by Roni Loren
“Maybe I am.”
He grinned. “For the record, I kind of like this crazed, in-love version of you. Way more fun. Just don’t fuck things up this time.”
“Well, that’s not the plan.”
“How are you going to find her? I mean, small town or not, it’s still a whole town.”
Foster walked over to the coffee table and swiped Pike’s keys. “You don’t want to know.”
“Ah, hell.”
Foster headed back toward his bedroom, but not before he heard Pike mutter, “Yeah, he’s going to fuck it up.”
—
I sat at the small, scarred table sipping my drink and enjoying the band who was playing at the Rusty Wheel tonight. I’d never been a huge fan of country music, but the acoustic set had a certain charm. And Michael seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it, singing along to the music and sending me a smile every now and again from beneath the brim of the cowboy hat he’d worn tonight. He had a nice voice. I’d never noticed that about him. It was probably very soothing to his patients when he was yanking teeth out and such.
This was the third time I’d been out with him this week, and each time it’d gotten more and more comfortable. He didn’t make my stomach flip over when he looked at me, but he was fun. And it sure was better than being mopey girl in my house. When antidepressant commercials start to look upbeat, it’s time to get out.
Michael leaned over, draping his arm over the back of my chair, and spoke against my ear. “Dance with me?”
“I’m not very good at the two-step,” I said, cocking my head toward the other couples out on the floor.
“Just follow my lead. You can do that, right?” he asked with a good-natured wink.
I smirked. Oh, if he only knew. “Sure.”
I let him take my hand and lead me onto the dance floor. With a smile of encouragement, he pulled me close, his hand at my back, and guided me into the flow, counting the steps for me. “Quick, quick, slow.”
He was a confident dancer and easy to follow, so I kept up pretty well. We moved around the floor, keeping the circle pattern that everyone seemed to be following, and I found myself enjoying it. Quick, quick, slow. Quick, quick, slow. Apparently he thought I was catching on quicker than I actually was though, because he moved to try to spin me. Not expecting the changeup, I missed the cue and turned the wrong way, almost twisting his arm out of its socket in the process. He let go of my hand and my momentum carried me into the next couple.
Michael barely rescued me before I took us all down. I grabbed for his arm, half-panicked, half laughing. He dragged me against him, laughing as well, eyes sparkling. “Whoa, there.”
“Sorry,” I said, hands still curled into his biceps as he moved me out of the flow of dancers and off to the side. “Awkward girl plus beer. Bad combination.”
“No need to apologize. I like awkward. And sloshed is just a bonus.”
I snorted. But he pushed my hair behind my ear, looking down at me with a smile that went from humor to something else. And I knew that look. I didn’t have a ton of experience, but no one could mistake what his intention was or what was about to happen. I opened my mouth to say something, but it was already past the point of no return.
Michael leaned in and pressed his lips to mine, cradling my head in his hands, and kissing me with a tender reverence I didn’t deserve. I was frozen for a moment, unsure what to do or how to react. But my mouth moved on its own accord, answering the kiss, even as my mind was spinning in every direction. He tasted like beer and peanuts and faintly of mouthwash. And none of what he was doing was bad, but it was all . . . wrong.
My hands slid up to his chest and pushed gently. Instantly, he eased back from the kiss, respecting my subtle signal. He gave me a sheepish smile. “Sorry, probably too soon, right? I lost myself there for a moment.”
“It’s okay,” I said, looking down, a sadness eating away at my insides. “I’m just . . . not quite ready for that yet.”
Or maybe ever. Not if it felt like that. Maybe I hadn’t been overreacting when I thought I’d never experience anything like Foster again. I craved the fire that happened every time we’d touched, that must-have-more passion. Maybe it could grow with Michael. Maybe I needed to give it time, give us both a chance.
“Hey, there’s no rush or pressure from me, all right?” he said, taking my hand again. “I’m not on some predetermined timeline.”
