She’s got a plate of tiny desserts in one hand, and I think we all know she bypassed the savory options to stock up on sugar. Dr. Ben must be on the same page, because he smiles indulgently at the selection. “Found the truffles, huh?”
Susan blinks. “Ah, yes. Finally. Why don’t we—”
“Benjamin!” booms a deep voice, and the three of us look over to see an elderly man approach. He looks a lot like Santa in a tux, his meaty hand extended toward the good Dr. Ben. “I’ve been looking for you all night.”
“Save yourselves,” Ben says from the corner of his mouth. “It’s too late for me.”
The old man clasps Ben’s hand and fairly drags him into the throng, a shark taking down a swimmer who will never surface again.
“Perfect timing,” I say, taking a truffle off Susan’s plate and putting it in my mouth.
She glares at me. “It took me twenty minutes to find those,” she says tightly. “You don’t even like chocolate. And what the fuck are you doing here?”
“I came to invite you to my fundraiser.”
“I’m not coming to your fundraiser because I hate your fundraiser and I hate you.”
I glance around. It’s too crowded in here for me to say everything I came to say. “Let’s get some air,” I suggest.
If it were possible to dig her heels into the polished wood floors, she would. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I hate you!” she snaps. “I just said so!”
“I want to apologize.”
She huffs and folds her arms over her stomach, a defensive, protective gesture she should never have to use with me. I circle my fingers around her wrist and draw one arm away. “You don’t have to do that,” I say softly.
“Do what?”
“Protect yourself.”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, fuck off, Osc—Oz. You shouldn’t even be here. How did you get in?”
“I was on the guest list.”
“I—” She huffs. “Shit.”
“Just come outside with me, Susan. We need to talk.”
“You said everything you needed to say,” she reminds me. “And everything you didn’t have the balls to say was waiting in your kitchen.”
“I’m sorry about that night.”
“I don’t care.”
“Sheree was only there for five minutes. Wyatt sent her to make sure I wasn’t dead. She left right after you did.”
“I don’t care.” But her lower lip trembles, just a little bit.
“Come outside,” I try again.
“Definitely not.”
“I’ll buy you this painting.”
She flinches as she looks at it. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s whatever you want it to be.”
“Don’t buy the painting. Don’t buy anything. Go home.”
“He’s your date, isn’t he?”
“Ben? Yes.” She arches a brow in challenge and bites into a tiny lemon tart, a whiff of meringue clinging to her upper lip before she licks it off.
“You’re seeing him?”
“That’s none of your business.”
I glance over her shoulder in time to see Dr. Ben trying to weave his way back to us, Santa hot on his trail.
“Come here,” I say, grabbing Susan’s elbow and tugging her out of Ben’s path and toward the front doors.
“I’m not—” She tries to pull away but doesn’t want to risk losing the snacks on her plate, so she lets herself be dragged halfway across the room before yanking hard enough to get free. “Stop!” she hisses under her breath. “Give up, Oscar. We tried, and you said so yourself—it was never going to work. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t think you’re worth it.”
Her chest rises and falls, her cheeks pink with indignation, eyes flashing. She’s gorgeous. And she’s pissed. And she’s not half as removed from this as she wants to be.
“I can take whatever you dish out, doc.”
“I’m not dishing—”
“And I don’t care how angry it makes you, if you don’t walk out that door with me, I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and make you come out.”
Her jaw drops. “Don’t you dare.”
I step forward, determined, and she squawks and shuffles back, bumping into the woman behind her. She offers a terse apology and whips back around to glare some more. “You have five seconds,” she snaps.
“Whatever you say.” She clutches the plate protectively and stomps toward the exit, sparing a smile and nod for the occasional person, not stopping until we’re through those enormous wooden doors into the now mostly-empty lobby. “What?” she demands.
“This way.” I plant a hand at the small of her back and fairly shove her through the lobby and down a narrow hall lined with service doors. I try a couple but they’re locked, until finally one marked “Linens” pops open.
“In here,” I say.
“I’m not—”
I push her inside and shut the door, reaching behind me to twist the lock. The dim ceiling light is on, casting shadows around the small room, lined on each side with metal shelves holding linens in every color and pattern. It smells like starch and mothballs and Susan looks positively livid.
“I’m sorry,” I say, before she can start screaming. “I’m so, so sorry about what happened. And what didn’t happen. I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you get the award—”
“You know I don’t give a fuck about the award!”
“And I’m sorry I misled you about Sheree—”
“I don’t—”
“And I’m sorry I said I didn’t care about you. I was lying to both of us. I do care, Susan. You’re all I think about.”
She squeezes her eyes shut tight and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Stop.”
“I don’t want to stop,” I tell her. “When I sent you that invitation, it finally dawned on me that you’re the only person who sees me for who I really am. I’d been trying to so hard to hold onto the guy I was in New York that I never let myself be the guy I needed to be in Camden. I can’t have a foot in both worlds. I have to choose. And I did.”
