I had a two day rule with Foster. I knew what it meant to push at him when he was in a mood. If I did it too early, it would make things worse. So I gave him space. And time. Two days. That was the rule. After two days, it was time to track his ass down and figure out what was bothering him.

All I could think about was myself getting sick in front of him. But he had acted so romantic about it. Even though I didn’t need to spend the day in bed that day, I did. Since then, I’ve felt fine. The stupid text message that Molly sent, teasing me, I deleted and wiped the thought from my head.

The only forever I would have with Foster was the forever lingering tension between us, waiting for someone to take the final risk.

So that’s what I did.

I was tired of texting Foster. Tired of the two second conversations on the phone.

I stood outside the door of his apartment and knocked. I grabbed the doorknob and tried to twist it but the door was locked.

I growled.

“Foster,” I said and knocked again.

When I put my ear to the door I heard music. His music. It was muffled by the thick wood.

Then I heard him approach the door.

I backed up a step and waited for it to open.

When it did, he stood there looking like hell. Like he hadn’t slept in a couple days. Like he hadn’t showered, changed, anything.

“Foster,” I said. “What’s going on here?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Just organizing some stuff. For Carl. I have a big writing session coming up.”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said.

He didn’t seem too happy about the idea though. He reluctantly stepped back. As I entered the apartment I looked around. Like some nosy woman trying to find evidence of… what? Booze? Drugs? Women?

The place was messy, yeah, but that was typical Foster. There were four guitars scattered throughout the apartment. A keyboard leaning against the kitchen table. Notebooks, papers, and pens littered all around.

“You’re really writing, huh?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I stopped at the table and put my fingertips to a page full of lyrics and scribbles and lots of black marks from him scratching out words he didn’t like.

“Foster, what happened?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t do this,” I said. “Please. You’re… you’re in a mood.”

“So what?”

“I care.”

“I appreciate that,” he said.

“You appreciate that… what does that mean?”

Foster curled his lip. “I’m doing the right thing, Rose. I’m keeping my distance when things aren’t making sense.”

“That’s smart?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me,” I said. “Right. Why would you hurt me?”

“That’s what I do. I get mad and…”

“Why are you mad, Foster?”

I took my hand from the table and walked to him. I caught hold of his hand.

He shook his head.

“Foster. I’m not playing this game anymore. We’re not… we have to risk everything. If we don’t…”

Foster turned his hand so he was holding mine. He brought it up to his mouth and kissed it.

“I fucking love you, Rose,” he whispered. “But it’s all so fucked up. The way our worlds are twisted together.”

“Talk to me.”

“I don’t feel like fucking talking right now, Rose,” Foster said.

So what do you feel like doing?

Those words were on the tip of my tongue when he grabbed me and kissed me. He pushed at my hips, throwing me against the table. Papers started to scatter. I looked back and gasped, not wanting to mess up whatever type of organized system he had going.

A second later, he reached beyond me and swiped his hand, sending papers flying. His hands connected with my hips again and pulled me towards him as he drove himself forward. Our bodies colliding so hard, I lost my breath for a second.

“Fuck,” I whispered.

“I don’t want to fucking talk,” he said again. “I want you to sing for me.”

“Me? Sing? Foster… you know I can’t…”

His lips flirted with mine. His hands had moved stealthily, my pants were open, his left hand was around at the small of my back, his fingertips slid back and down into my panties, going for my ass. With his other hand, his fingertips trailed around to my front, kept going, then moved to my side where he aggressively held and started to strip me.

He kissed my neck and pulled away. “You’re going to fucking sing for me, Rose.”

“Foster,” I said, already half breathless.

My pants and panties were now down to my knees. I quickly started to dance, kicking my shoes off, kicking my clothes off.

His fingers moved up my bare leg and started to cut between my legs, tickling my inner thigh, but I was shivering for a different reason. The look in Foster’s eyes was something I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen before. I tried to ease my hand between his legs, catching a quick feel of his thickness, but he hurried to knock my hand out of the way.

