Time Served (20 page)

How would you feel if I told you how I’d spent years fantasizing about humiliating and debasing you?

I
think I’d get over it if you realized you couldn’t go through with it.

Was that true? Did he not have the stomach to go through with his plan to hurt me, or was he simply working up to it? Which part of that was his unflinching, imperfect truth?

Even as my head tells me that anyone with the nerve to utter those threats has the capacity to carry them out, my heart knows differently. One look at our tangled, tormented history paints Dean as the victim, the man who wants revenge he can’t carry out, the one who gives—as best he can—and me, the one who takes. If today’s misguided trip down memory lane has taught me anything, it’s that you can only find closure when you know what you’re looking for. And as pathetic as it makes me feel, I want Dean to forgive me for breaking his heart. He may have given a lot of thought to how best to hurt me, but I’m the one who inflicted the wounds that brought us here. He’s the one who’s nursed them for ten long years.

I watch his fingers twitch on the pillow, the same ones he’d had inside me hours earlier. The damnable, expert fingers that send all intelligent thoughts scattering when they touch me. I can’t imagine finding anyone else who makes me feel what Dean has these past few weeks, but that may be for the best.

I sigh and bend down to press a kiss to his temple, his skin almost feverishly hot against my lips. “Bye,” I mumble, vaguely guilty, but technically not repeating my past sins.

I garble out a stunned “Oh!” as one of Dean’s huge arms reaches out to trap my thighs, yanking me forward onto the bed. He rolls over so I land on the mattress, then falls back down, pinning me. One of his big hands snares my wrists and holds them over my head as the other shoves my skirt out of the way. He works his knees between my legs, thrusting them apart, and the next thing I feel is the unrelenting pressure of his cock at my entrance, forging its way inside.

I don’t know if he’s been pretending to be asleep or if this is his subconscious at work, but his mouth smothers my gasp as he kisses me voraciously. I’m soft and warm from sleep but not wet, and the penetration is slow and tight. Dean takes his time, pushing in a few inches, drawing back, thrusting in again a bit farther. I know I shouldn’t be doing this but I can’t seem to remember why I should stop. My good intentions take a backseat and let my hormones drive, wrapping my legs around Dean’s ass and holding him tight when he’s finally buried inside me.

“Least you said goodbye this time,” he murmurs against my lips.

“I’m trying.”

“You should try sticking around.”

I don’t answer, just kiss him again. He lets me tug one hand free so I can slide it between us, parting my fingers to feel Dean’s cock glide through my stretched folds. I find my clit and press gently, making myself shudder.

It doesn’t take long but Dean doesn’t rush things, either, keeping the strokes deep and steady, drawing it out. He presses an elbow into the mattress on one side of my head and trails the other down to cover my hand.

“Fuck, yeah, Rachel, touch yourself. You going to come soon?”

It’s hard to speak, so I just nod.

“Let me do it.”

He nudges my fingers out of the way, my slick hand falling to the mattress briefly before reaching up to stroke his back, feeling the taut line of his spine. Dean kisses me again, a record for him, all this kissing. He sucks my tongue into his mouth and picks up the pressure with his fingers, rubbing my clit so hard that I come before I expect it.

I cry out in surprise and he grunts his satisfaction, cock dragging in and out through the contractions. He grabs my hip and angles my body so he can grind against me, pumping out his own release, face just inches above mine. It’s too dark to see much, but I revel in the sound of his harsh breathing and strangled groans as he jerks in my arms, emptying himself.

Dean collapses, crushing me into the mattress, but I don’t mind. I can feel the overwhelming heat of his body through my thin top, the damp skin on his back gliding beneath my fingers.

“You okay?” he asks eventually.

“Uh-huh.” Okay. Satiated. Bewildered.

Suddenly Dean tenses, then I feel him shift, reaching for something. After a second the bedside light switches on. We both wince and turn away, waiting as our eyes adjust. At first I don’t know what’s going on, but then he pushes himself up over me and glances down at our joined bodies. I follow his gaze, watching as he carefully pulls out, cock gleaming in the light.

I roll my eyes at what I think is just another primitive display, then I, too, stiffen as an unexpected surge of wetness coats my inner thighs. I stare in stunned disbelief as Dean, still in caveman mode, climbs off the bed, snags one of my legs and drags me over so the light shines between my parted thighs. I’m vaguely mortified by the exposure, but I’m facing a much bigger problem at the moment.

“Shit,” he whispers to himself, staring at me.

