Page 12 of Watcher
A slight ache in his cheeks made Foster realize how big he smiled. He didn’t stop. “I don’t know. It seems Tracker is here. I’m sure you’ll want to catch up.”
Crisp still smiled, but it dimmed a hair. “Of course.” He reached over and brushed his hand down Foster’s forearm, as if petting him. “You have no idea how happy it makes me to see your smile. Of course, I’m the only one you do that for.”
Foster snorted even though his statement was partially true. “When did you get so full of yourself?”
Crisp chuckled.
Foster turned sideways on his lounge and set his feet on the ground between their chairs. “Really, though. I’ve missed you. As much as I know you’re better off here, I’m not used to going so long without seeing you.”
Crisp held his gaze as if he took the conversation seriously. “You could always move here too. There’s nothing keeping you in Cali. Everyone visits several times a year: together and apart. I’mpretty confident the team is fully retired now with no scout or cleanup crew. You can just stay.”
Foster couldn’t say he hadn’t considered doing exactly that. For whatever reason, a hole opened inside him each time he thought about leaving everyone behind. He forced himself to smile again, but Foster couldn’t bring himself to brush Crisp’s suggestion aside. Instead, he shot to his feet, tossed Crisp over his shoulder, and bolted for the pool. He jumped in still holding on while Crisp’s laughter filled the air. He tried to come up laughing. Instead, Crisp pushed his head back under again. A dunking war started and went on until they were exhausted. Tired-sounding chuckles were all they had left as they climbed from the pool.
Foster feigned seriousness. “Now, next time you’ll know better than to mess with me.”
Crisp gave a playful, aggravated growl. “I never. You messed with me first when you dragged me into the pool.”
“You mean like this.” He grabbed Crisp and tossed him back in the water. The moment Crisp left his arms, Foster ran at full speed toward the house. He practically leaped inside. He heard Crisp on his heels. Crisp had popped back out of that pool like a cannon. Foster barely breathed because he couldn’t stop laughing while he tried shutting the door on Crisp. He loudly ugly-guffawed.
“Damn. You were right to leave. I could never make you laugh like that.”
Foster released the door and turned so fast, he nearly fell from his vision swimming. In a heap on the couch, Atticus relaxed against some pillows, looking like shit. There were dark circles under his eyes. He was dressed in workout shorts and a baggy t-shirt, and his lips were cracked from being incredibly dry. Foster might have wondered if he had just run headlong into his worst nightmare. Unfortunately, his initial burst of happiness said otherwise.
Chapter Seven
AtticushadknownFosterwas gorgeous. That was why he had pursued him. But Foster took his breath away when he laughed. His too-serious demeanor screamed he didn’t do that often. That was a travesty. One Atticus could never fix. He shouldn’t have let Tracker bring him here to rest.
The glass back door that led to the pool opened while Foster stared at him in a way Atticus didn’t understand. A small blond dude climbed him from behind like a tree while cursing and breathlessly laughing. Foster had blocked Atticus’ view until the mischievous creature made it to Foster’s shoulders.
“You know you can’t escape punishment.” He froze when he realized Foster stood like a statue, silent. Crisp’s gaze followed Foster’s. His smile fell.
Wow. Tracker definitely shouldn’t have demanded this from him. He felt like he was in enemy territory. Atticus supposed he had always been with this family. These men killed people like him. He had let them get under his skin. Well, he had let Tracker beneath his skin, and the rest had followed. No matter the order in which it happened, he hadn’t expected Foster’s or Crisp’s open hatred. He should have stayed away.
Crisp dropped his feet and released Foster. “I’ll let you deal with this.” He went back out the same door he had run through.
Foster still didn’t budge or say a word. They simply stared at each other. Atticus was too tired to think straight, much less to dole out any banter. Thankfully, Foster broke first. “You look like hell.”
Atticus would snort if he felt better. “Being poisoned will do that to a person.”
Foster’s brows snapped together. He moved closer, obviously forgetting he dripped water everywhere. “Poisoned? What the hell? What happened?”
A shiver ran through Atticus. Coldness sank into his bones. He felt like absolute shit. “Either Seth finally got sick of my shit and his easy, high-paying job, or my uncle paid off someone at the coffee shop. Either way, poisoned.” A chuckle that sounded weak even to his ears fell from his lips. “If so, I guess he finally realized he couldn’t beat me head on.”
Foster held up one finger and walked back outside. As much as Atticus wanted to watch that ass, in wet shorts that shaped him completely, he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Tracker said he would find Atticus a room on the main floor and come back for him. Atticus just wanted to sleep, and he didn’t care where. Despite the whole Foster issue, he was grateful for this reprieve. He was very much down for the count. It was a weakness his uncle would definitely exploit. He wouldn’t dare as long as Atticus was in the care of the Agafonov brothers.
With his eyes closed, he didn’t see the move coming. Atticus nearly jumped out of his skin as he was suddenly lifted from the couch. The moment he realized Foster was the one who held him, he settled. Plus, being startled zapped the last wisps of his energy.
As much as Atticus hated it, when he spoke, his voice sounded like barely a whisper. “You’re dry.”
A low chuckle rumbled from Foster. “They have these things called towels.”
Foster headed up the stairs like Atticus didn’t weigh a single pound. He wasn’t winded or struggling in any way. “That’s hot.”
“Towels?”
Atticus tried to shrug. “I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore.” His voice was slurred. Atticus didn’t give two shits if he looked weak and pathetic. Three days ago, he had been inches from death. Zeus, Rain, and Shadow had taken turns keepingwatch over him. The moment the hospital gave the go-ahead, Tracker and Zeus whisked him away. He was just a lifeless doll now, and so very, very fatigued. No one could possibly know what it was like to spend their entire life dodging this nightmare his dad had created for him. He had never gotten to be a kid or have anything akin to normalcy. Sure, he was extraordinary. He had to be, but this had never been what he wanted. Every day, he woke up with the knowledge he would never be at peace. Foster’s arms felt pretty damn close to serenity.
Atticus assumed he passed out. The next time he woke, it was nighttime. He eyed the unfamiliar room in confusion. His prescriptions and a stainless steel cup sat on the bedside table. He prayed the cup had water in it. Atticus hadn’t stopped feeling dangerously dehydrated in days. He nearly sighed as ice-cold water filled his mouth. Atticus almost completely drained the cup before falling back into a heap.
