Read The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3) Online
Authors: Julianna Keyes
The Good Fight (Time Served Book 3)
The Good Fight
By Julianna Keyes
I was born a fighter. You had to be, to survive in Camden. Lucky for me, I loved it. The thrill, the pain, the glory. Until one night things went too far and I almost lost my ticket out.
So I swore off fighting. Never again. No matter how much I wanted it.
I went to college. Got a degree. A job on Wall Street. Yet I still wasn’t smart enough to stay away. So now I’m back. And it’s just as bad as I remember.
Enter Dr. Susan Jones, superstar neurosurgeon. She’s brilliant, she’s sexy and she’s a pain in my ass. I can’t get enough and she’s too busy for a relationship. She wants to hook up, get off, go home. She doesn’t have time for a thug from Camden. But she keeps coming back.
This place brings out the worst in people. Every day it threatens the project I’m working on, the plans I’m making. Every day it drags me down just a little more, until the hands I vowed to keep clean start itching to get dirty.
If I don’t start fighting for what I want, I’ll wind up with nothing.
I didn’t come back to Camden for nothing.
I came back to start something. And when people hurt the things I care about, the gloves come off.
Book three of the Time Served series
This book is approximately 97,000 words
Dear Reader,
There’s something magical about being the one to publish an author’s first book. It’s a wonderful feeling to experience the joy, the excitement and even the terror along with a debut author. Everything is new and wonderful, even while being new and sometimes scary as we work to release the book into the world. This month, I had the privilege of working with not one, but two debut authors, and I know you will love their books as much as I do, so please check them out!
The winner of Harlequin’s 2015 So You Think You Can Write Contest, chosen from thousands of submitted manuscripts, debuts this month with her fantasy romance,
The Emperor’s Arrow
. Lauren D.M. Smith delivered a kick-ass warrior and the emperor she’s honor bound to defend in this story of romance, adventure and intrigue that will have you wishing you could stay with the characters longer!
Also debuting this month is Jade Chandler. The subtitle of this fab romance might give you a hint of what you’re in store for, so hold on for the ride! His MC brothers call him Dare for a reason. He never backs down from a challenge. And Lila is going to be the sweetest challenge he’s ever conquered. Don’t miss
Enough: A Dark, Erotic Motorcycle Club Romance
.
Fans of Julie Moffett will be thrilled to know that not only does she have a new release out this month, but it is also available in print at select online retailers. Pick up a copy for your bookshelf today! Everyone’s favorite geek girl is back in
No Strings Attached: A Lexi Carmichael Mystery
, and this time Lexi and her hacker friends are taking on the Chinese in a dangerous game of revenge. Haven’t tried Lexi yet? You can start at the beginning with
No One Lives Twice
.
Readers praised Nico Rosso’s romantic suspense
Countdown to Zero Hour
, and
One Minute to Midnight
delivers the same action-packed thrill ride and swoon-worthy romance. Seasoned black ops soldiers Ben Jackson and Mary Kuri have never worked undercover together, but when their fake identities start flirting, a very real passion flares between them, and it seems like nothing can stop it—except maybe the dangerous gunrunners they’re investigating.
You fell in love with the hero of Julianna Keyes’s
Time Served
, and this month she’s back with a new hero who hits all the right buttons in
The Good Fight
. Former fighter Oz returns to his dying hometown where he falls for a stubborn, sexy doctor. He’s willing to jump back into the fight to gain her love, her trust and her forever.
Don’t forget, we have a full backlist of books across genres to keep your e-reader or reading app full. Make sure to check out our selections in paranormal romance, male/male romance and historical romance at
www.carinapress.com
!
Coming next month: Scott Hildreth makes his Carina Press debut with
a bad-boy mafia romance
, we launch
a new paranormal romance
series full of alpha heroes from Kerry Adrienne, and Anna del Mar is back with
a sexy new romantic suspense
.
As always, until next month, my fellow book lovers, here’s wishing you a wonderful month of books you love, remember and recommend.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
Dedication
For Joanie, who really is my aunt who lives in Cole Harbour. Thank you for always reading.
Contents
Chapter One
Sometimes I forget how good it feels to get hit. The way the pain fuels you, wakes you up, makes you want it. Makes you need it.
Makes it okay to hit back.
