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Cela’s jaw dropped as if he’d just admitted he liked to dress up in women’s clothes and sing Broadway tunes. “Like ever?”
“Nope.”
“Not even like a fish or something?” She drank her shot.
He watched her throat work as she swallowed, imagining things he shouldn’t. “My parents traveled a lot. They didn’t trust me to take care of a pet.”
She frowned. “Kids usually do a better job than most adults.”
“Yeah, well, my track record on taking care of things wasn’t so great,” he said, failing to keep the tinge of bitterness out of his voice—the old, always-present guilt surfacing.
“I’m sorry.” The stark sympathy that swept her features had something knotting in his chest. God, why had he admitted something so personal? He could’ve just said no and left it at that.
Pike drank his shot, and Foster sent him a curious look. When he’d met Pike, the kid had barely owned enough clothes to get him through a week. He and what passed for his family wouldn’t have been in a place to fund a pet.
Pike shrugged. “A stray cat used to live under our house when I was a kid. I named him Jagger and fed him, so I think that counts. I wanted him to be mine.”
Cela looked between the two of them. “I’m dragging both of y’all to the vet school shelter. Clearly, you need a pet.”
Pike laughed. “Doc, we can barely be trusted to care for ourselves. Let’s not inflict a poor animal with owners like us.”
Owners. Foster could think of one thing he’d like to own right now—at least for a little while. He dragged his focus away from Cela and nodded at Pike. “Your turn, drummer boy.”
Pike narrowed his eyes, that nickname always serving to annoy him, which is why Foster loved using it so much.
“Fine. Let’s see if I can come up with something less depressing than yours.” Pike sat back on the couch, his eyebrow arching in challenge. “Never have I ever . . .”
The pause was long. Too long. Pike smiled and leveled a gaze at Foster.
Oh shit. Foster knew that look. Don’t do it, Pike.
“Gotten off while eavesdropping on my neighbor,” Pike finished.
You fucker.
Cela’s expelled breath was audible even over the music. Well, shit. Now he was going to look like a creepy asshole. Foster ventured a glance her way, his gaze colliding with hers. Her panicked-rabbit expression made him wish time could be rewound and deleted.
“Dammit, Pike,” Foster said, gearing up for damage control. “Cela, look, Pike’s just messing around. He likes to—”
But before he could finish, Cela reached out, lifted her shot off the table, and downed it. When she finished, she wouldn’t look up. She stared down at her hands and the empty glass, her knee bumping up and down—as if she were contemplating running.
The silent admission and ensuing bashfulness were like strokes to Foster’s cock, oil on a fire he was trying to tame. This girl may be inexperienced, but she was brave—bold in a way that had him getting surprised at every turn. And it’d been a helluva long time since anyone had surprised him. He leaned forward in his seat. Like a predator scenting blood in the water, the dominance rose in him, locked her in its sights.
“Cela.”
She put her hand over her face, shaking her head. “Let’s just go to the next turn. Please.”
“Look at me, Cela,” he commanded, his tone harsh.
Her attention snapped his way, as if she couldn’t stop herself from obeying.
He held her eye contact and slowly drained his own shot.
Poured another, drank again.
Then another, drank again. “I could keep going.”
In Foster’s peripheral vision, Pike gave a slow, satisfied grin. “Honesty. I like it.”
