The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3)

by Julianna Keyes

  She shakes her head, the smallest of motions. “It’s not just sex, Oscar.”

  I smile a little bit. “I know. If you stand me up for a date, I’m still going to get mad. But I don’t care if you don’t want to eat your vegetables, and if you listen to terrible music and if you want to tie me up every once in a while. I don’t care if the hospital board tells you you’re not empathetic, because you are. It’s been a long time since anyone’s cared about me the way you did, took the time to see me the way you did—fucking sent me bees like you did—and I don’t think I’ll find it again.”

  She looks at me, pleading. “What do you want me to say?”

  “Say yes.”

  “To what?”

  “To everything. To trying again. To starting over.”

  “I don’t—”

  I kiss her. I don’t think about it, I just do it. I have to. She tastes like sugar and salt and when she sobs into my mouth I let her. I cup the back of her neck with one hand and give her everything I have, everything I should have given her the first time we did this. She doesn’t respond for several long seconds, just lets me kiss her, touch her, re-learn her. And then slowly, cautiously, her lips move, her tongue touches mine, and I feel the tears leaking from her eyes, this beautiful, strong woman, undone by everything I’ve done.

  We kiss for a long time. I feel her fists curled into the lapels of my jacket, her breasts pressing against me, her longing and her fear and her confusion. I twist the soft strands of her hair between my fingers, trace the stubborn line of her jaw, carefully coast a hand down her back and cup her ass. Then I squeeze it a little, because I like it. A lot.

  She laughs against my mouth, a broken sound, and ends the kiss, stepping back a bit and making me let go. “Jesus, Oscar. This is—” She shakes her head and looks around.

  “What?” I ask, not moving.

  “I’m trying not to eat so much chocolate.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “When I told my sister about you—about what happened that night—she said you were just another bad habit. Like the junk food and the dirty car and the rap music. And I’ve been trying to do better with all that.”

  “Really? No more rap?”

  “I didn’t say I was perfect yet, just trying.”

  I try not to laugh. “Right.”

  “I shouldn’t want you.”

  “I know. But you ate that whole plate of dessert like it was your last meal.”

  “I have eleven cavities.”

  “Jesus, Susan!”

  “And three noise complaints from my downstairs neighbors.”

  “You’re supposed to be a pillar of the community.”

  “I don’t want to want you.”

  I swallow. “I know.”

  “But when I asked Caitlin to sue that guy to get you your money back, she said I was either crazy, or I’d learned how to forgive somebody for once.”

  It takes a second for the words to sink in. “Wait. You—you did that?”

  “Well, Caitlin did it. I asked her to.”

  “I thought—” Oreo thought it was Dean’s wife. But it wasn’t. Even hating me as much as she says she did, Susan reached out and got me a bag of cash. When I all I had was a pile of rubble and a battered face and a shitty attitude, she still believed enough to keep trying.

  “It wasn’t your fault the building got destroyed,” Susan says. “I liked that place. And I saw how much it helped people. How much it helped you. And I hoped you could start again.”

  There’s that word. Hope. Four dangerous letters.

  My heart is pounding. “That first day at my place, when you said you wanted to be part of the Green Space, I couldn’t imagine why. And now I can’t imagine it without you. I don’t see a future without you in it, Susan. Give me another shot.”

  “I don’t believe in second chances, Oscar. If I fuck up at the hospital, it’s game over. For a reason.”

  “Right.”

  “And I really don’t believe in third chances.”

  I can hardly breathe. “I only need one more.”

  There’s a pause, then she nods briskly. “Okay, then. Fine.”

  My heart stops altogether. “What?”

  “Fine. It’s getting cold out. Let’s go someplace else. Back to the auction, probably. I bid on a few things. I might have won.”

  I’m dizzy from the abrupt change in tone. “Is this a trick?” I ask warily. “You just want to escape? Because I’ll unlock the door if—”

  She holds up a hand. “Look. I’m trying to be more empathetic, but this is a lot of soul-baring, and I’m getting a little antsy.”

  I toss back my head and study the moon. “Oh, God, Susan. You’re torture, but I love you.”

  “Great. Let’s go.”

  I laugh because I don’t know what else to do. Then I pull the key from my pocket and unlock the door, pausing when Susan’s fingers cover mine.

  “I love you too,” she says matter-of-factly, “but let’s just see how things go from here before we get too excited.”

  I laugh again, and this time I can’t stifle it, slumping onto the edge of a planter while Susan stands in front of me, staring down. “Oscar,” she says, nudging my foot with her heel.

  “Give me a minute.”

  She glances at her bare wrist, as though a minute is all I’m going to get. I’m signing up for this, I think, watching her silhouetted in the moonlight. Unromantic and utterly gorgeous, soft and hard, brutal and trying. The fight of my life.

  “Come here,” I say, reaching out to grab her hips and pull her in between my legs, my face pressed against her belly through the smooth fabric. She doesn’t resist, sliding her hands over my scalp, her short fingernails scratching gently. “I want you,” I murmur.

  “I got that,” she whispers.

  “Right now.”