“Thank you.” He led me back to our table and ordered another round of drinks, but my heart wasn’t in the music anymore. Or the date. After a few minutes, Michael seemed to be just as content as before—not perturbed or offended by my brush-off. He really was a good guy. I glanced at my cell phone to check the time and made a show of yawning.
“Getting tired on me?” he asked, bumping my knee with his.
“Yeah, I had a surgery first thing this morning and another tomorrow. Mind if I call it a night?”
“Nah, not at all,” he said, moving to get up.
I put my hand on his arm. “You’re fine. Stay. I know you have tomorrow off and that you love this band. My car is right out front.”
“You sure?” He frowned. “Are you okay to drive?”
“Yeah, I’m not that much of a lightweight.” I offered a smile and gave him a quick hug, thanking him for the night.
Outside, the summer air was muggy and warm, heavy with an oncoming rainstorm. But it was nice to get out of the smoky honky-tonk. The parking lot lights were blinking on and off with a loud buzz, giving the lot a strobe effect, but the moonlight was enough to help me find my car.
I put my hand into my purse to grab my keys and heard the shift of gravel somewhere behind me. I turned my head, on full alert. Verde Pass wasn’t exactly the crime capital of the world, but I wasn’t stupid enough to think bad things didn’t happen here. I didn’t see anything behind me, and I turned back around, rubbing the sudden chill off my arms. I had the sense that I wasn’t alone, that I was being watched. But a second later, the front door of the Rusty Wheel swung open, and a loud, rowdy group spilled out, instantly lifting that strange feeling I’d gotten. Quickly, I hit the fob to open my car and climbed inside, thinking in the back of my mind how Foster would’ve never let me walk out into a parking lot like this alone.
He wouldn’t have let me dismiss him so easily like I had Michael. It wasn’t fair for me to hold that against Mike. I had wanted him to stay behind, but still, the thought niggled at me like a rock in my shoe. I didn’t need to be taken care of. I was completely capable of managing things myself. But I couldn’t deny that part of me missed being . . . handled.
Foster had made me feel like I was something precious, something to be guarded.
Part of the time that had driven me mad.
But right now, as I drove home in the dark, still wearing that stupid ankle bracelet because I couldn’t bring myself to take it off, I felt . . . adrift.
THIRTY-FIVE
Foster sat in Pike’s car in the dark, not sure what he was more ready to do, punch something or throw up. He’d snuck into the damned cowboy joint, knowing he shouldn’t watch, but unable to stop the perverse need to see for himself. He’d tracked down Cela two days ago with the anklet and had been watching her, waiting for the right time to approach her.
He’d never planned to stay in the background this long. But he also hadn’t planned to find Cela dating someone. He should’ve assumed it was a possibility. It’s not like they had talked since he’d won the Asshat of the Year award in his office that day. But part of him had hoped that maybe she was having as hard a time moving on as he was. Dating hadn’t even been a possibility for him since she’d left. But here she was out on another date with Mr. Teeth. Who the fuck smiled that much? The guy seemed to have permanent hooks holding his mouth up. No doubt because he figured he was getting closer and closer to working his w
ay into Cela’s life . . . and bed.
Foster rubbed the back of his neck, tension gathering there at the thought of someone else touching Cela. He’d almost convinced himself that Cela was just friends with the guy . . . until tonight. Watching that fucker put his hands on her and kiss his woman had inspired murderous thoughts in Foster and had almost launched him into an unprovoked barroom brawl. But he’d held himself back, not wanting to embarrass Cela or cause trouble for her. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She was simply moving on.
Without him.
And really, if it was that easy for her to go on with someone new, maybe everything Foster had read into their relationship had been bullshit anyway. He’d wanted it to be her. He’d wanted Cela to be that girl for him. But maybe he’d laid all that expectation on her and then only saw what he wanted to see. He’d done it before with Darcy. And even with his parents early on. When it came to relationships, he saw what he hoped for instead of what really was. And if Cela could be happy with some vanilla dentist who didn’t even bother to walk her out to her car, then he couldn’t do a damned thing about it.