Right now, eyes stinging, ears ringing, Manny’s mantra-like apology circling my brain, I don’t want more. I want him to shut the fuck up.
“Manny,” I manage, holding up a gloved hand to silence him. “Shut the fuck up.”
“OhmyGodOzI’msosorryIdidn’tmeantoIjustmissedIswearIdidn’tOhmyGod.” The broken record squeaks to an uncertain halt as he peers at me, concerned and unconvinced. I’m bent over, one hand braced on my knee, and now I straighten to my full 6’4”, expression serious as I stare down at Manny’s 5’8”.
Still he asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
I run my tongue over my teeth, but it’s just for show. He caught me in the cheek with a pretty decent roundhouse, snapping my head and torquing my neck. It’s not that I haven’t been hit a thousand times before, a hundred times harder. It’s just always been during a fight, not an impromptu training session I got roped into by the gym’s owner, Oreo.
“You girls done?” Oreo asks, looking bored. He’s on the floor below us, arms folded on the mat as he peers up through the ropes with his one good eye. He lost his other in a fight more than twenty years ago, and now wears an honest-to-God pirate patch. “I’ve got people waiting.”
“You do not,” Manny says, frowning as he looks around the mostly empty gym.
I smile to myself as they begin to bicker, using the tips of my fingers to press gingerly on my already-swelling cheek. It’s going to leave a bruise, and I’m going to put on a suit and tie and go into work tomorrow, the only accountant in this shithole town with a black eye.
Or a suit.
Or a tie.
“We’re not done,” I say, tuning back into the argument.
Manny looks up at me in surprise. “We’re not?”
“No.” I flick a glance at Oreo. “Get out of here. We’re not done.”
Oreo makes a face at me like, “Ooh, look who thinks he’s in charge,” but wanders off, mumbling to himself, green tracksuit rustling.
“He can’t decide if he’s a leprechaun or a pirate,” Manny mutters.
I get back in position. “Let’s go.”
“You sure? I didn’t hit you too—”
I lock my foot behind his calf and yank hard, dropping him to the mat. He looks dazed for a second, staring up at me, then slowly starts to smile. “I heard about you, man. You used to be a mean motherfucker.”
I extend a hand and help him to his feet. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” I tell him. Then I squeeze his fingers hard enough he hisses in a pained breath. “Except that,” I add.
Oreo’s laughter echoes through the cavernous gym, and Manny looks around doubtfully, not sure what the joke is. I make sure he doesn’t see me smile as we square off again. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.
After a shower and some ibuprofen, I leave the gym and climb in my car to make the forty-minute drive into the city. Born and raised in Camden, I feel a strange allegiance to the place, despite its visible decay and much-deserved nickname of Crime Central.
Unlike most of the people who live here, I got out. A gift for fighting earned me a wrestling scholarship to Boston University, and a head for numbers saw me climb the ranks of traders on Wall Street. I pulled in six, then seven, figures a year, until I’d had enough, both literally and figuratively. Enough money, enough stress. After a decade in New York, I packed my bags and came back to Camden, determined not to be one of the fat, rich white guys who looked down their noses at those less fortunate. I wanted to do something. Give back.
Easier said than done, it turns out.
I bought out Fitzgibbons & Sons, an optimistically named accounting firm run by Lance Fitzgibbons and the only one of his three sons who’d managed to stay out of prison. That son had no interest in the business, and I eventually assembled a small staff of non-Fitzgibbonses who regularly field questions about why, exactly, there are no people named Fitzgibbons working at the firm. The truth is, no Fitzgibbons want to work here, but the signage out front is so enormous that it would cost more to remove it than buy a new sign. So the name stays.
On the plus side, the building is on the east side of town, closest to Chicago, in an area that’s slightly less depressed than the north, south and west. The more recent developments have also sprung up in this section, making business good, if not great. But despite a career as an accountant, money doesn’t really matter to me. I made lots, invested wisely and have plenty to spare. I own a decent house a short ride from the office, work out at a gym nearby and, for the most part, mind my own business, a key survival skill in these parts.
Because Camden is a town that will kill you if you let it. It’s been called a concrete city, and the name is pretty apt. It looks like someone took a bucket of concrete, dumped it over everything, and let it dry. The buildings, sidewalks and roads are the same shade of ancient gray, cracked and crumbling. There are gangs and prostitutes, drugs and crime, anything and everything someone looking to get into trouble could possibly ask for. We even had a factory that employed a quarter of the town, then accidentally poisoned its workers before shutting its doors and trying to deny its role in hundreds of deaths. They had to build a whole new cemetery to account for the increased death rate. That’s Camden’s idea of development.
