The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3)

by Julianna Keyes

  I frown, confused and offended. “You think I’d do something to you?”

  “You came into the ER with a banged-up face and a wrist you said got sprained by a crate of watermelons. Then you told me you like to fight. Now you look like you’ve rolled down the side of a mountain and hit every rock with your face. You tell me, Osc—Oz.” The edge is back in her voice. She’s no longer the apologetic villain. She’s the doctor I met the first night in the ER. A woman who’s not an idiot. And now that she’s being difficult, I want her so bad it hurts.

  “I told you what happened to my face. The watermelon story is true. So is the fighting—but only with people who can handle it. I sparred with someone when you stood me up on Wednesday. These are just a few bruises.” I really didn’t think it looked that bad when I checked in the mirror this morning. The split lip has healed, the black eye is more of a pale green, and my swollen cheek is back to normal, if still a little yellow. Hell, even my wrist feels okay.

  “Do you do that a lot?”

  “What? Fight?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not enough. Why?”

  She looks at me like I’m obtuse. “Because I work in a hospital. I’m not interested in playing doctor on my free time.”

  Ironic that a conversation about how I shouldn’t be angry can be so aggravating. “I haven’t asked you to fix me, doc. Come in if you’re hungry. You’re perfectly safe.”

  I don’t wait to see if she follows. My skin feels hot, and even though I’m wearing a T-shirt and shorts, feet bare, I’m sweating. Still, I feel some relief when I hear the door swing open behind me, then the soft shuffle of her feet on the hall floor as she trails me to the kitchen. I grab the steaks from the refrigerator, along with a head of radicchio and a package of Portobello mushrooms. Susan’s lingering by the open patio doors, watching.

  “You know how to start the grill?” I ask, sprinkling salt and pepper on the steak.

  She nods once and disappears outside, the grill just out of my line of sight. There are a few clicks, then a faint roar as the flames catch, and a minute later she’s back, eyeballing the quartered radicchio, the mushroom caps filled with a goat cheese and garlic mixture I’d prepared earlier.

  “Look okay?”

  She hesitates. “I don’t eat many vegetables,” she says, nodding at the display. “Don’t be offended if I don’t try them.”

  I gather up the tray and pass her on my way outside. “I won’t be.”

  She sips her beer as she watches me adjust the flames then add the food to the grill, and when I close the lid I know it’s not just the proximity to the fire that’s making me so hot. It’s her. It’s the way she looks and sounds, the way she doesn’t get it but wants to, the way she’s too blunt for her own good. It’s the fact that she’s here when she doesn’t have to be, when not many people would have the nerve to stand someone up then send them bees then come to their house.

  “You want another drink?”

  “Maybe just water after this.”

  There’s a small table on the flagstone patio, four chairs and a yellow umbrella that’s quick to blow away anytime there’s wind. I bring out plates and cutlery, a couple of bottles of water, and set the table. Yeah, it’s a lot like the first time at Susan’s, except now we’re on ground level with a four-foot fence and neighbors on either side. The privacy is questionable, but right now it feels like the most isolated place on earth. Just the two of us, trying to decide if we should stay or go.

  We make awkward small talk while we wait for the food to finish, then finally bring everything to the table to sit down. The first few bites are painfully quiet, and I try not to watch Susan cringe as she cuts into the mushroom as though it might leap up to swallow her face.

  “What have you been doing these past few days?” she asks, scraping off the goat cheese mixture before reconsidering and piling it back on, tentatively putting a miniscule piece in her mouth.

  I hesitate before telling her about the tannery and the inspections.

  “You’re doing it?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “It just seems fast.”

  My laugh is dry. “I’ve been thinking about it for years.”

  “Then why now? What prompted this?”

  I look at her for a second. “You did,” I say eventually. “You made me wonder what I was waiting for. I wanted to do more, so I finally did. Or I’m trying to, at least. It’s not official.”

  “It’s a big deal.”

  “I guess.”