The kind of relationship he wanted with her wasn’t the type you persuaded someone into. You were either wired for it or not. And if she could walk away from it and not look back, that said everything he needed to know.
Of course, that hadn’t stopped him from following her home to make sure she got in okay. God, he was pathetic. He could now add creepy stalker to his list of attributes. What the fuck was wrong with him?
She was on the phone when she turned her car into her driveway, but waited until she ended the call before getting out. When she climbed out, she had her keys in her hand and peeked over her shoulder, quickly checking the perimeter. That brought a touch of a smile to his lips. Good girl. If nothing else, he could take comfort in knowing that she was being more aware now, looking out for herself.
Foster watched from his spot across the street a couple of houses down, drinking up the last view of her as she headed up the steps in her painted-on jeans and cowboy boots. Her hair hung loose along her back, and he remembered what it had felt like to wrap around his fingers. A pang went through his chest as she unlocked her door and slipped inside.
It’d be the last time he’d lay eyes on her.
Because as much as he wanted to bust her door right down and beg for another chance, he wasn’t going to disrupt her life like that again. She seemed to be doing fine without him. He took a long breath, daggers of regret knifing through him, then shifted forward to turn the key in the ignition. But a loud rap on the window had him jumping in his seat.
He turned to the left to find himself face-to-face with the barrel of a shotgun, the butt of it against the glass. “Fuck.”
He ducked down on instinct, his mind whirling.
“Get out the car,” a low, exceptionally calm voice said through the window.
“Motherfucker,” he muttered, grasping for any possible escape route. If he were in his car, he’d have a gun in the glove box. But Pike wouldn’t have anything—the guy had hated firearms since the days his dad used to wave one around for effect while he was shit-faced. Left without much choice, Foster put his hands up to indicate he was cooperating, then reached for the door handle.
Whoever was on the other side backed up to make room but kept the gun steady and pointed right at him. Foster pushed the door open and climbed out slowly, hands up, hoping it was just a carjacking. Pike would be so pissed, but Foster could replace his car. He silently thanked God that Cela had already gone inside or this could be her with the gun pointed at her head.
The man on the other side of the shotgun was older and shorter than him and seemed to be wearing . . . pajamas? But the dude had a determined look in his dark eyes, so Foster wasn’t going to attempt to overtake him unless he had to.
“Is there a problem?” Foster asked carefully, beginning to wonder if this was just some neighbor protecting his property line or something. Maybe he’d parked his car too high on the curb and hit a flower bed. Texans could be touchy about that shit.
“Yes, there is,” he said, accent thick and tone terse. “Mind telling me why you’re lurking in the dark watching my daughter? And don’t try anything stupid. I’ve already called the police.”
Oh, shit. Pieces fell together in a quick jumble. The dad. Foster closed his eyes for a moment. Okay, so not a carjacker or criminal. At least he wouldn’t get shot tonight. Well, probably not. “I’m so very sorry, Dr. Medina. I’m no threat. I’m a friend of Cela’s.”
His eyes narrowed. “A friend who sneaks around in the middle of the night spying on her like some cockroach?”
Rapid-fire muttering in Spanish punctuated the statement. Foster wasn’t one hundred percent fluent, but he picked up a few choice names including pervert and bastard.
Damn, how was he going to explain this? The truth wasn’t exactly good news. “My name is Ian Foster. I’m a friend of Cela’s from Dallas. A neighbor.”
He tilted the gun and gave Foster the hairy eyeball.
“And an ex-boyfriend,” he said finally, realizing the man wasn’t going to take any bullshit answer.
More Spanish and a look of utter distaste from Cela’s father. “Shut up and stay where you are.”
