The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3)

by Julianna Keyes

“You’re making a mistake,” he warns.

  My laugh is dangerously brittle, and I see the fear flicker in his eyes, filling me with an almost painful pride, the only thing I have left at this point. “What’s new?” I ask, pressing the torn paper into his hand. “Now take this and get out. And don’t come back until you have something I’m going to agree to pay. Because if we have to negotiate this, you’re going to be on the losing end.”

  Marco’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he grew up on these same streets and he knows when to run. I listen to the thud of his feet disappearing down the stairs and though I know I should get back to work, I don’t. Instead I pack up and find Jade at the little reception area near the front doors, playing some game on her phone. “Let’s go,” I say, nudging her feet off the desk. “I’m going to the gym.”

  She checks her watch. “Why?”

  “Why do you think? To work out.”

  “I thought maybe you’d gotten in a ‘workout’ upstairs, the way Marco came running down here.”

  “That was nothing. Come on.”

  I drop off Jade at home and head for Titan’s, smiling to myself when I see Lupo working out his own aggression with one of the sandbags. I nod at him as I pass by, and he nods back, catching the bag in his taped hands before following me into the locker room. “What’s up?” I ask, swapping out my shoes.

  “I need a training partner.” Lupo straddles a bench and watches me. Oreo’s always going on about his “raw talent,” but I tune him out. Lupo’s okay to spar with from time to time, and I appreciated going head to head with him in the ring last month, but I’m so far out of the game I have no business even contemplating his offer.

  “I don’t train like that.”

  “I know. But there’s no one else here that’s in my weight class. I talked to Oreo, he said it was okay.”

  “That’s because he’s not the one getting knocked around three nights a week. I’ve got a lot of shit on my plate.”

  “I know that too.”

  “Do you?”

  He lifts one meaty shoulder. He’s wearing a black wife beater and soccer shorts, his feet bare, arms and legs covered in a network of tattoos and scars. His dark hair is cut close enough I can see some sort of cursive writing on the side of his skull, and the one eye that isn’t swollen shut watches me knowingly. He knows I want this. That I need this. Whatever rumors are floating around, he’s chosen this moment on purpose. He’s a smart kid and that makes him dangerous. It makes him me, if I’d never gotten out of Camden. And that’s what he’s asking for—an opportunity. A chance to get good enough to get the hell out of here.

  I take a swig from my water bottle. “What happened to your face?”

  Another shrug. “Got into a fight.”

  “Here?”

  “No.” He doesn’t elaborate.

  I shake my head. “I’m too busy, Lupo. Find someone else.”

  “I’ll help,” he says, standing when I try to move past.

  “What?”

  “I’ll help,” he repeats. “Whatever you need. Over at the tannery. You want someone to keep an eye on the door, make sure none of the shit from the street spills in, I can do that.”

  I’m supposed to hire a big fucking bruiser to stand guard at my garden and playground? I’m not sure that sends the right message. “I’ll consider it.”

  “My grandfather grew tomatoes. I can do that, too.”

  I look at him, one of the few occasions I make eye contact with someone who’s on exactly my level. He’s serious. “I’m thirty-four,” I tell him. “I’m not looking to show up to work with a black eye again. Whatever you need, you’re not going to find it in Camden.”

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “I already heard from one of Marco’s crew that you’re looking for a fight. Where are you going to find one if not here?”

  “He said that, huh?”

  “So we’ll just start with tonight, then. Nothing hardcore. We’ll leave your pretty face intact for your big party on Sunday.”

  The mention of the grand opening makes my stomach clench. “Fine,” I tell him. “Tonight only. And your ugly face is fair game.”

  “Do your best, old man.”

  * * *

  Turns out training with Lupo is a pretty great outlet for my frustration. We work out Friday and again on Saturday, Oreo lingering in the corner of the ring, blowing his whistle from time to time, offering us both pointers. I’d like to ignore him, but I’m rusty and it shows, so I swallow my pride and take his advice, and by the time I put on a suit and tie and show up to the Green Space at ten o’clock on Sunday morning, I’ve got bruises all up and down my torso, but my face, as promised, is perfectly presentable.