  “What about the auction? I might have won a trip to Maui.”

  I start to inch her skirt up her legs. “Maui will be there tomorrow.”

  She tips my head back to meet my eyes. “Will you?”

  “Yes, Susan.” I groan when my fingertips meet the lacy edge of her panties, when the scent of her arousal reaches my nose. “Tomorrow and all the days after.” I bunch up the fabric at her hip and kiss her pussy through the satin panties. I dig in with my tongue, finding her clit, sucking it against my teeth.

  “Oscar,” she gasps. “I don’t—”

  “You wanted a strawberry last time,” I point out. “Let me give you one.”

  She glances around. There are plenty of buildings looming around us, plenty of people who could be watching, though if they are, they’re hiding. “People might see—”

  I shove the crotch of her panties aside and lick straight up her middle. “Might see me eating you out?”

  She gasps. “Yes.”

  I slide my hands up the inside of her thighs and push her legs wide, pulling apart her slippery folds and opening her up for my mouth. She gives up the fight and lifts one leg to rest on the planter beside me, giving me better access, giving me everything.

  And this time I take it.

  Epilogue

  “...like, I mean, if you don’t even know what an infield fly rule is, why are you coaching softball?”

  “It’s a real mystery, Dorrie.” Susan glances back at me and rolls her eyes as we trail Dorrie into the apartment. A year of dating and a summer of softball games later, Susan and I are still going strong. Having had some time to come to terms with her parents’ divorce, Dorrie has settled down a little bit, though she’s every bit the headstrong and vocal woman her mother is.

  Dorrie kicks her shoes into the corner and drops her bag on the floor, turning to us, her cheeks pink with indignation. “And did you see whe
n he put Tamra on third in the fourth inning? Uh, Tamra can’t even throw two feet—how is she going to make a play at first? Seriously. He’s such a dipshit.”

  Apparently the coach Dorrie had last summer was much better, but he left town to reunite with Susan’s sister, Caitlin, and news of their recent engagement has officially confirmed Dorrie’s fear that he won’t be returning to coach The Closers. Truthfully—they’re dreadful. She makes some good points about the new coach’s ability, but there’s only so much you can do with a bunch of kids whose coordination can best be described as “non-existent.”

  “Dorrie, don’t say dipshit.”

  “But he—”

  “Stop.”

  Dorrie huffs but drops the argument before it begins, stomping around to the fridge to grab a carton of milk. She’s ready to drink straight from the carton but I snag it before she can, putting a glass in her hand and filling it halfway.

  “Use a glass,” I tell her. “You’ve got germs.”

  She snorts and tries not to smirk as she drinks.

  I lower my voice. “Coach Morgan, however, is a total dipshit. Leaving Lindsay in to pitch after she walked in three runs and calling it a ‘learning opportunity?’”

  She swipes the back of her hand across her milk moustache. “I know, right?”

  “I can hear you,” Susan says.

  “We’re bonding,” Dorrie retorts. “Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen?”

  “What’s going to happen is you’re going to go take a shower. You smell like bug spray and sunscreen.”

  “You made me wear it.”

  “And you’ll be grateful when you’re fifty and look forty-five.”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Go take a shower.”

  Dorrie sighs like the most put-upon teenager on earth, but sticks her empty glass in the dishwasher and trudges down the hall.

  I try not to look at Susan, but I can still feel her disapproving stare. “We’re bonding,” I insist.

  “Don’t encourage her to swear,” she says, with no real vehemence. Then she adds, “She likes you,” and comes to hug me. She lingers, her cheek pressed to my chest, and I rub her back, both because I want to and because I think she needs it. Susan’s been making a huge effort to be more involved in Dorrie’s life, and I think the struggle to find a new balance is exhausting for both of them. It’s exhausting for me, and I’m only here a few nights a week. I still have my place in Camden, but Dorrie’s twelve, so Susan only comes out to spend the night once or twice a month, the rest of the time we’re here.

  “I like her,” I reply. “She’s a lot like you.”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “It’s terrifying.”

  Susan’s shoulders shake as she laughs. “She was the most docile baby,” she murmurs. “Everyone said we’d taken the wrong one home. Sometimes Stephen and I would stare at her and think, ‘Where’s our kid? Who wound up with that monster?’”

  I laugh.

  “But now I know,” she continues, nodding sagely. “She’s down the hall, not taking a shower like I told her.”

  “No kids like taking showers.”

  Susan groans and rubs her forehead against my sternum. “There’s not a lot of time left, Oscar.”

  I glance at the clock. It’s five after nine. “She’ll take a shower, Susan. And if she doesn’t, what’s the worst that could happen?”

  She laughs tiredly, then keeps laughing until she has to pull away to wipe tears from the corners of her eyes.

  “What?”

  “Not the shower, you fool.”

  “You lost me.”

  She takes a deep breath. “Do you remember that first day at my apartment, when I told you about Dorrie?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And how you said you wanted kids?”

  I’m pretty sure my heart stops beating. Or just falls out of my chest entirely. Because Susan’s got a knack for knowing everything that’s going on in there—both medically and metaphorically—but still it stuns me that she’s bringing it up. I’d considered broaching the subject a time or two, but I always figured her answer would be no, and I couldn’t really argue with her. She’s already done it once, she has a demanding career...

