He probably needed a break, not another stress test, but he couldn’t rest while Maria was in danger. He’d go after her under any circumstances. With a bruised ego, a bum leg, and a broken heart. Because that was who he was.
When he stumbled, he always got back up.
“It’s not unusual for young agents to struggle at the beginning of their career,” LaGuardia said. “You were at the top of your class at the academy. Your fitness level and IQ scores are impressive. I don’t doubt your drive or your intelligence, but I’m looking for a team player. Prove that you can follow orders and stay out of trouble and I’ll consider you for a long-term position.”
“Thank you,” Ian said curtly. “I appreciate it.”
LaGuardia grunted in response. “You’re dismissed.”
Ian left the office without further ado. He picked up the camera equipment and a plane ticket to Mexico City on his way out. Then he bought some clothes and supplies before returning to the dive hotel he’d checked in at.
It was a far cry from the clean, comfortable room he’d shared with Maria. The soft bed where he’d kissed her, touched her.
Asked to marry her.
Jesus.
He raked a hand through his hair, flushing. He didn’t know why he’d done that. Maybe he had a savior complex. Or maybe he’d just had a raging hard-on and the misguided impression that offering her a ring was the only way to fuck her.
Tossing aside his canvas rucksack, he strode into the bathroom. After a long shower and a quick stroke, he left the stall, wrapping a towel around his waist. Then he wiped the steam from the mirror and took a good, hard look at himself.
He needed to gain a few pounds. His eyes were guarded and his cheekbones stood out in harsh relief. So did his ribs. He was all lean muscle and sharp edges. No softness, no give. No extra padding. He’d played the role of a junkie as if he’d been born to it.
And he had been.
He took out a pair of clippers and leaned over the trash can for a quick haircut. The shaggy, unkempt layers fell away like deadweight. He straightened, brushing the excess off his neck. Then he used the hotel’s soap to lather the heavy stubble on his jaw. He shaved the way he always did, with reckless swiftness. After his cheeks were smooth, he moved the blade over the precarious landscapes of his chin and Adam’s apple. He paused at his upper lip, hand still.
He didn’t want to look like a drug addict anymore. He also didn’t want to look like Ian Foster: dirt-poor white trash, desperate to escape his upbringing. So he set down the razor and rinsed his face, leaving his mustache intact. It was only a few days’ growth. He didn’t resemble a seventies’ porn star or a Wild West gunslinger, but he wasn’t quite himself, either.
He was Ian Phillips, hipster photographer. National Geographic photographer. World-class. Front page, motherfucker.
He laughed at his reflection, pleased with the easy transformation. In less than ten minutes, he’d changed his appearance considerably. He looked sort of academic, artistic. The mustache suited his face better than a scruffy goatee.
And Mexican women like mustaches. Don’t they?
Love stories you’ll never forget
By authors you’ll always remember
eOriginal Romance from Random House
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Against the Wall Page 28