“I’m sorry about last night,” Susan says hastily, surprising the hell out of me. “It was emotional and stupid. We all have our...things. Secrets. Whatever.”
For a second, I really don’t know what to say. My lips move but no sounds emerge.
“The point is,” she plows on, “I know you have your feelings, and I respect them, even if I can’t always understand.”
And there it is again. The sense that she’s repeating something she’s heard, something she thinks she should feel. Maybe even something she’s trying to feel. It’s like that first time on her balcony, watching her try so hard to get that orgasm when it’d come easier if she just let things happen naturally.
“You don’t owe me an apology,” I say. I take a step toward her, not sure exactly what I plan to do when I get there, then stop when I realize the room is eerily quiet. I turn slowly to look over my shoulder and find that every guy in the room has stopped working to eavesdrop.
“Go outside and get that sod laid out!” I snap, pointing to the door. “The playground equipment’s coming on Wednesday.” They can work indoors through the afternoon. It’s cooler down here, what with half the windows missing, and we’ve set up a few industrial fans to keep the air moving. Those fans are probably the only thing keeping them from hearing Susan’s canned apology.
They file out reluctantly, and I look back at Susan. “I have to get something to eat,” I say.
“Everyone needs to eat.”
I glance down at myself, filthy beyond all saving. “And I’ve gotta get a shower. You can...I mean, I don’t know if you want to come over and wait, or I can recommend a place in town and you can hang out there for a bit.”
“I can come over. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind, Susan. I’m glad you’re here.”
She finally smiles, and I nearly laugh when I see her wrinkle her nose when she catches a whiff of me, then tries to hide it. “I’ll follow you,” she says, before reconsidering. “Actually, I’ll stay upwind. You follow me.”
* * *
Forty minutes later we’re sitting in my living room, air conditioning on high. Susan’s on the couch, her feet on the ottoman, and I’m in the recliner. She made grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches while I showered, and I’m so hungry I could eat a hundred, though she only made me two.
“What’d you and Jade talk about?”
She studies me over the rim of her water glass. “How long were you listening?”
I pause, guilty. “Maybe a minute.”
She smiles and I relax a little more. This is nice. Having someone to come home with, sandwich or no sandwich. Someone to talk to. Someone to be with. Someone who interests me.
“We talked about you,” she says eventually. “She really likes you. She likes working at the firm.”
“She could do better.”
“You like her too.”
It’s a statement, not an accusation, still I feel compelled to explain, turning the last triangle of grilled cheese over in my hand, watching the butter seep over my fingers. “I had two sisters.”
For a minute there’s only the hum of the air conditioner, then Susan says, “Past tense?”
I nod. It’s been ten years, but I remember it like it was an hour ago. Sitting in my dorm room, daydreaming about the upcoming wrestling meet when I was supposed to be studying for my econ midterm. A knock on the door. Figuring it was one of Rian’s many hookups I’d shouted, “He’s not here!” to save myself a trip across the cramped room. Opening the door when that was answered with another knock. Finding two police officers and a therapist on the other side.
“You don’t have to talk about it,” Susan offers when I don’t elaborate. She stands and walks her dishes back to the kitchen, leaving me to my memories. But I don’t want to go back there. I want to be right here.
She’s loading the dishwasher when I find her. “Was that enough food?” she asks. “I could make you something else. I didn’t want to hunt through your cupboards while you were in the shower.”
“I’m fine.” I wash my hands and pour another drink when Susan declines. “Drunk driver,” I say eventually. “Ten years ago. My mother, too.”
Her mouth opens slightly. “Three of them? They all died?”
“Yeah. I was twenty-one. At college.”
“Your father?”
“Died when I was a baby.”
“Osc—Oz. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
Her fingers are twisting in the hem of her shirt and she looks like she wants to say something but isn’t sure she should. “This is the part I’m worst at,” she blurts out.
“What?”
“This. When I’m supposed to say the right thing, I always say the worst thing. So I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to make it worse.”
I give a rough laugh. “The worst has happened, Susan.”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m sorry, I—”
I interrupt. “I’m just glad you’re here. Really. I thought maybe you wouldn’t come back.” I step into her, the first time I’ve touched her, really touched her, since seeing her today. “I missed you last night.” I dip my head to inhale the scent of her hair, though today it smells like dust and paint. Ever so slowly she inches her arms around me, like she’s afraid of making the wrong move.
We inhale at the same time, our chests rising and falling together. I feel her rib cage under my splayed fingers, flesh and bone under all that chilly armor.
“I missed you too,” she murmurs, her head turned so the air brushes over my bicep. Goose bumps jump up along my spine, and I squeeze her a little tighter, wondering how it came to this. How people do this. How they find each other and hold on.
Chapter Ten
“...fucking rat-faced fucking loser!”
I pause, hand extended toward the front door of Fitzgibbons & Sons. It’s Monday morning, and if this is what the week has in store, I’m going to turn around, drive home, and go back to bed. I work out five times a week, but I’m still in pain from carting all that stuff up to the roof on Saturday. My shoulders, my glutes, my calves, hell, even my scalp hurts thanks to a stupid sunburn, and I’m really not in the market for more grief.