  “I got here early and drove around for a bit,” she confesses. “I saw where you work and I think I saw the gym you mentioned. And all the rest.”

  “It’s a shithole.”

  “Yeah,” she agrees. “It is. That’s why your idea is so great. People could use something to give them hope. An opportunity.”

  I watch her as I chew. She seems sincere, not feeding me crap so I’ll forgive her, which I already have. It’s one thing to be punched in the face by someone who means it, quite another when the person doesn’t even know they’re swinging. “What about you, doc? Where’d your opportunities come from? How’d you get through med school?”

  “Family money,” she answers. “My father has a big law practice in New York. I finished high school at sixteen, went to Harvard, then Harvard Med, where I met Stephen—my ex. He’s a psychiatrist. He got offered a position in Cleveland and I got pregnant, so we moved to Ohio. I had a baby, then got a job at the same hospital and had to work extra to make up for the time I’d lost with Dorrie.” That seems like a harsh way to refer to maternity leave. “But I knew what I wanted, and soon enough I had it. Then we split up and I got headhunted by Chicago-Davis, so here I am.”

  “You said you had a sister, right? Is she a doctor too?”

  “No. Lawyer. She actually did some work out here. There was a factory or something that poisoned its workers.”

  “Fowler. I know the case.” Everyone in Camden knows it. Even though they poisoned their employees, people still showed up to work because jobs are in short order around here. People were equally divided between supporting the case and hating it. I think of the pretty dark-haired lawyer who’d come around a lot and ended up dating one of the fighters I knew at the gym. “Is your sister’s name Rachel by any chance?”

  She looks confused. “No. Caitlin.”

  I stand up to get another steak, limping slightly when my calf seizes, a holdover from an old college injury. It loosens after a couple of steps, but Susan’s squinting at me when I return to the table.

  “It’s nothing,” I say before she can pry.

  “Huh,” she says, not blinking as she stares, sipping from her bottle of water.

  “Don’t.”

  She gazes back, deceptively innocent. “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t give me that doctor look. You said you didn’t want to, and I don’t want it either.”

  She lifts a slim shoulder. “Fine. If you want your leg to fall off, just ignore it.”

  I laugh around a mouthful of food. “Is that your professional opinion?”

  “You can’t afford my professional opinion.”

  I laugh again, so hard I have to cover my mouth. After a second, she smiles too, and relaxes for the first time since arriving. I feel myself soften toward her a little bit more. It takes balls to show up here, to keep calling, apologizing. She persisted when I would have given up, kept up the fight when it had to look like she had no shot at winning.

  My neighbors come out, a young couple with three noisy little boys, and they bang around on a trampoline, squealing every time they peek over the fence. So much for quiet.

  “You still hungry?” I ask, gesturing to her mostly empty plate. She did a better job with the scary vegetables than I think either of us expected.

&nb
sp; “No. I’m good.”

  “All right. Let’s go inside.”

  This time she doesn’t flinch when I stand up, just collects her plate and drink and precedes me into the house. I close the patio doors to block out the noise, but it’s too hot in here. I only have air conditioning in the master bedroom and living room so I can sleep and watch TV in some semblance of comfort.

  I don’t want to watch TV with Susan.

  She ignores my protests and loads the dishes in the dishwasher, and I feel bad I didn’t buy dessert. I’d give her every chocolate concoction ever made if I could. “It’s hot in here,” she remarks, straightening and smoothing her dress. It ends right above her knees, revealing pale skin and bare feet.

  “I’ve got AC in the bedroom.” She hesitates until I make the first move, crossing the small kitchen to stand in front of her, just a little too close. I hear her inhale, but she doesn’t back up, doesn’t try to stop me. I trail my fingers down her arms, linking my fingers with hers, bringing her hands behind my neck and leaving them there. I drag the elastic from her short ponytail and twine my fingers in her hair to draw her head back so she’s looking at me.