“You chose Camden?” She sounds more than a little disbelieving.
“Yeah,” I say. “I chose Camden. So did you. When you sent the bees. When you drove out there that first time. And all the times after.”
She sniffs. “Those were all mistakes.”
“We made a lot of mistakes. I’ve been thinking about it nonstop, about us, about all the things I’d do differently.”
“Well, you can’t.”
“I think I can.”
“Then I think you sustained one more brain injury than you could handle. Let me out. I said you could have five seconds.”
But she doesn’t make a move for the door.
“Give me tonight,” I say. “And if I don’t change your mind, this won’t happen again.”
“It’s already never happening again.”
“Then what’s the harm? You miss out on an auction you’re only attending out of obligation anyway?”
“I have a date!”
I roll my eyes. “There’s no way you’re into him.”
“I beg your pardon?”
I lower my voice and step closer. “There’s no way Dr. Ben’s going to fuck you the way I do, Susan.”
“That’s—”
“And that’s just part of what you like about Camden.”
“I do not—”
“He’s going to pussyfoot around you and let you get away with all your shit and get kidnapped by Santa Claus—”
“What?”
“But I’m the guy who’s going to crash a party for you, who’s going to let you sit on his face, let you
tie him up, and get pissed when you stand me up for dinner.”
“That was a long time ago. Get over it.”
“I want a do-over.”
“I’m not—” She sighs, frustrated. “Fine. When?”
She’s the worst liar. She’s the hostage who swears she won’t shoot you if you let her hold the gun for a second. But this is worse than that. Because Susan’s the woman who doesn’t run from anything, and if I let her out of this room, she’s going to run from me. That’s what I did to her.
“Right now,” I say, before I can think it through. “Let’s leave right now.”
“You want to have dinner? Right now? It’s ten o’clock. I already have a plate of food—”
“Let’s go to Mache. We’ll go up to the rooftop, like we did that first time.”
She gives me a warning look. “Nothing about this will be like that first time.” She’s thinking of that kiss, her hand on my cock, me pulling back.
“It’ll end very differently,” I assure her. “You can bring your food in the car.”
She sucks in a breath. “I hate you, Oscar. That’s not going to change.”
“Just give me tonight.”
“I don’t want to have sex with you.”
I tilt my head. “I’ve never forced you to do anything, Susan. I never will.” I guess dragging her out of the auction and into this supply closet gave her the wrong idea.
I watch, amused, as she visibly composes herself, straightening her shoulders and tightening her jaw. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”
Chapter Eighteen
Okay, not the most enthused response ever, but it’s technically a yes and I’m going to run with it. I lead Susan out of the closet and down to the elevator bank. I’m on the alert, ready for her to make a break for it, but she’s wearing lethal black heels at least three inches high, so running’s out.
We get in the elevator, just the two of us, and she stands against the far wall and eats a profiterole while glowering at me. When we stop I pull the keys out of my pocket and usher her into the parking garage, past gleaming Rolls-Royces and Bentleys, all the way to my SUV.
“I can do it,” Susan snaps when I open her door and reach for her arm. I shrug and watch her climb in, then go around and get in the driver’s seat. She’s acting like a bitter hostage, but the truth is, Susan knows how to fight, better than anybody. If she didn’t want to be here she could have pulled a fire alarm or run away or started screaming bloody murder. But she didn’t. She’s not happy, but she’s in the car, and that’s good enough for me.
The hotel’s a ten-minute drive from Mache, which stays open until twelve. “At least you’re dressed for it this time,” I say, scoring prime parking at the curb in front of the restaurant. Susan ignores me as she finishes an apologetic text to Dr. Ben, chews the final dessert, then folds the paper plate in half and stuffs it in my cup holder. I blow out a calming breath. She knows I like to keep my car clean, but now is not the time to pick a fight. A new fight, anyway.
I meet her on the sidewalk and we head inside, startling Rian, who’s standing at the hostess desk and frowning at something on the computer with the maître d’. He does a double take when we enter, but interrupts when the maître d’ tries to tell us it’s too late to get a table. “I’ll handle it,” he says, wiping his hands on the front of his white chef’s coat and stepping out from behind the stand. “This is a surprise.”
“For both of us,” Susan replies.
Rian looks at me and I shrug.
“Any chance we could use your roof for a bit?” I ask.
Rian glances at Susan, giving her an out, but she merely glances around the room, still half-full despite the hour.
“Sure...” he says slowly, removing a key from his pocket. “The top door locks automatically. Make sure you don’t lose this.”
“Gotcha. Thanks.”
Susan stiffens when I place my hand at the small of her back and guide her to the stairs in the far corner, but she can’t very well run ahead without making a scene, so she tolerates it until we’re out of sight in the stairwell, then slaps away my hand. “Knock it off.”
“You’re doing it wrong,” I tell her as we climb the steps.
“Am not, and doing what wrong?” she asks over her shoulder.
“Playing hard to get.”