When I left Camden at eighteen, it was with strict instructions from my mother to stop looking for fights, be smart and walk away if and when trouble found me. How ironic then, that my new mission is to do less running and more confronting. With a sigh I turn the knob and pull open the door to find Jade taking out her rage on the stack of paper she’s feeding through the shredder.
“That better be stuff that needs to be shredded,” I say, stepping inside. “I don’t care how mad you are.”
Jade looks up, her dark hair loose and tangled around her shoulders, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks flushed with rage and insult. “He bailed on me.”
“I assume this is Ricky?”
“Who else?”
I’m not touching that one, but Jade’s not waiting for a response anyway, prying out staples from the next batch of documents and cramming them into the shredder, the poor machine grinding its displeasure but too afraid to malfunction.
“We were supposed to go away!” she fumes. “I was really looking forward to this. When was the last time I even had a vacation, right? Answer: never. I’ve never fucking had one. Not even in a...in a...” Oh God, please don’t let her cry in earnest. I really will run away. “I wanted to sleep in a yurt!” she wails, yanking on paper that’s jammed. The shredder spits out tiny white flecks like a little snowstorm, which only incenses her more.
“Okay,” I say hastily, stepping in to save Jade and the machine from each other. I take her by the wrists and tug her from her chair down the hall to my office. One of the assistants peers out his door and I jerk my head toward t
he shredder, indicating that he should rescue it while it’s still in one piece.
Jade doesn’t resist, just follows along, sniffling miserably. It’s only when we’re safely ensconced in my office that I take my eyes off her unhappy face to see that she’s wearing fitted gray slacks and a black blazer, a very belated but equally welcome nod to my fervent pleas for her to dress more professionally at work. Too bad her behavior hasn’t followed suit.
“Ricky canceled the yurt trip, huh?”
She crosses her arms and stares out the window, nodding tersely, jaw clenched. I personally think this is great news, since she could do so much better than that ass hat, and, if we’re being honest, better than a yurt. Still, I witnessed my own sisters’ heartbreak a few times growing up, and I know “I told you so” will only make me the focus of her fury, so instead I say, “I’m sorry. That’s disappointing.”
Her lower lip trembles. “I really wanted to go.”
“Is it because of stuff at home? You want to get away from Alex and whatever shit he’s bringing with him?”
She shakes her head as she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a very creased brochure, carefully folded, and obviously pored over a million times. She passes it to me and I open it gingerly, knowing what I’ll find. “It looked nice,” she whispers. “I know it’s stupid. But I—” Her voice cracks and I see her work to pull herself together, slightly more in control when she says, “I thought that one weekend away from stupid fucking Camden might help...” Rapid blinking. “...might help him see that I’m not just some idiot girl who’s with him because of his money. I wanted him to see that we could be a couple and do nice things together. But obviously...we can’t.”
“It’s his loss, Jade.”
“I know that.”
I study the brochure. Every picture is cut through with worn white lines from where it’s been creased, and it’s like the ratty teddy bear toddlers are unwilling to part with—a safety blanket. A lifeline. Everyone else sees garbage, but Jade sees hope. In what looks like an enormous field dotted with large circular tents draped in white fabric. Bringing the Magic of Mongolia to Morrisburg! reads the slogan across the top.
“It looks nice,” I lie. It looks weird as fuck. All the people pictured look like they were Photoshopped out of the original Woodstock photos and transplanted to Wisconsin.
Jade looks at me and I can practically hear the wheels turning.
“No,” I say, not sure what idea I’m rejecting, just that it will be horrible.
“Yes,” she says. “It’s perfect.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to suggest.”
“I’m—”
“You and Susan. You need to take her away.” She points at the brochure with a sparkly fingernail. “You need to take her here.”
“Ah...” I don’t even know where to begin explaining what a bad idea this is. Susan in a yurt? It’s still strange to see her in Camden. “She’s really busy,” I try. “With...surgery.”
Jade rolls her eyes. “The reservation’s for Monday and Tuesday night, since Ricky’s too cheap to pay the weekend rates. She’ll be in Milwaukee all day Saturday, come back for the Green Space opening on Sunday, and you can drive up to Morrisburg together the next morning. By then you’ll both need a break, so this is perfect.”
“Wait. Susan’s going to be in Milwaukee? How do you know that?”
Jade pauses, midspeech. “Wait—you don’t know that?”
“I—No.” I can’t decide if I should be annoyed I don’t know, or alarmed that Jade does. “How do you know?” I repeat.
“Because she told me. She has a conference.”
“When?”
“On Saturday, like I said. I told her about Morrisburg and she said she’d heard of it.”
“Did you tell her about the yurts?”
“Of course I told her about the yurts. Not everybody’s as uptight about yurts as you.”
My turn to roll my eyes. “Thanks for the suggestion, but I’ll plan my own dates.”
“Your idea of a good date involves making a woman work for eight hours. At the end of the day, you gave her a beer.”