  Jade’s out front wearing a demure green dress and flats, and I do a double take when I see her dressed so appropriately. I hadn’t even warned her. Wyatt’s here too, wearing jeans and a white polo shirt, ready to give a tour of the garden, explaining the concept and vision for the future. Because we bought seedlings we actually have something to show, a few tiny beans and peppers, bunches of cilantro and mint and chives that grow like weeds. The banner hanging above the entrance reads “Summer Kickoff!” in sparkly letters, and all told, the Green Space actually does look like a little bit of summer has found its way to Camden.

  Local businesses donated snacks and drinks, currently arranged neatly on tables inside. Right now the place is the cleanest it’s ever been—and probably ever will be—divided between the gym on the left and the study area on the right. The playground is gleaming, all bright colors and shiny finishes, and it looks pretty damn great. I’m able to see the building from my office at Fitzgibbons, and it’s the only spot in town with any kind of green. And it’s mine. And it’s real.

  Jade sticks her head in the front door. “The mayor’s here.”

  I take a breath and stop pretending I’m checking that the books lining the shelves are organized alphabetically. The city supplied us with a giant red bow for the event, now strung across the front doors, ready to be cut and make this whole thing official. I wipe my damp palms on my thighs and duck under the ribbon, squinting against the sunlight. I’d been so lost in my thoughts that I hadn’t even noticed the large crowd growing outside. There are at least half a dozen media outlets, a hundred kids and the mayor, Raul Hadley.

  “Oscar,” he says, coming forward to shake my hand.

  “Call me Oz,” I say. “I’m glad you could make it today.”

  “Make it? I wouldn’t miss it.” He’s a middle-aged guy, dressed in a threadbare suit and reading glasses, someone who’s dedicated his life to trying to change a town that refuses to change. And now here we are, smiling and holding each other’s hands for just a second too long, letting the cameras capture the moment, our shared, stupid dream.

  “Jade,” I call. “Wyatt. Get over here.” I make the introductions, then we flank the bright red ribbon and Hadley’s assistant passes me a pair of regular scissors. No special super-sized scissors in Camden.

  “One, two, three!” The crowd counts down, cheering explosively when I make the cut. I’d like to believe they’re here for the potential, the safety, the opportunity, but I’m pretty sure it’s just the promise of free food.

  Still, they’re here. And when I scan the crowd rushing by to get inside, squeals and laughter, balls bouncing, sneakers smacking over the concrete, I don’t see Susan, though there are traces of her everywhere.

  * * *

  I stay at the Green Space all day, right through closing at nine o’clock. I’m hungry, hot and so fucking exhausted I’m dead on my feet. The day was an epic success.

  Long after the food, the press and the mayor were gone, the kids stuck around. Whether they played basketball or gossiped, read books or hung out on the play
ground, it was exactly what I envisioned. And while I’d expected some disappointment that the rooftop garden didn’t have any food yet, a large number had taken a very vested interest in Wyatt’s demonstrations about how to water, plant and weed, and we may have a tiny green thumb delegation on our hands.

  “I’ve never been so tired in my life,” I mumble as I navigate the dark streets to drop off Jade at home.

  “It’s been a busy month,” she agrees.

  “Listen,” I say, parking in front of her house. “I know I mostly just curse at you, but I appreciate everything you’ve done, at the firm and at the Green Space. And I really appreciate you not bringing up certain subjects. I know that’s not easy.”

  She looks at me in the dim interior light. “You need a holiday, Oz.”

  “I know.”

  “Just get away from here for a week or two.”

  I bark out a laugh. “A week or two? Jade, which planet are you living on?”

  “Fine,” she insists, “then two days. Go to Morrisburg tomorrow. I never canceled the reservation. There’ll just be that big old yurt, sitting empty.”