She’s forced to wait at the top for me to unlock the metal door, and I stand just one step behind, letting her feel me, her shoulder blades pressing into my chest, the soft waves of her hair brushing my cheek. “You’re saying all the right things,” I murmur against her ear, sliding the key in the lock but not turning it. “But you’re not going anywhere.”
“You haven’t given me much choice,” she mutters.
“You’ve never needed permission before.” I unlock the door and shove it open, the cool night air wafting into the stuffy stairwell. Susan lunges out as though we’d been trapped in there for hours, and I tuck the key in my pocket and let the door close behind us, hearing the automatic click of the lock falling into place.
It’s beautiful up here in the dark. The crescent moon and the lights of the city glint off the leaves, casting just enough of a glow that we can navigate the planters and find our way around.
“I don’t know what you think this will accomplish,” Susan says, her back to me as she stares out at the city.
I reach down and pinch a leaf between my fingers. It’s lemon balm; I recognize it from the Green Space, and smile as the faint scent of lemon reaches my nose.
“Remember that day at the Green Space,” I say, “when the guys were fighting and you stepped in, and afterward you asked why I didn’t want to fight?”
Slowly, she turns. “Yes.”
“I got in a fight,” I say, studying my fingers, imagining them stained green from the leaf, red from the blood of that night. But there’s nothing there, my hands are clean. Somehow, miraculously, clean. “When I was seventeen. It was Friday and we were bored and looking for trouble, me and some friends.” I look at her. “And we found it.”
She’s just a few feet away, watching. Seeing.
“We did shit like that all the time, just for the hell of it. But that night things went further than usual and I picked up a bat and I swung it. And I hit somebody.”
She’s completely still, a beautiful statue.
“I hit my best friend in the back with a baseball bat,” I say, words I’ve only uttered twice before. Once to the police, once to a priest. Both of whom let me off the hook; I’m the only one who hasn’t. “Everyone had weapons. He got hit a bunch of times and they couldn’t say for sure who did what. But I know it was me.” I clear my throat. “He never walked again. And six months later I moved to Boston like it never happened.”
I risk a look at Susan, and she’s covered her mouth with her fingers. I imagine she’s seen far worse at the hospital, but this is different. This isn’t vital signs and gleaming scalpels and the security of knowing you won’t be seeing these people for long—this is right in front of her. This is me.
“I’d been learning to fight from Oreo,” I continue. “It was going to be my way out of Camden. It was my way out. But I switched from boxing to wrestling and they gave me a scholarship anyway. Then when I got my degree, I tried to stop fighting altogether.”
I reach up to undo my tie, pulling the knot away from my neck. I’m supposed to be showing Susan the best of me, not the worst. But I can’t seem to stop.
“I picked it up again when I came back, but just for fun. Just at the gym, just with guys my own size. Something to keep me busy. But I love it, Susan. And I worry sometimes that I can’t control it when I need to.”
Even from here I can see the tears shining in her eyes. She wanted to be someone I could open up to, she wanted to be someone who could empathize. All
along she’s been trying to be someone else; so have I. But only one of us had the balls to admit it.
“The day the Green Space got knocked down, I went to see the guy who sold me the building. Who lied to me.” I swallow and look down at my knuckles. They’re healed now, but I can still feel them connecting with Francisco’s stomach, his face, wherever I could reach. “We got in a fight. You know that part.” She’d seen the proof when she came to my house that night.
“And it felt good, Susan. I liked it. It felt like me. It was messy and disgusting and wrong and I liked it. I didn’t want to stop, but I did. I know how to stop now. All these years I’ve been afraid I’d gotten soft, and maybe I did, but I got smarter, too. I walked away while everybody still could. And then...” I wince and rub a hand over the back of my neck, shame welling up in my gut. “And then I went home and I thought about everything and I just felt so fucking sick. And angry. And depressed. And I went downstairs and drank everything I had in the house and then you came over. And you didn’t know what you were walking into.”
She’s folded her arms again, replaying that night on my front steps, just like I am.
“I don’t know how that guy makes it work with a woman like you, I just know that I want to,” I say. “I’ll never do that to you again. Give me a chance, and I’ll make up for every mistake.”
She shakes her head weakly. “There’s too much—”
“That first night up here, when you kissed me and I stopped you, it’s because I wanted more, not less. And I thought if we had sex I’d never see you again.”
She opens her mouth to protest, then closes it. Guilty.
“But Susan,” I continue, stepping closer, just a couple of feet between us now. “If you want to have sex, we can have sex. Whenever, wherever. Just say the word.”
She laughs roughly. “Shut up.”
I mumble a silent prayer and reach out to cup her face. “I don’t ever want to stop with you, but I will if you want me to.”
She won’t meet my eye, but she doesn’t slap me, either.
I brush my thumb over the tear that escapes from the corner of her eye. “If I ever get another shot to get you naked on your balcony, you can bet I won’t tell you to get me off first. You can come first, every time.”
The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) Page 30