“No, Rose,” he growled, his lips and teeth playing with the soft skin of my neck. “This is for you. You're going to sing to me with your pleasure. Every moan, groan, every time my fingers fuck your sweet body… I want to hear you.”

I opened my mouth to gasp and Foster was right there to kiss me. Stealing my gasp, my breath, stealing seconds of my life that I would give anything to turn back time and give them again. That’s how much I loved him. That’s how much I wanted him. That’s how much I needed him.

His fingers touched between my legs and he offered one warning curl, a soft touch against my wetness, and that was it. His fingers came down and he plunged inside me.

I gasped and jumped back, hitting the table.

Foster came with me. He pushed me back on the kitchen table a little bit and used his other hand to open my legs even more. He kissed me, such sloppy and wild kisses, as his fingers thrust inside me again. Deep and twisting, grunting as he did so. The pressure made me feel like my body was going to explode. With my left hand, I clutched tight to his wrist, shaking, my body demanding that I pull him away, but my wildest depths demanding more.

Harder. Faster. Fucking… as hard as you can give me, Foster.

I had no idea what was wrong with me. The thoughts spinning through my mind made me feel dizzy.

Our lips touched but we had stopped kissing. Slowly, Foster looked down. He was taking my hand for a ride as I hadn't let go of his wrist, and he hadn’t let up on devouring me with his touch. I realized he was using his left hand. The same hand that moved up and down the neck of his guitar when he played music. In some strange romantic and dirty way, I was his instrument now.

And he wanted me to sing…

His fingers pulled back and slammed forward again. I jumped and groaned, putting my head back, needing something like cool, fresh air.

Foster repeated the same move over and over, grunting each time his fingers hit new depths. I groaned the same sound, the only sound my body could make at that moment.

“Louder,” Foster commanded me.

He quickly moved his fingers. The speed, the pressure, all mounting between my legs. I felt my body bouncing and bucking against the table. The sound of my wetness and his fingers colliding began to fill the air.

I took my hand from his wrist and gripped the edge of the table with both hands. I lifted my body, offering myself even more.

I started to groan wildly, purring, hissing, growling, his movements bringing me closer and closer to climax.

When I brought my head forward, he stared right at me. Smoldering eyes leaving me breathless and in silence as my jaw quivered. I reached my peak a few seconds later but Foster wasn’t slowing down at all. He just kept going… and going… and going…

“Foster,” I managed to whisper at one point. “F…”

He kissed me.

His other hand moved to my back and next thing I knew, he was taking me off the table. Holding me tightly to his body, his fingers still inside my core. My hips wiggled, wanting relief, wanting more.

Foster put me on my feet and gently slid his fingers out of me. Leaving a wet trail down my inner thigh, a reminder of my own pleasure. I didn’t need the reminder… my heart raced. My head was dizzy. My depths ached for more.

Without saying a word, he inched down to one knee before me. His hands touching my hips. He came forward and kissed my bare skin. Making me shiver again, I waited for more… but it never came. Instead, Foster reached down and lifted my panties. I reached back for the table and stood there, watching as he redressed me.

When he stood back up, he touched my face. “Rose…”

“Foster,” I whispered.

“Your father told me what he did,” Foster said. “Giving my father money.”

My heart sank. “Oh. Yeah. He was only trying to help.”

“He didn’t help.”

“I know. I’m sor-”

“I’m tired of sorry,” Foster said. “I’ve been here writing music for two days. Trying to find the words that explain what happened after that.”

“After what?” I asked.

“After what your father did. My father went to jail. And I went to hell.”

“Hell?”

He took my left hand and placed it over his heart. “The only reason it beats is because of you. But it’s shattered. It’s too late, Rose.”

“Too late… for what?”

Before Foster could answer me, his cell phone began to ring. He walked away and I felt uneasy. Actually, I felt sick. Again. So sick, so suddenly that I ran to the kitchen sink and leaned over it, wishing I wasn’t going to throw up. Because if I did… again… like this… it meant Molly was right.

I swallowed the thought and managed to get my stomach to settle for a quick second.