  “I can’t—”

  “You can,” she interrupts. “I’ll hang out at the Green Space, and Lupo told me he could swing by to make sure nothing got out of order. And if he’s not too much of a chickenshit to face me, Wyatt might be there too, cuddling his stupid plants.”

  “They’re amazing plants.”

  “Cuddling his amazing plants. Go to Morrisburg, Oz. Spend two nights in a yurt and come back here, refreshed. I know you need it. You think I can’t see the bruises through your shirt?”

  “Jade, stop staring at me all the time.”

  Her lips quirk. “It’s called caring.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She reaches into her purse and pulls out the folded, beaten up brochure. When she pushes it into my hand, I know it’s the equivalent of her dirtiest, most beloved teddy bear. And she wants me to have it, to make me feel better.

  Shit. I’m getting misty.

  “Get out,” I tell her.

  She hops out of the truck. “Love you too, boss.”

  * * *

  Check in time at the Morrisburg Yurt Resort is ten o’clock. I can’t sleep—haven’t slept since the fight with Susan—so by eight the next morning I’m out the door, easing past the traffic flowing into the city and feeling myself relax as each mile takes me farther and farther away.

  There’s no rush so I opt for the scenic route, sticking close to the lake, keeping the windows down and the air conditioning off. According to the website, the yurts each have a small kitchenette as well as an outdoor fire pit, so I stop at a grocery store and fill up a cooler with drinks and steaks, vegetables, and even one of those plates of popcorn you can cook over a fire.

  Morrisburg is a very small town with a downtown that encompasses a single block, jamming in every essential service—post office, doctor, dentist, hair salon, pizza place—before giving way to rolling green fields. There are a few streets of houses for year-round residents, but mostly it’s just fancy beach homes close to the lake, a few organic farms and lots of camping. And yurts.

  Fortunately the website wasn’t lying. The hand carved wood sign welcoming guests to the resort points the way to a “welcome yurt,” where I park and go inside to check in. Dan, the lone employee, is an older man wearing a red tunic and jeans, and when I give him my name he merely nods and passes me a laminated paper with the number thirteen printed on it.

  “Thirteen?” I read.

  “That’s your yurt. There are no keys, so just tap on the flap and go inside.” He passes me a tiny hand-drawn map. “You’re just down this way, beautiful lake views, very peaceful. My favorite part of the camp, if you must know.”

  I mustn’t. “That’s great.”

  “We’ve had some rain recently so fires are A-OK, bathrooms are these buildings here—” he uses his finger to draw a circle around some smaller structures dotted fairly frequently around the camp, “—and each yurt has running water and electricity, so you should have everything you need. There’s a small canteen if you want food. We serve one vegetarian dish for each meal. The times are listed on the back of the map.”

  “Right. Thank you.”

  He nods. “You’re welcome. Enjoy the magic of Mongolia in Morrisburg.”

  I don’t have anything to say to that, so I head back to my car and drive the recommended five miles per hour over the rutted dirt road in the general direction of where I think my yurt is. The structures are spaced about a hundred yards apart, and are much larger than I’d expected. Each door flap is clearly numbered, so I know I’m heading the right direction, and small wooden signs point out bathrooms, the canteen, minigolf and beach access.

  Occasional areas are roped off for parking, so I find one close to my yurt and ease in, grabbing my overnight bag, cooler, and laminated number, and approaching yurt thirteen. I know it’s empty, but just in case I tap on the flap twice before pulling it back and stepping inside—and running smack into Susan.

  I’ve got about a hundred pounds on her, so she’s the only one who winds up sprawled on her ass on the yurt floor, legs askew, a beach towel and book clutched to her chest.

  “What the fuck?” I exclaim, staring down at her in shock.

  She’s looking up at me, equally stunned, and so unfairly hot in a bright blue bikini that puts her tits on display. Her sunglasses got bumped down her nose in the fall, and now she scowls as she pushes them back up, obscuring her lethal gaze, and clambers to her feet.

