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“Of course. And Foster?”
“Yeah.”
“Let me handle it and take a break. You sound like shit.”
“It’s midnight. Of course I sound like shit.” He swung the car into his normal parking spot.
“Don’t be a smartass. You know what I mean. Go get drunk or laid or something. You’ve been in a crap mood every time I talk to you lately.”
“Good night, Bret.”
He hit the Off button without waiting for a response. No way was he going to tell Bret that his perpetual foul mood had nothing to do with the investigation. The case had been part of his life for as long as he could remember—dead ends were part of his existence. Frustrating and disheartening but nothing new. No, he knew exactly what—or who, rather—had turned him into some Mr. Hyde version of himself.
Foster glanced up at the darkened window on the third floor of the building in front of him. He’d done the right thing with Cela. Taking her up on her offer for a fling would’ve been selfish. He’d seen how wide her brown eyes had gone when she’d realized he didn’t just want to dish out a little spank and tickle—that he wanted to own a woman. She’d been shocked at the prospect . . . and appalled. Not that he’d been surprised. Most people wouldn’t respond positively to what he truly desired. He’d learned to accept that a long time ago. And he couldn’t change it, even if he wanted to.
And, boy, were there times he wanted to and tried to. But he’d learned that even if he could quell that side of himself, it was only a temporary fix. He’d tried to adjust his needs with Darcy, had been easy on her when he wanted to be rough, had watered down the experience so as not to scare her away. But it’d been the worst way to go about it. He’d created a farce of a relationship where neither of them was getting what they wanted, but no one was talking about it.
Foster knew he could’ve given Cela the pied piper song and dance, could’ve softened the extent of what he was seeking, made it more palatable. He could’ve spent a few more days in her bed, constantly reeling himself in. But he was done with painting pretty pictures that only showed the surface of something. He was walking away from her to protect her from something she wasn’t ready for and to protect himself from attaching hope to a hopeless situation. She was too young and inexperienced. And she was leaving. End of story.
Of course, his dick hadn’t gotten the memo. Even staring up at her window like some pathetic stalker had his cock growing hard. “Fuck.”
He yanked the keys out of the ignition and pushed open his door. This day needed to be done. And he had to schedule some time to go back out to The Ranch. The last time had been a bust. He hadn’t been able to muster up interest in anyone after his talk with Cela. All his thoughts had stayed there with her in her apartment—those dark eyes and her paint-smudged cheeks. But he couldn’t be walking around this wound up anymore. He didn’t just need sex; he needed to beat someone—to tie a sub up and channel all his frustration into those exquisite moments where all ceased to exist except his dominance and a woman’s utter surrender.
He slammed his car door behind him and headed into the building. For now, he was going to have to settle for a hot shower and a cold bed. He trudged up the stairs, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt before he even hit his door. Hopefully, Pike was already asleep because the last thing he felt like doing was answering questions about the failed trip out to the prison. And he’d need to be quiet because he’d originally planned to spend the night in the small town where the prison was located, so Pike wasn’t expecting him.
Foster turned his key in the lock and quietly opened the door, blinking in the darkness of the entryway. He could see the blue flicker of the television still on in the living room. He sighed. Pike was forever falling asleep on the couch with the TV still on. It was like the guy had an aversion to his own bed. Foster stepped into the kitchen, setting down his keys and his wallet, and toeing off his shoes. He was about to head down the hallway to turn off the TV when he heard Pike’s hushed voice and a soft answering laugh. A feminine one.
So Pike had a girl over. That actually could work out in Foster’s favor because then Pike wouldn’t be inclined to shoot the shit with him. He’d have to pass by the living room to get to his bedroom, so he continued walking. But when the female voice responded to something Pike said, Foster froze in his spot.
Cela?
“So it’s all about dominance?” P
ike asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” Cela replied. “If you’re not in charge, it won’t work.”
Foster went icy cold, everything inside him crystallizing and cracking. Pike had Cela over on a night he thought Foster was out of town. Cela was laughing and talking about Pike being in charge. The day from hell had just turned into a waking nightmare.
“I can be dominant.”
Foster couldn’t handle another word. He rounded the corner and found the two of them sprawled on the floor, propped up on pillows like they were at a fucking slumber party.
“Just make sure you project calmness. He’ll sense if you’re not and act up,” Cela said, her back to Foster.
“Will he—shit.” Pike noticed Foster standing there.
Foster crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to let any emotion peek through his expression. “Sorry to interrupt.”
Cela’s head moved like it was on a swivel, her eyes going big in the flickering TV light. “Foster.”
Pike pushed into a sitting position. “I thought you were—”
“Yeah, well, plans changed,” he said, unable to keep the bite out of his voice. “And seriously, Pike, sneaking around behind my back? At least have the balls to tell me you want to fuck her.”
“Foster!” Cela gasped and scrambled upward.
“Whatever. I don’t fucking need this tonight. I’m going to bed. Try to keep it down.” He turned around and strode toward his bedroom ready to charge right through the solid wood of his door just to take the edge off his anger.