I can’t speak as he presses a hand to my pussy, touching tentatively at first, then covering me completely. He presses two fingers inside, making my breath catch, then draws them out, slick with my juices and his come.

“You didn’t use a condom,” I say stupidly, twenty minutes too late. “Oh my God. You—We—I—” I have no idea how I’m going to finish any of those sentences. Or rather, I have too many ideas.
You bastard.
We’re screwed.
I
should have known better.

I snap my legs shut and push away his hand, sitting up on the edge of the bed, uncomfortably wet. Dean tugs his boxers back into place and sits next to me.

“You’re on the pill,” he says finally. “I’ve seen you take it.”

“So?” And
thank God
.

We’d had one pregnancy scare when I was sixteen, after which I’d gone to the doctor and gotten a prescription for the birth control I have taken religiously every day since. All I could think then was how a child would be the worst thing that could happen to me. I’d be stuck in Riverside like so many other women, all dreams for the future crushed by the deadweight of a baby.

“So you won’t get pregnant.”When I remain silent, he adds, “And you won’t get anything else, either. I’m careful. I didn’t spend eight years in prison just to walk out and sign up for a life sentence.”

I press my fingers to my mouth and nod, believing him only because he has no reason to lie. I’ll go to the doctor anyway, but I’m not afraid of the test results. I’m afraid of Dean. I’m afraid of
this
. I’m afraid because I’m not
more
afraid that the man I keep swearing I’m done with just came inside me, and he’s the only man who ever has.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says finally.

“I’m responsible too.”

“For that.” He nods at my crotch. “And earlier.”

I laugh without humor. “Which part?”

He shifts to look at me, balancing one arm on the bed as he turns. I know he’s watching but I keep my eyes on the window, the top of the moon just barely visible above the building across the street.

“About Ally.”

“The part with Ally isn’t what hurt.” At least, it’s not what hurt the most.

He sighs. “I know.”

“When you told me that story about leaving prison and not looking back, you got that that was the same thing, right?”

“As you leaving Riverside?”

“Yes.”

“I get why you left, Rachel. I don’t like it, but I get it. And I don’t want to hurt you. I thought I did, but I don’t. And I didn’t like seeing Ally do it.”

“You could have fooled me.”

The hand on his knee transfers to mine. “It won’t happen again.”

“That’s because I’m never going back to Cranston.”

“I want to keep doing this.”

“Why?”

“Because I like it.”

I think of Jailbait Sally in the bar. “You could have sex with anybody.”

A shrug. “Maybe. But I don’t want anybody else right now.”

“Why do you want me?”

His gaze skitters away. “Maybe because we’re both lonely. You got that big job, but I saw you there, and even surrounded by a hundred people, you still looked all alone.” He’s not wrong, but I don’t want to admit it. “Me, I go to work, go to the gym and I come home. I don’t like a lot of other people. But sometimes that gets lonely too.

“So,” he continues, fidgeting slightly, “if you want to do this, I’ll promise that all that revenge stuff is in the past, and you promise not to take off in the middle of the night.”

I glance at him, guilty and hesitant.

“We’re different now,” he adds. “We’re not stupid kids, we know we’re not going to fall in love and live happily ever after. When you want out, you can go. Anytime. Just tell me to my face, don’t sneak off.”

“What about when you want out?”

“You planning to hide my keys?”

“Your bus fare, maybe.”

That big hand squeezes my knee, tight. “Whaddya say—we got a deal?”

I picture young Dean, lying next to me in the double-wide.
Whaddya say—you wanna be my girlfriend
,
or what?

“This is so romantic.”

“I do what I can.” He stares at me, waiting, serious.

I’ve negotiated hundreds of contracts, faced off against a lot of intimidating men. But I’ve never felt as strongly about something as I do about this; none of those contracts would affect my life when I left the office, none of them offered something I so desperately and irrationally wanted.

“Deal,” I say, glancing at him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“All right, then.” Dean pushes me back onto the bed. “Let’s be lonely together.”

Chapter Eighteen

Jose and I are waiting in the garage next to the small fleet of company cars when Parker arrives at exactly seven o’clock the next morning. I’m holding the coffee and cinnamon bun Dean insisted on buying despite my protests, and I don’t tell Parker he wasn’t the intended recipient when he gleefully accepts my breakfast before climbing in.

“To the doldrums,” Parker intones as we exit the parking garage and begin the familiar trip to Camden.

“Doldrums isn’t a place,” I say, watching the waking city zip by. “It’s more a state of being.”

“That’s what I meant. Our spirits are going to the doldrums.”

I laugh.