What we don’t have is a single acre of green space, a park or a pond. It’s dark and desolate, which hasn’t always been the case. We didn’t have the biggest houses or the nicest schools growing up, but we had grass in the yards and birds in the trees, a few safe places to ride our bikes and run around. Not anymore. While there are plenty of restaurants and a few grocery stores, the selection is limited, the food fried or pre-packaged, and what few fresh meats, fruits and vegetables they carry are not quite so fresh when it arrives. This is why I drive to the city a couple of nights each week to stock up. That and no matter how much I tell myself my roots are in Camden, sometimes I just need to get the hell out.
I’m done reminiscing by the time I pull into the parking lot of the organic supermarket in downtown Chicago. It’s seven o’clock on Sunday evening, the summer sky still bright and warm as I climb out of the car and approach the building. I come here regularly enough that I say good evening to Alfonso, the guy responsible for stocking the displays at the front entrance, and wave to Beth and Alisha, the girls who work at the juice bar just inside the door.
Sunday evening is the best time to shop, especially in the summer, because the store’s fairly quiet, most people home having dinner or out with friends or loved ones. I choose not to dwell on the obvious implications of that observation as I stop to pick up a basket, all by my lonesome.
“Look out!”
The cry comes too late. I barely have time to glance over my shoulder before the runaway pallet, laden with an enormous crate of watermelons, crashes into me. It feels like being hit by a slow-moving locomotive, hard and heavy and never-ending. I hit the floor and feel my wrist twist as it tries to bear the combined weight of my oversized body and the unforgiving pull of gravity. The pain sets off warning bells in my brain, the familiar fear of an athlete when something hurts in a way it shouldn’t.
For a minute everything flashes with white spots, there’s a tinny ringing in my ears, and I think I might throw up. It hurts more than when Manny’s foot connected with my face ninety minutes earlier. A surge of adrenaline hits fast, masking the pain as best it can. Then it fades, replaced with Alfonso and Beth and Alisha and two men in pressed white shirts, their concerned faces too close to mine.
“...hear me?” someone is asking.
“Does it hurt?” someone else wants to know.
I use my good arm to push myself to a sitting position, carefully lifting my left arm to study my wrist. It’s already swelling, but it’s straight. No blood, no bones, no strange protrusions or angles. A sprain, if I’m lucky. Tentatively I flex my fingers, gently prodding here and there, wincing at the nauseating pain.
A serious sprain, maybe. But not broken.
“Are you okay, Oz?” Beth this time. I manage to focus on her, forcing a dismissive smile.
“I’m fine.”
“Your wrist doesn’t look good,” one of the white shirts says. “It’s swollen. Do you think it’s broken?”
“We should call an ambulance,” someone suggests.
“No,” I say, a little too loudly. My ears are still clogged as though I’ve been swimming in deep water, and the last thing I want is for anybody else to know I got taken out by a kamikaze pallet of watermelons.
“We’re so sorry,” the second white shirt says. “They were unloading the pallet and turned for a minute, then someone bumped it and it just took off.”
“Unlucky,” I say, grimacing as I force myself to my feet. So, maybe a sprained wrist and a few additional bruises.
“We’re going to have to fill out a report,” the first white shirt says. “Can you stay here? Then we can take you to the hospital—”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” I interrupt. “And I’m not going to sue you. It was an accident.” I hold up my wrist. “And this is a sprain. No big deal. I’ve had worse. It’s fine.” Except when I take a deep breath I feel like I might pass out, and the pain in my wrist is more than the three ibuprofen I’d popped earlier can handle.
“Sit down, sit down,” Beth says, dragging up one of the chairs from the juice bar. “You’re too pale. You’re not okay.”
“Go to the hospital,” Alfonso says, glancing over at the white shirts, who have huddled nearby to confer. “The store can pay,” he adds in a low voice.
“The money’s not the issue,” I tell him. “It’s fucking embarrassing to say I got run down by watermelons.”
“You want to say it was cantaloupe?” he asks. “Because you’re going to the hospital.”