  “Kiss me,” I murmur, and she rises onto her tiptoes to press her lips to mine. I cup her ass and boost her up onto the counter so I don’t have to stoop so far, opening my mouth when I feel her tongue seeking entrance.

  I love the way Susan kisses. No games, no pretense. She spreads her legs, skirt bunching around her waist, and I step in, splaying my fingers over her lower back to bring her forward, pressing my growing erection against the gusset of her panties. We kiss until my cock is so hard I have to unzip my shorts to give it some room, until I can smell her arousal. Her chest and throat are flushed pink, and I feel sweat trailing down my back.

  “Bedroom?” I ask, hoisting her up. She wraps her legs around my waist and holds on as I carry her down the short hall and into the blessedly cool, dim room.

  “Oh,” she groans when the cold air hits her skin. “That’s so much better.”

  “And here I thought it was me that made you hot,” I say.

  “You do,” she assures me, wobbling slightly when I put her down. “But this is good too. Unzip me.” She gives me her back and even though I’ve seen it before, my mouth goes dry when the fabric parts to reveal the smooth expanse of skin, marred only by a white bra strap. I unhook it and she peels everything away until she’s standing in just her white panties, material I know would be wet if I slipped my hand inside.

  Instead I pull my T-shirt over my head, figuring she likes what she sees when her eyes darken and her tongue traces along the inside of her lower lip. I shove my shorts to the floor but leave on my boxers, then take Susan’s hand and lead her to the bed.

  “No,” she says at the edge of the mattress. “You lie down.”

  “Come again?”

  “You have to come once before you can come again,” she deadpans.

  I groan. “Susan.”

  She laughs. “I told you I was funny. Now lie down. That part wasn’t a joke.”

  I try not to show the residual discomfort from Wednesday’s fight as I climb on top of the covers and lie back in the center, two pillows stacked beneath my head. It’s a king-size bed and Susan walks to the far end before climbing on and kneeling, sitting on her ankles, lifting one of my feet into her lap. My heel presses right against her pussy but any dirty thoughts about what I could do go right out the window when she digs her thumb into my arch and drags it up to my toes. Hard.

  “Ow!” I exclaim, yanking away my foot. “Fuck!”

  “Sorry,” she says, decidedly not sorry as she snatches it back. “Too much?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Not doctoring you, most definitely.”

  I try to glare at her but she doesn’t seem to care, though this time when she repeats the move the touch is lighter, less agonizing. She does it again and again, fingers stroking, kneading, bending my toes, making me forget about my straining cock.

  “Good,” she murmurs, and I open eyes I hadn’t realized I’d closed as she sets the first foot down and lifts the second into her lap. Again my heel nestles against the heat of her pussy and this time I give in and grind it into her a bit, making her gasp then swat at my calf. “Behave,” she orders, those lethal fingers digging in.

  I moan but keep my leg in place, trusting her to work her magic. Soon she’s moved up over my ankle, massaging my calf, the knots above my knee, my thigh. It’s like being in heaven, where masseuses are gorgeous and topless, their talented fingers turning muscles to liquid silver.

  Maybe I’m drunk.

  “Turn over,” she whispers when she reaches my waist.

  My eyes flutter open and I see her eying the bruises along my ribs, her expression disapproving.

  “Let me do you,” I mumble.

  “Turn over,” she says again, her tone brooking no argument.

  And I don’t want to argue.

  I turn onto my stomach and lift my hips so she can pull down my boxers and throw them on the floor. I find a comfortable position for my cock, then feel her move around on the bed, straddling my ass as she faces my feet. She’s on all fours as she massages my calves and I turn my head as best I can to see her panty-covered ass twitching as she works.

  I’m going to come all over the blankets.

  That won’t do.

  “Susan,” I try to say.

  She ignores me.

  “Susan.”

  Still nothing.

  I take a breath and flip onto my back, catching her arm when she yelps and nearly topples over. I draw her into position, her crotch positioned squarely over mine.

  “Lose the panties,” I tell her.

