I hurried to get dressed, not wanting another confrontation on the Foster front. He was not going to bully me into dropping the case, so why bother arguing about it? Honestly, between him and Uncle Bob …
Still, Ubie was really starting to worry me. In the past, he would never do something like he’d done today. He would never leave me hanging like that. He’d trapped me on purpose. Tried to get me to take the day off. To stay home. But why? Ubie and I had always been so open. So honest. Why wouldn’t he confide in me now?
I had half a mind not to unmark him for hell. If I could do that. Only one way to find out, but if he didn’t straighten up his act, it was a one-way trip to hellsville for him.
I didn’t bother drying my hair. I pulled it into a ponytail, threw on a sweater, a denim skirt, and a killer pair of ankle boots, grabbed my jacket, and headed out the door. Then I ran back in for my bag. Then I ran back in again for my keys. I was already settled inside Misery, ready to head out—Mr. Foster owned an insurance agency, and I was suddenly in dire need of life insurance on my husband—when I realized I’d left my phone on the charger.
Holy cow. When did I accumulate so much stuff I couldn’t leave home without?
I waffled back and forth on whether to go back in and risk another confrontation—I loved waffles—when a knock sounded on my window.
After jumping three feet into the air, I glared at Reyes. Then heat blossomed over my skin, partly from alarm and partly from arousal, when I noticed his attire. Or lack thereof. He stood in the parking lot in a towel. A beige towel that hung low over his hips.
Water dripped off his hair and spiked his lashes, making his dark brown irises glitter all the more. Or that could have been the anger.
I turned the key and rolled down the window, fighting the urge to chastise him. It wasn’t freezing but it was damned sure too cold to be running around wet and nigh naked. Instead, I asked, “Are you going to threaten me again?”
He had both hands braced against the door. My phone was in one of them.
“We need to talk.”
“We tried that, remember? You don’t seem to understand the difference between a conversation and an order. And you’re rubbing off on Uncle Bob.”
His brows slid together. “What do you mean?”
“I mean men. Thinking they can order me around. Thinking they have a say in anything that I do.” I leaned closer. “Anything.”
He paused to think about what I’d said, then leaned closer, too, his warmth wafting toward me. “Your flat-out refusal is not exactly civilized conversation, either.”
“I … you…” I bit down and tried again. “I seem to remember a very recent civilized conversation we had in which we agreed we’d no longer keep secrets from one another.” I studied his face. Watched how the water pooled in his lashes and above his mouth.
He worked his jaw and turned away. “It’s not that simple.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
He glanced down at his feet.
“Reyes, just tell me why you don’t want me on this case. What are you afraid of?”
And that did it. The manly part of him—no, the Neanderthal part—became incensed. Reyes wasn’t the insecure type in most every aspect of his life save one: his darkness. And I was slowly realizing that the Fosters, one of them at the very least, had some kind of perception that pierced the veil of this plane.
But still! He was dark. No shit. It wasn’t like that was a big secret. I could shift onto the celestial plane anytime I chose and see that darkness for myself.
“You think I’m afraid? Of the Fosters?”
“What? No.” That was an odd thing to say. “Of course not.”
“Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do what you want. You always do.”
His frustration knew no bounds. Nor did it know his own strength. He pushed off the door, but in his anger, he literally toppled Misery onto two wheels. She came back down hard as Reyes walked away.
It was my turn to be angry. I jumped out of Misery to inspect the damage. He’d caved in the side of the door. I should have been thankful I could still open it, but I wasn’t. I bent to pick up the phone he’d dropped. My phone. He’d shattered her screen, but she still came on.
By the time I turned back, he was just going inside the building. “You’re buying me a new phone!”
*
Having had about enough of men and their appalling sense of entitlement, I decided to pay a visit to another male who was on my shit list: Mr. Abraham Foster. I found his office despite my phone’s shattered screen. She’d had worse. I could barely think of the tequila incident without cringing.
A bell rang out when I walked in, and I was greeted by a receptionist who’d clearly been hoping for a few moments’ respite before being bombarded with customers. I felt her pain.
She put down her coffee cup, forced a silicone smile, and said, “Hello, how can I help you?”
I walked up to the tall desk. “Hi. Yeah, I need insurance?”
She replaced her smile with one more genuine. “You don’t sound very convinced.”