* * *
Despite my protests, I get a five-hundred-dollar voucher to the store and a ride to Chicago-Davis Hospital from Alfonso, who’s barely tall enough to see over the steering wheel as he tries to figure out how to drive my SUV. I grip the passenger side door with my uninjured hand as he navigates the light traffic, his good intentions not quite measuring up to his driving skills. When we arrive I brush off the offer to accompany me inside. I’m pretty sure he’s been ordered to make sure I actually seek treatment, but the attention is making me more uncomfortable than the now-dull throbbing in my wrist. It hurts to move it, but otherwise it’s not too bad. Some ice and a few days taking it easy and I’ll be good to go.
Still, I pause at the entrance to the emergency room and wave goodbye to Alfonso, who lives nearby and will presumably now walk home. I wouldn’t be surprised to find him camped out behind an azalea bush in an hour, snapping photos of my freshly bandaged arm for his bosses’ peace of mind.
After a ten-minute wait, a nurse leads me to a small, curtained exam area, gives me an ice pack, and tells me to have a seat on the bed. I sigh and boost myself up, feeling the unsteady construction creak beneath my weight, wishing I was at home in my own sturdy bed. I wouldn’t mind having someone to nurse me back to health tonight, but at the rate things are going, that person will be Alfonso.
“Oh, ah, hello,” comes a timid female voice.
I look up as a very tall, very thin doctor enters the room, her blond hair piled on top of her head in a sloppy bun, glasses dipping low on her nose. She could be twelve or twenty, but not a day over.
“Hi,” I say, my tone as doubtful as she looks.
“Um, I’m Doctor Keaton,” she adds, staring at me awkwardly. “You’re Oscar Hall?”
“Yeah.”
“Date of birth?”
I sigh. “Yesterday.”
She squints at the chart in her hands. “Oh. Happy birthday. That makes you...thirty-four?”
Well, at least she can do math. “That’s right.”
“Did you do anything special?”
Made dinner, watched an old television rerun, jerked off, went to sleep. “Not really.”
She shoots me a wavery smile and I’m ready to bolt. Something tells me I have more experience doctoring up people than she does. “Okay...So it says here you injured your wrist?”
The one I’m cradling in my lap, covered in an ice pack? “That’s right.”
“And that’s your...left wrist.” She makes a note on the chart, but even as she says the words she’s peering at the darkening bruise on my cheekbone.
“Okay.” I stand up, quick enough I get dizzy and have to sit back down. “This is a waste of time. It’s a sprain. There’s nothing I need here.”
That’s when the curtains jerk open and
she
walks in. “Hello,” she says, staring at me, head tilted slightly to the side, assessing. She closes the curtains behind her, the material the same shade of blue as her scrubs. Her dark brown hair is pulled back in a stubby ponytail, bangs swept to the side, and she’s got the darkest, thickest eyelashes I’ve ever seen outside of a magazine. She doesn’t need the ID card hanging on a lanyard around her neck to tell me she’s a doctor, but still she does. “I’m Dr. Susan Jones. If you don’t mind, I’ll be supervising Dr. Keaton.”
Do I mind? Hell, I’m relieved. If Dr. Keaton comes near me with anything sharper than a pen, I’m taking off. “No, that’s fine.”
“Great.” With a cursory nod she takes a seat in the lone chair in the corner of the tiny space and gets out her phone, ignoring us. So much for supervising.
Dr. Keaton pulls in a breath. “Great. Now where were we?”
I answer her tentative questions with as much patience as I can muster, but half my attention is on Dr. Jones. She’s about 5’7”, a hundred and thirty pounds, not a trace of makeup in sight. She’s got a pretty, angular face, with a square jaw and straight nose. Everything about her is sharp, no-nonsense and entirely uninterested.
I’m interested.
Women tend to have one of three reactions to me. One: Wow, he’s big. That’s hot. Two: Wow, he’s big. That’s terrifying. Three: Hmm. He’s of marrying age and has a good job—is he single?
I’ve gone out with these women. I’ve gone out with the ones who like fighters, the ones who like Wall Street guys, the ones looking for a husband. I’ve dated nice women, not-so-nice women and those that fall squarely in between. For a while I’ve been kind of going through the motions, hooking up with women I know don’t want more than a couple of hours and a couple of orgasms. The encounters are sweet and easy, a way to take the edge off, and nobody leaves wanting or expecting anything more.