I frown. “She likes beer.” And the last time I planned a nice date, she stood me up.
“No, idiot. She likes you. But you’re not putting your best foot forward. You think anyone’s going to take you seriously if you don’t start taking yourself seriously?”
I stiffen in horror. That’s a Susan quote. I know it. And now Jade is applying it to me, as though we are in any way alike. “I’m very serious,” I say firmly, “and I mean it when I say no.”
Jade takes back the brochure. “It’s already paid for. I booked it with Ricky’s credit card, and I told him I canceled it, but I didn’t. Go. Spend his money. Do it for me. I’d go by myself if I wouldn’t feel like such a loser.”
“I’m not doing that.”
She retrieves her phone from her other pocket. “I’m texting Susan right now.” Her thumbs fly over the screen even as I exclaim, “You have her number?!” She puts away the phone and looks at me smugly. “You have a big date next week. Don’t you dare make her build the yurt or dig holes, Oz. Bring flowers. Champagne.”
“Jade, you are way overstepping.”
She makes a show over lunging over the threshold out into the hall. “If you say so. And you’re welcome.”
* * *
“I bet these are fake,” I mutter. It’s Wednesday night and I’m at Susan’s, having stopped over after picking up groceries. We’re sprawled buck naked on top of the covers, the ceiling fan and my scrolling finger the only movement in the room.
“It’s nicer than I expected,” Susan says. We’ve got her laptop propped on one of the pillows and we’re lying on our stomachs, navigating the Morrisburg Yurt Resort website. Whatever money they saved printing their grainy brochures they must have invested in the website, because this page has almost convinced me I want to visit. The yurts look like mini palaces, with arched wood beam ceilings, gorgeous beds, and colorful tapestries.
I’d left Susan a voicemail telling her she could ignore Jade’s text, but she called back telling me she really didn’t mind. She’s going to Milwaukee Friday morning for a two-day conference, but she’s planning to drive back first thing Sunday to be at the Green Space “Summer Kickoff” grand opening at noon, so we can just travel up together on Monday. It seems like a bad idea to leave the Green Space alone on its second and third days open, but the more I consider a mini vacation with Susan, the more appealing it sounds. Especially if we’re naked.
“Okay,” I say, closing the laptop. “It’s most likely not a cult compound.”
“And if it is,” Susan says, turning onto her side to face me, though all I can do is ogle her tits, “I’ll make a break for it, while you sell them your soul.”
I grumble, leaning in to tug on her nipple with my teeth. “I don’t want to sell them my soul.”
She rakes her fingers over my skull, those deviant hands capable of so many things. “No? What if they promise to do this?” She nudges me onto my back and kisses her way down my body, starting with my mouth, then my throat, my chest, my belly, the tops of my thighs. By the time her tongue licks up the length of my dick, I’m completely hard. We fucked our brains out less than an hour ago, but no matter how tired I am, how stressed, how confused, any time in her company feels like foreplay and my dick is always ready for action.
I grip the pillow on either side of my head to resist the urge to slip my fingers through her hair. Sometimes it just happens, and every time I touch her when she’s doing this she stops and tells me no. I don’t know what the issue is, just that it’s not me. She’s got her ghosts, and that’s one of them.
I grit my teeth as she twists her spit-slicked palm around the base of my
cock, her hot mouth engulfing the head, swallowing as much as she can. I can hear the wet sounds she’s making as she sucks on me and I prop myself up on my elbows to watch. I give it a minute, then drop my head back to study the ceiling. I know the only thing I should be thinking right now is how fucking grateful I am that anyone’s willing to suck me off, especially this woman, but she’s still got that impersonal thing going on. I wouldn’t be surprised to turn over her wrist to see a little cheat sheet scribbled there in blue ink: lots of spit, plenty of suction, don’t forget about his balls.
“Susan,” I murmur. She either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, because she doesn’t pause. “Susan.” It’s going to take a while if I can’t get my brain back into it, and I don’t want her down there forever. She’s enough of an overachiever that I know she won’t give up even if it starts to hurt, but her ego will take a beating if it doesn’t work, either. Very cautiously I reach down to tap her shoulder, steering clear of her head. Eventually she opens her eyes and pulls away, staring up at me, dazed.
“What?”
I see realization dawn, then she actually ticks up a finger as though recalling a very important point. “Right,” she says. “Eye contact.” She refastens her lips around my dick and keeps her eyes on mine as she lowers her head, then slowly comes back up. It’s hot, no question, seeing her like this. But I don’t know how to tell her I don’t want textbook. That it’s not like brain surgery, where you have to do things a certain way or face dreadful consequences. I’d like it a little sloppier. A little less programmed.
“What’s wrong?” She pulls away and sits back, hands balanced on her thighs, an apt pupil. If I told anyone about Susan’s semi-robot-like sex habits, they’d probably interpret it to mean she’s a cold fish, which couldn’t be further from the truth. She’s hot and willing, and if I had half a brain I’d take everything she has to offer and shut the fuck up. But I don’t.
The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) Page 16