I turned and saw Foster fumbling for his black boots and swiping beer bottles and paper off the counter, cursing about not being able to find his keys.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

He froze and looked at me. “I fucked up.”

“What do you mean?”

“I skipped a lesson with Rhett and never called him.”

“So?”

“He’s at the police station… he needs me to bail him out.”

* * *

I looked over at Foster a few times, but held back my words. I bit at my thumb nail. Remember that? The thumb nail that annoyed Foster so much? Well, I couldn’t help myself. It was my thing to do. I was scared. Not because of Foster and Rhett. I didn’t fully understand the situation with Rhett, but if I had to guess, it was Foster’s attempt at fixing his past, which couldn’t be done.

I was scared because of the way I felt. The way I spent each day looking at the calendar in my phone, not for meetings, but for when the last time I…

Shutting my eyes, I knew the exact day. I knew how many weeks it had been since I last got…

“You don’t need to be here for this,” Foster said.

“Yes, I do,” I said.

“This is my fault. I missed a lesson.”

“It’s just a lesson.”

“No, it’s not,” Foster said. He voice sounded blank. “You don’t get it, Rose. You grew up differently. So differently. A good little life in that house.”

He turned into the parking lot of the police station.

I debated on what I should do. A version of me would have let everything go. Just realize that Foster was upset, tired, maybe even depressed a little. I didn’t quite understand what he meant before about going to hell. But my father didn’t mean to do anything wrong. And Foster’s father was the biggest piece of garbage walking. But to say that I had a good little life…

I grabbed his arm as he turned off the truck.

“Rose, we have to get in there.”

“No,” I said. “You asshole.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Fuck you, Foster.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Rose…”

“My life was not little and good. Okay? My mother died when I was nine years old. Okay? Nine. And Viv was ten. She was so close to that age where she would need a mother and she wouldn’t have one.”

“Oh, Rose, I didn’t…”

“Yeah, you didn’t. My mother woke up on a Saturday morning to go grocery shopping. That’s what she always did. Sometimes I went with her. Sometimes Viv went with her. Sometimes it was nice to sleep in a little. She always let Dad sleep in on Saturdays. She came into my room that morning and I asked if I could go with her. She sat on my bed and told me to rest up. That she was going for a few things. I asked her if she could get cinnamon rolls. The ones in the can, right? It was a little treat for us. She said she’d get them. So I went back to sleep, thinking about that. Thinking about the smell of the cinnamon rolls. And the little container of icing. Watching it melt on the cinnamon rolls. Sneaking my finger into the container for the last little bit of it. It was all I could think about. Until I woke up to the sounds of my father screaming. Screaming, Foster. Screaming in a way I’d never heard him before and have never heard again. Screaming in a way that I can still hear when I shut my eyes.”

“Rose…” Foster took my hand. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to say it like that. We’ve lived tragic lives on two different paths. And nobody’s life is sadder than the other. I’m sorry.”

I ignored his apology. “She left and she never came back. I couldn’t look at her when she was… you know. Viv did. Of course Dad did. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to. I regret it. But in a way, I’d rather remember seeing her sitting on my bed, talking to me.”

“And you should,” Foster said. “Lock that moment in your heart forever, Rose. I never meant to suggest…”

I rubbed my stomach. The excitement, the memory, the anxiety, it had me feeling fluttery and sick again. I had talked about my mother a few times to Foster. He knew the story. I was pretty sure my father told him what happened. I didn’t talk all that much about it because I didn’t remember everything. Just what I said to Foster now. So my life wasn’t cushy. My life wasn’t perfect. Like Foster, I grew up without a mother. Yes, I had my father. He worked hard. He came home every night. He cooked dinner. At least, he tried to. But there were days, months, and years when he was just a robot. So… I. Understood.

“Are you still not feeling good?” Foster asked as I clutched my stomach and groaned.

“Comes and goes,” I whispered, wondering if he was going to add up the pieces of the puzzle on his own.

“You should go see a doctor,” he said.

I looked at him and curled my lip. I loved him, but sometimes he was an idiot.

See a doctor? How about I start with a pregnancy test?