  She looks back over her shoulder, ready to scold me.

  “Now,” I add. “Or I’ll tear them.”

  “There’s no need to tear things, Oscar.” Watching her lift first one leg then the other as she works off the tiny scrap of fabric makes me moan, and I try to recall the details of the building inspection report to keep myself from exploding. I already came on her belly once, I’d rather come inside her this time. And there’s still the matter of my two orgasms to her one on Sunday. I wouldn’t mind evening out the score.

  She gasps and tries to grab my legs when I wrap an arm around her waist and drag her up so she’s straddling my face. “Oscar!” she exclaims, fingers scrabbling on my chest but finding no traction. “Oscar!” Same word, different meaning, because this time my tongue is spearing right into her wet pussy and there’s nothing in the world quite like it.

  I know this position is vulnerable. I know it’s filthy and my face will be covered with her juices and she’s thinking about everything I’m seeing and smelling and tasting. And it’s fantastic. I like this element of control. The way she’s sitting on my face but I’m in charge. I grip her thighs to keep her in place as I feel her shift around, trying to decide if she should reach back to hold the headboard or lean forward to balance on my chest. I don’t care what she chooses; she’s not going to smother me. Her pussy is so wet, her clit so swollen she almost jumps off my face when I stroke it, and I laugh into her slippery folds and push in a thumb when she cries out. Then she forgets everything and just rides me. I press my fingers over her clit and let her set the pace, enjoying the whole fucking messy experience.

  She comes a few minutes later, thighs tensing on either side of my head, pussy contracting around the fingers I pushed inside her. She’s gasping and slumped forward, arms braced on my stomach as she tries to catch her breath. I pull out my fingers and use both hands to open her up while she’s too weak to resist, looking my perverted fill, licking the slick pink flesh just because I can. I take a peek at her tiny asshole, too, but don’t try to breach it.

  Eventually she clambers off to the side, cu
rling up in a ball and clutching her knees. “I think you killed me,” she says, sounding dazed. “No one’s ever...I haven’t...”

  “Had oral?”

  “I’ve had oral, Oscar. Just not like...that.”

  I run a hand over my smug smile. “Good.”

  “Give me a second to catch my breath,” she says. “Then I’ll...I don’t know. Think about what you want, then tell me.”

  I swing my legs over the edge, grinning as I leave the room to tidy up, washing my face with cold water and rinsing out my mouth. I use the time to try to calm my raging erection, then grab a strip of condoms from the box on the vanity and return to the bedroom.

  Susan’s lying in my vacated space, flat on her back, legs slightly parted, the sacrificial virgin. For a second I worry she’s fallen asleep, then I see that her eyes are wide open, waiting for me. “What did you decide?” she asks.

  I tear off one condom, open it up and roll it on. “I’d really just like to be inside you,” I say. “If that’s okay.”

  She looks surprised but parts her legs as I climb over, sliding my knees between hers. She spreads wider and I sit back on my heels so I can watch as I slick the head of my cock up and down her pink slit, moisture gathering on the condom. “Like this?” she asks. She tips up her hips for a better angle, and I can’t find the words to tell her that everything she does is going to be fine by me.

  Instead I position myself at her entrance and slowly push in, feeling her tender muscles flex around me as they stretch, as I stretch her. There’s no better feeling than this, nothing more ego boosting than feeling a woman’s pussy accommodate your cock. Well, maybe it’s a little better without the condom, but that’s a different discussion.

  I drive in to the hilt and Susan holds my gaze the whole time, lips slightly parted, breath hitching in and out. Her hands are fisted in the blankets at her side and when I’m buried as deep as I can go I grip her hips and tug her into me, a few extra millimeters that make us both gasp. I stare down at where we’re joined, her legs splayed open around my hips, her clit peeking out from her folds. I touch it carefully and she contracts around me, but doesn’t move her hands. I circle the sensitive bud with my thumb, smearing her juices around, listening and feeling for which touch makes her hottest.