  “What are you saying?”

  She scratches the side of her nose. “I’m saying, I only have a couple of good years left. Then I’ll be too old to kidnap anybody.”

  “Susan. Fuck. Don’t say stuff like that. You’re not funny.”

  “I am too. And I’m serious. About the baby, not the kidnapping.”

  “You want to have another one?”

  “I want to if you want to.”

  “Don’t you want to be married first?”

  She shrugs. “I’ve been married, remember? It doesn’t guarantee anything.”

  It’s not like I haven’t thought about getting married. I’m crazy in love with Susan, and I love Dorrie, too. I want this whole life with them, and I want it forever, but somehow I’d always envisioned the trial period lasting more than a year.

  Then I think of the Green Space 2.0. The garden we’re growing, the baskets of lettuce and carrots and peas we’ve distributed, trees full of apples and cherries and lemons. Our lime tree got some sort of disease and died, and there was a small fire that wiped out our first batch of jalapeno seedlings and set us back a month, but we’ve been overcoming these disasters the way we do everything else, one day at a time. The project may not look exactly like we envisioned, but it feels the same—it feels hopeful. It feels like it’s working. Like everything is possible, if we just keep showing up to fight every day.

  “Let me do it right,” I say finally. “Let me ask you the right way.”

  “Whatever you want,” Susan says, rising onto her tiptoes to kiss me. “You know I like the way you do things.”

  I slide my fingers through her hair, a little longer now, soft and silky where it hangs loose against her shoulders.

  “Ew. Please. If I have to see you two geezers kissing, I’m going to vomit. Enough already.” Dorrie flops onto the couch and snags the remote, covering her head with a pillow to block out our horror show.

  Susan’s laughing as she pulls back, just an inch. “This is what you’re signing up for,” she tells me. “Don’t say you weren’t warned.”

  I smile and kiss her again. “Bring it on.”

  * * * * *

  To find out about other books by Julianna Keyes or to be alerted to new releases, sign up for her monthly newsletter here or at http://www.juliannakeyes.com/newsletter.html

  And turn the page for an excerpt from IN HER DEFENSE, available now at all participating e-retailers.

  Now available from Carina Press and Julianna Keyes

  Caitlin Dufresne has never loved anyone as much as she loves the law...

  Read on for a preview of IN HER DEFENSE, the second book in Julianna Keyes’s TIME SERVED series

  Who Is

  Caitlin Dufresne?

  By River Smith, Chicago’s Finest Lifestyle Editor

  If you’ve never heard of Caitlin Dufresne, you are a member of a small minority. Even now, our appointment scheduled weeks ago, she is in demand, desk and cell phone ringing, secretaries, paralegals and fellow lawyers knocking on her door.

  We meet in her corner office on the thirty-second floor of the famous King Building in downtown Chicago, a tidy, efficient space done in neutral grays with white accents and limited accessories. Her Yale degrees hang next to a silver plaque etched with the famous Veni, Vidi, Vici phrase. On another wall, a painting whose price tag undoubtedly ran five figures does its best to compete with the stunning city views, but the most eye-catching thing in the room is Dufresne herself.

 
Our cover photo does her no justice. In fact, it’s entirely possible there’s no justice in the world, because it’s not fair that someone can be this beautiful, this smart and this successful, at just thirty-one. And yet, here she is. In the flesh. Very much real. And very much in demand, I’m reminded when I hesitate before asking a question and a flash of irritation flitters across her face, making her check her watch, her phone, her constantly uploading email.

  Dufresne was in demand before settling the famous Fowler case earlier this year, and now it would seem there is no one in the world who doesn’t want a piece of her. (If you’re in the aforementioned minority that is not familiar with her work, the Fowler case is the massive class action suit brought against a manufacturer who used a carcinogenic cleaner that destroyed the lives of thousands of low-income workers.) Class action cases can drag on interminably, but with Dufresne at the helm, it was settled in less than a year for an eight-figure amount that left jaws on the floor.

  Because that’s just what Caitlin Dufresne does, folks. She comes, she sees and she conquers.

  (Article continued on page 61.)

  Chapter One

  Whoever said it was lonely at the top was wrong.

  My father wore the phrase like a badge of honor, trotting it out on special occasions, reminding everyone that he had started his own law firm at the age of twenty-eight and quickly turned it into one of New York’s top practices. It wasn’t easy, he pointed out frequently, usually when explaining why he couldn’t come to my softball games—tennis matches, swim meets, debates or soccer tournaments—and I’d never doubted him. He and my mother lived together but apart, sharing a home and two daughters, but little more. They’d been happy enough with their arrangement, and I’d considered it a by-product of success.

  Sometimes, on the rare night he was home before bed, he’d take me up to the roof and we’d study the blinking city below. I looked up to my father in every way, took his wisdom as gospel and vowed to follow in his footsteps, but I knew then as I know now, that he was wrong. It’s not lonely at the top—it’s the top.