Sirens cut through the night, and Foster tilted his head back. Fan-fucking-tastic. So much for being covert. For the first time he wished he had a safe word—anything that would get him out of this mess.
A few minutes later, he found himself face-to-face with a cop who was not in the mood for niceties. Cela’s father had stepped aside and put the gun down, but he clearly was going to stick around for the show. Foster glanced over at Cela’s house, wondering how long it’d be before she saw the flashing lights and peeked out her window. Nothing like a heaping dose of humiliation served up hot. And he’d suffer it in front of her family no less. Terrific.
“Mr. Foster, do you mind explaining to me why this car is registered to someone else?” the cop asked, gripping the car’s registration in his hand and holding it up for Foster to see.
“Pike’s my roommate. He let me borrow the car.”
“Borrow?” the cop frowned like he wasn’t familiar with such a progressive idea. “Turn around, Mr. Foster.”
“For what?”
The cop pulled out his handcuffs and gave Foster the don’t-mess-with-me face. Fucking hell. Foster turned around, handcuffs going over his wrists. Click, click. “I’m just going to put these on until we get this sorted out.”
That’s when the door opened across the street. Cela peered out, the red and blue lights flashing over the shorts and T-shirt she’d changed into. Her head turned toward her father, who was leaning against a tree with arms crossed and a fierce expression. He noticed his daughter and waved a dismissing hand. “Go inside, Marcela.”
“What’s going on?” she called out.
“I said go inside,” he barked back.
Foster’s eyebrow lifted. He had an idea of how that tone would go over. He could almost hear Cela gritting her teeth. As expected, she stalked across her yard and toward her father. Heh.
“What are you smirking about?” the cop snapped.
Foster’s gaze slid back to the cop. “Nothing at all, officer.”
But he had no doubt the cop heard the heavy sarcasm in Foster’s voice. Foster was about done putting up with this crap. There was no avoiding Cela knowing now, so he had no reason to continue playing nice.
“I suggest you wipe that look off your face then,” the cop said.
“Well, I suggest that you take me out of these handcuffs. You haven’t placed me under arrest. I haven’t threatened you. And I was parked on a public street, not bothering anyone when a gun was pointed at my head. If anything, I’m the victim here. So you can either unlock these or I can make a call to my lawyer.”
“Foster?”
Cela had made her way across the street and was now staring at him, mouth agape.
He gave her a sheepish smile. “Hi.”
She blinked, like she hadn’t understood his greeting, then seemed to snap back into place. Her gaze slid to the handcuffs then back to him and the cop. “What the hell is going on?”
“Your father found this man watching your house,” the cop explained in that I’ll-take-care-of-this-little-lady tone. “But don’t worry, we have it under control. Your father kept him contained until I got here.”
She glanced at her father, then to the shotgun lying next to the tree, and her eyes widened with horror. “Oh, please tell me you didn’t.”
Her father pointed Foster’s way and went into a heated explanation in Spanish. Cela snapped back at him with just as fiery of a response.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Foster said, not wanting to cause problems for her with her family. “It was my fault. I came down here to see you, then decided not to bother you. I’m sure it looked suspicious.”
She swiveled her attention his way. “I’ll deal with you in a second. And I don’t care what you looked like, he doesn’t get to threaten people with a gun.” She looked back to her father. “What if he had been a real criminal, Papá? He could’ve hurt you.”
“I can handle myself,” her father said petulantly.
“And so can I!” She looked to the heavens. “When are any of you going to get that through your heads? What were you doing? Waiting for me to get home tonight?”
Her father’s gaze flicked away.
“Oh my God, seriously? I’m twenty-three years old. What would have happened if I’d brought my date home? Would you have banged on the door and pointed a gun at him, too?”
Foster’s jaw clenched at even the mention of her date going home with her.
Her father didn’t answer, which was answer enough. She turned her head Foster’s way again, cheeks flushed with anger. “For God’s sake, get him out of those handcuffs, Will. He’s not some criminal.”