentrate on not slicing off a finger. It’s hard to think straight when she’s around. Even with the stress of the Green Space on the back burner, she takes up way too much gray matter to make smart choices.

  “No, thanks.”

  “There’s a little farmer’s market—”

  I put down the knife and turn. “I can’t do this, Susan.”

  She blinks rapidly and I have to steel myself against the urge to wrap my arms around her and tell her none of what happened matters. Because it does matter. She did it and it still stings, and I don’t know when it’ll stop and I’m not going to say it doesn’t hurt when it does. I’m not going to say I trust her when I don’t. I’m not going to take the easy way out anymore.

  “I thought...” She chews on her lip for a second, then gathers herself. “I thought after my apology, you would forgive me.”

  I run a hand over the back of my neck. “I don’t know, Susan. Believing you is one thing, forgiving you is different. Try to see it from where I’m standing.”

  “Why?”

  I stare at her. “Why? Because that’s what empathy is. Aren’t you trying to be more empathetic?”

  She considers me for a second. “Yes.”

  “Then try.”

  “Okay.” She takes her s’more over to the bed
and digs around in her suitcase until she finds her purse. “I guess I’ll go out for a while, then. By myself.”

  “Have fun.”

  I feel like the world’s biggest asshole when I watch her leave. Like I’m kicking a puppy long after I’ve scolded it. Except this is a puppy I still want to fu—Okay, no. That analogy doesn’t work. Anyway, there’s nothing about Susan that’s soft and cuddly. She’s reserved and prickly and odd and selfish, but she’s also smart and driven and accomplished and haphazardly funny. I say I don’t want to take the easy way out, but I wish this way weren’t so damn hard.

  I take a plate of watermelon to the bed and sit on the corner as I eat, spotting a staid brown blazer folded on top of Susan’s open suitcase, her conference ID badge pinned to the breast. I lean down to get a better look. Dr. Susan Dufresne, Chicago-Davis Hospital, it reads. Dufresne must be her maiden name. Maybe this whole “Garter Gate” thing motivated her to change it back, to distance herself from the uncompassionate Dr. Jones persona.

  Maybe it’s not that different from Oscar/Oz. How I grew up in Camden as Oscar Hall, then on my second day of college Rian and a couple other guys declared Oscar the “world’s worst name” and dubbed me Oz. And it stuck. All of a sudden I wasn’t the guy who grew up in a shithole town and helped put his best friend in a wheelchair. Suddenly I was the guy on the wrestling team who wasn’t just a dumb jock, but a guy who might have a future. Then I was the guy on Wall Street, rising up the ranks, waking up early, staying up all night, doing whatever it took to win. That was Oz. That was the guy I tried to bring back to Camden. The one who got to the top, who knew how to be the best. But even though the name stuck, the second I stepped back into that concrete prison, all the good parts of that guy vanished, racing back to New York and the life we’d foolishly left behind. Because in Camden, nicknames aside, I’m still Oscar. Another nobody trying to get through each day without making anything too much worse.

  I stand abruptly. Ten minutes alone and I’m already losing my mind. I’d spotted a movie theater in one of the towns I’d stopped in yesterday. Maybe it’s time to lose myself in somebody else’s drama for a while.