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 way 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.”
Will didn’t look pleased with the order, but he complied. Foster watched Cela as the cop went to work on the cuffs. She was so beautiful standing there, cheeks pink, eyes wild. As his gaze drifted downward over the clothes she’d put on for bed and her bare legs, he caught sight of a glint of silver in the glare of the streetlight. His anklet. Even after everything, she was wearing his gift. Something turned over inside him. He lifted his gaze to hers, and he knew she was aware of what he’d seen. Heartbreak sat there heavy in her eyes, taking the breath from his chest.
Foster rolled his wrists once they were out of the cuffs and stepped onto the sidewalk but didn’t take his eyes off Cela. Behind her, he could see other neighbors drifting out now, gawking. And a lady he assumed to be her mother was standing out on the porch of the house directly across from Cela’s. He shook his head. “I’m really sorry about all this.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, why? all over her face, then sighed. “Come on.”
Before he could ask her what she meant, she spun on her heel, walked around to the passenger side of Pike’s car, and opened the door.
“Marcela, you can’t mean to go somewhere with this man,” her father sputtered as he moved forward. “It’s past midnight and look how you’re dressed.”
She glanced down at her T-shirt and boxers and laughed mirthlessly. Foster had a feeling she was thinking, If you only knew. “Good night, Papá.”
She climbed in the car and slammed the door. Dr. Medina sent Foster a touch-my-daughter-and-die glare his way, but Foster wasn’t going to wait around for the man to grab his shotgun again. He snagged the car registration off the top of the hood and pulled open his door. “Sorry for the trouble.”
Without waiting for a response, he got into the car and shut the door. He gripped the wheel, still trying to process how he’d gone from saying good-bye to Cela for good to having her in his car. He turned her way. “What now, angel?”
“Just drive,” she said, staring out the front window.
“Yes, ma’am.”