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Foster enters, his face beet red. He holds a handkerchief to his mouth and lets out a loud series of coughs as he shuts the door.
“You didn’t need to save me,” I state.
“Fuck William Jackson. The deal is dead.”
“You canceled the deal because of me?”
Foster sat on the gray couch against the wall, wiping his mouth with the handkerchief. His breathing was once again raspy, and he clears his throat several times.
“Not because of you, because of him. I won’t allow you to be disrespected.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you. You’ve taken care of me, and I want to take care of you.”
Using the arms of the chair, I stand, moving to sit next to Foster, I touch his forehead, confirming what I thought—he was burning up.
“We need to get you home.”
“I should’ve listened to you.”
I smirk. “Yes, you should’ve.”
“I already texted Peters. He’s waiting out front.”