Parker flips open the folder on Martin Lucas, our first interview of the day. He’s one of the people whose blood work Sonia Wheeler had stolen, and his tests found a whopping five milligrams of perchlorodibenzene per liter of blood. That’s two milligrams more than Hector Nunes, who will spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. The fact that Martin Lucas is alive at all is a wonder, though I really have no idea what we’ll find when we finally meet him face-to-face.

We’d sifted through our half of the BioShare results and sorted them accordingly, aiming to start our interviews with the most potentially serious cases and working our way down. Martin Lucas ranked at the top of that list but had been nearly impossible to reach by phone. Only after five days of calling did the tenacious Belinda finally get through and convince him to meet with us.

“You sure this is it?” Parker asks, peering doubtfully out the window when we arrive.

I double-check the address and lean over him to look, frowning. “That’s what it says here,” I reply. “4150 Ashburn Street.”

Ashburn Street is located at the very edge of Camden, on the side closest to the city. It’s a relatively new development, with small cookie-cutter houses with well-kept postage-stamp front lawns with minivans parked in front of each one. Yards are dotted with sprinklers, bicycles and the occasional shrub—all in all, it’s decidedly normal. Nice, even.

For this reason, 4150 Ashburn Street is something of an anomaly. Not only is it nice, it’s
extremely
nice. While most of the homes here are single-story bungalows, Martin Lucas’s house has a second floor that is an obvious recent addition. The lower half of the house is brick, like most of its neighbors, while the top floor boasts pristine white siding with bright red shutters flanking the windows.

If it wasn’t in Camden, the house wouldn’t turn heads. If it wasn’t owned by thirty-nine-year-old Martin Lucas, whose most recent income tax return showed that he hadn’t worked in five years, collected minimal unemployment insurance and lived alone, it wouldn’t raise eyebrows.

Like Hector Nunes and many other former Fowler employees, Martin had filed a disability claim against the company, but had never followed up. To the best of our knowledge, he hasn’t earned a dime since leaving Fowler, yet he somehow owns the nicest house on the block.

We get out of the car, head up to the front door and ring the bell. I hear it chime inside, but there’s no answer, not even when I press it two more times. Parker and I exchange a look and tiptoe around the house, finding a beautifully landscaped backyard, but no Martin.

Eventually we give up and return to the car, where Parker tries calling again, jumping in surprise when he gets an answer. “Hello, Martin?” he begins in his best lawyer voice. “This is Parker Finch from Sterling, Morgan & Haines. How are you this morning?” A pause. “Uh-huh. We’re actually at your beautiful house right now. Did you remember our—” A longer pause. I can hear Martin speak, but can’t make out the words. “May I ask why?” More indistinct words. I don’t need to know what’s being said to know that it’s not good. “Let’s reschedule,” Parker suggests smoothly. “There’s no need—” He cuts off abruptly, holding the phone away from his ear. “He hung up,” he says, staring at the phone as though it’s an alien.

“What did he say?”

“That he changed his mind about meeting us. He’s not interested in participating in the suit. He wouldn’t say why.”

“Maybe he’s a bank robber,” I suggest. “That’s the only thing that would explain the setup he’s got here.”

“Well,” Parker says, tossing Martin’s file on the floor. “Onward and upward. Or eastward and downward, depending on your perspective.”

The second interview is in the center of Camden, more familiar turf. We’re a few minutes away when Parker sits up straight. “What the hell?”

Jose hits the brakes and we slow.

“What is it?” I ask.

Parker is momentarily speechless and taps his window to indicate something outside. I lean over him to look, and my jaw drops. Hector Nunes’s dilapidated house is looking noticeably better than before. The wheelchair ramp has been replaced, the broken rainspout has been repaired, there’s even a brand-new mailbox next to the front door. And perhaps most surprisingly, a gleaming new van is parked in the driveway.

“What happened here?” I ask, not expecting a response. I squint at the license plate on the van and send a text to Baxter, asking him to find out who it’s registered to.

Parker’s twisting his head this way and that, looking at other houses on the street, but from our position I can’t see any other recent home upgrades. But Parker has an idea. “Martin Lucas gets a new second floor and a new deck,” he says, ticking the improvements off on his fingers. “Now our friend Hector has a new ramp, new van—even a new mailbox.”

I nod slowly. “Okay...”

“Someone’s paying them off.”

My phone beeps with a reply from Baxter. The van is indeed registered to Hector Nunes.

I close my eyes. “This cannot be happening.”

“Fowler’s settling before we can go to court. They’re getting the big cases out of the way. Try calling him.”