  “What are you doing here?” she demands, wrapping the towel around her hips. Because otherwise she’s wearing a small bikini and cheap flip-flops, and looking nothing like how a traitor should look.

  “I have a reservation,” I snap, shoving past her to look around. The space is every bit as stunning as it was in the pictures, except now the bed is messed up from where Susan slept in it, and her suitcase is open—Wait. “Did you sleep here?” I ask, turning slowly.

  Her jaw is tense and she pulls herself up straight when she faces me. “Yes,” she answers. “I came yesterday after the conference.”

  “The reservation’s not until today.”

  “So? I called and added a day.”

  “Why, Susan? Why the fuck would you do this?”

  “Because I didn’t want to go—” She cuts herself off before she can say “home,” and I feel a fleeting pang of guilt. Then I squash it.

  “You need to leave,” I tell her.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I paid for this. My name is on the reservation, I’m staying. You leave. I was here first.”

  God. For the villain in this situation, she’s certainly not very apologetic. “My name is on the reservation,” I argue. “I told Dan my name, and he gave me this number. I’m supposed to be here.”

  “I really don’t think you are,” Susan returns matter-of-factly. “Please excuse me.” She crouches down to retrieve a bottle of sunscreen that must have gotten dropped in the fall, then straightens and shoulders her way past me out the door. Flap. Whatever.

  I watch her go for a second, refusing to admire the way the sun glints off her skin, her shiny hair, the twitch of her hips as she follows the dirt path toward the beach. I exhale heavily and turn back to survey the room, and I know this isn’t going to work. It’s a queen size bed, and a guy my size needs a king. Especially if there’s no way in hell he’s going to touch the woman sharing it.

  There’s no couch, just a couple of bean bag chairs and extra large pillows piled along the canvas walls, and no matter how many I stacked together, I couldn’t possibly sleep on them. I’m pretty sure Susan will refuse, too.

  With a sigh I collect my things and return to the car, driving back to the welc
ome yurt and inquiring about another. On the opposite side of the camp.

  “Sorry,” Dan says, giving the logbook a cursory scan. “We’re completely booked. Is your yurt not to your satisfaction?”

  I think of the liar currently calling it home. “Not exactly. How about hotels in the area?” I feel like an idiot just saying the words. I saw what Morrisburg has to offer. Hotels were not among the selection.

  Dan actually laughs. “No hotels here, I’m afraid. Do you have a tent? There are a few campgrounds, though they’re probably booked, too.”

  I shake my head. “No tent.”

  He rattles off the names of a few towns I’d passed on my way up and a few more I don’t recognize, but points out again that it’s tourist season and I’m unlikely to find a room. Still, I jot down the names and get back in my SUV, exponentially less relaxed than I was when I arrived twenty minutes ago.

  I kill the afternoon beating my head against the wall of every hotel, motel and B&B along the lake, getting the same apologetically canned response at each one: no vacancy. By six o’clock I’m out of options, and more tired and frustrated than I’ve been all week. This “vacation” has been the opposite of helpful.

  I know I should just give up and go home, keep the lights off and eat all the stuff in my cooler, pretending I’m away, but I don’t. As much as I know I shouldn’t, I keep seeing Susan’s tits in that blue bathing suit, and it irritates me to no end that, a) she’s here, and b) she’s still beautiful.

  And cold.

  I inch my way along the dirt road back through the yurt village, returning the waves of a few fellow resort-goers, each of whom appears to have found peace and relaxation amongst the magic of Mongolia. I park in the same spot I’d stopped in earlier, and once again lug the cooler and overnight bag to yurt thirteen. This time I don’t knock, just stroll right in, vaguely disappointed when it’s empty.

  Susan’s suitcase is still there, the blue bathing suit draped over a towel rack to dry, but I’m otherwise alone. Good. If I can put my stamp on it before she gets back, it’ll be harder for her to fight me on this. Because I’m staying here. I deserve this vacation. I deserve to sleep in a bed and eat steak and maybe even walk along the water later, making up for all the hours I lost today.