“Why call when we’re here?” I ask, unbuckling my seat belt and climbing out of the car.

Parker hurries after me up the newly laid stepping stones to the ramp, now lined with rubber. We don’t miss these details, and when I knock on the door, I notice that the old lock has been replaced with a shiny new one.

Hector Nunes, at least, answers his door.

“Hey, Hector,” I say, smiling brightly. “How are you?”

The look on his face confirms our worst fears. “Rachel,” he stammers. “Parker. Did you—did we have an appointment?”

“No,” I say, still smiling. “We were in the area and I couldn’t help but notice the new van in your driveway. That’s nice.”

Hector’s eyes flicker to the van. “I—”

“And your new ramp. This has to be helpful. The other one didn’t feel very steady.”

“No, it—”

“And this new mailbox is really something.” I’m trying to sound professional and not betrayed, but it’s hard. It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning and I feel really fucking exhausted. And angry. No amount of five-hour naps with Dean can ease the knot forming in my belly.

Hector blinks, fingers strumming the control panel on his motorized wheelchair. I smile sadly when I realize that it, too, is new.

“Who?” I ask.

He slowly raises his eyes to mine. “He said he represented Fowler Metals,” he admits quietly. “That they had been reviewing recent findings and discovered they’d been using a product that may have caused illness in some employees.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He said a lawsuit would take years and didn’t guarantee anything. He could give me something right away to help with my...suffering.”

I glance at the mailbox.

Hector shrugs as best he can. “I couldn’t keep waiting.”

I know Parker is right behind me, equally deflated, but all I can see is Hector. He’s shrinking away from me like a guilty child, taking all the promise of Patient Zero with him.

“Did you sign anything?”

He glances away and nods.

“May I see it?”

He looks reluctant, but tips his head to indicate I should follow him inside as he retreats down the hall.

“Frick,” Parker whispers as we wait.

The interior of the house looks much the same, if a little tidier. It’s been aired out a bit and the curtains are drawn to let in light. I hear a muted female voice, then soft footsteps come down the hall and a small Asian woman appears with a basket of folded clothing. She’s wearing pink scrubs and smiles when she sees us, carrying on down another hallway, presumably to the bedrooms.

“A nurse,” I say in a low voice. “They ruined his life and now they’re trying to make it easier.”

“How much easier?” Parker asks. He breaks off when Hector returns, a long printed contract sitting on his lap. A cursory glance at the first page makes it official: Hector accepted a sizeable settlement from Fowler, including paid twenty-four-hour support for the rest of his life, in exchange for refusing to cooperate with any suits filed in relation to the perchlorodibenzene poisonings.

“Do you know if they’ve approached anyone else?”

“I don’t know.” His eyes water and he looks close to nodding off.

“Thank you for your time, Hector.” I back toward the door as Parker pushes it open.

“I’m sorry, Rachel.” Only one of his eyes is able to focus on my face as he apologizes, but I wave it away with a smile.

“You have to do what’s best for you,” I tell him. “You look like you’re doing all right.”

“I just couldn’t wait.”

“I completely understand.” I hardly know the man; why am I on the verge of tears?

“You can take that,” Hector says, when I move to put the contract down. “I have a copy.”

Of course. I should take this back to the office so we can read about just how thoroughly Fowler has screwed us. “Thank you. Take care, Hector.”

“I will.”

Parker and I leave, closing the door gently. The wheelchair ramp doesn’t flex as we walk down, my heels don’t skid. The stepping stones are smooth and level, making the trip back to the car slip-free.

“Those fuckers,” I mumble as soon as we’re inside the car.

“Martin, Hector...” Parker flips through the files to the list of BioShare patient results, starting at the top. “Victoria Chang, Lisa Ruiz, Walter Valley... We haven’t been able to reach any of the people at the top of the list. I didn’t pay much attention to it because we had the other interviews, but if they’ve spoken to Fowler...”

My phone rings. It’s Caitlin. I put her on speakerphone. “Good morning.”

“How are your interviews coming?”

I glance at Parker. “They’re not. Yours?”

A pause. “No. We’ve been to three houses. One’s not at home, and two are completely empty. As in vacated. We scheduled these meetings a week ago.”

“It’s Fowler,” I say finally.

“What do you mean?”

“I just spoke to Hector Nunes—”

“Patient Zero?”

“Not anymore.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I’ve got the contract in my hand. They settled.”

For once, Caitlin doesn’t have a comeback. “Fuck me,” she says eventually.

Who hasn’t?
Parker mouths, making me smile in spite of myself.