Addicted (Ethan Frost #2)(54)

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Fuck.” He closes his eyes, rubs a tired hand over them, and I realize that outside of the night he tried to dump me, this is the most I’ve ever heard Ethan swear at one time. At least when he’s talking to me.

It’s a random thought, but right now my whole head seems to be filled with random thoughts. Small puzzle pieces whirling around in my mind without pattern, without reason, while I try to figure out how they fit together.

It seems my whole life these days is one big, unsolvable puzzle. I hate it.

“I didn’t tell you because I figured you had enough to deal with right now without adding more shit about Brandon to the mix.”

“That wasn’t your responsibility. It wasn’t your decision to make.”

“Protecting you is always my responsibility.” He says it flatly, like it’s a foregone conclusion. Not up for discussion. “Just like choosing to take care of you will always be my decision.”

“This isn’t taking care of me.”

He blanches, stumbles back. Looks more vulnerable than I have ever seen him. The knowledge puts a crack in the ice around my heart, starts to melt it just a little even when I want it to stay intact. To keep me safe.

“Please don’t say that,” he whispers.

But how can I not say it when things are so f*cked up? “I saw the news report, Ethan. I was in the cafeteria, surrounded by hundreds of people, when I saw the damn news report. How is that taking care of me?”

For the first time, he looks confused. And angry. “What news report?”

“Don’t play stupid with me! You had to know.”

“That him making Democratic candidate for the seventh district would make local Boston news, absolutely. But national news? Already? I’ve called in every favor I have—the story shouldn’t have gone anywhere. It shouldn’t have gained any traction.”

“Because you didn’t want me to see it?”

“Because I didn’t want anybody to see it! It’s a key race in a key city and the more exposure he gets, the better his chances of winning. I wanted to cut that off at the knees. I did cut it off at the knees.” He reaches inside his pants pocket, pulls out his cell phone. “What station did the story run on?”

“MSNBC is where I saw it.”

“Fuck.” He shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it. “Chloe, baby, I’m so sorry. You never should have seen that. It never should have happened—”

“Of course it was going to happen. You’re news, he’s news. Together you’re bigger news. Why wouldn’t they run the story?”

“Because I told them not to.” He starts dialing God only knows who. “Give me a minute, baby. Let me get to the bottom of this, sweetheart—”

“Do you really think that’s what matters to me? Do you really think I give a f*ck who leaked the story after you tried to shut it down? The fact that you tried to shut it down is enough for me to want to walk out the front door and never come back.”

“Hello? Ethan?” We’re close enough that I can hear the voice of his press secretary quite clearly through the phone.

“Sorry, Anthony. I’ll call you back.” He cuts the call off. “Explain,” he says to me.

“There’s nothing to explain—”

“There’s everything to explain. I told you why I didn’t tell you. I was trying to protect you—”

“You were trying to protect yourself!”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw you, Ethan. I saw you at that fund-raiser. Hell, you threw the damn thing for him, to help raise money for his campaign. You were laughing and joking with him. And you were proud, so proud. I know that look on your face. I’ve seen it dozens of times. Forget about killing the story! How could you raise money for that bastard? How could you stand next to him and celebrate his victory and then come back here and climb into bed with me?”

My skin crawls as I lay my questions out for him, as I let him see the whole picture, the whole horror, of what I’ve been carrying around since lunchtime.

For long seconds, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t do anything but stare at me with his jaw moving frantically. It’s the most discombobulated I’ve ever seen him and if I wasn’t going out of my mind with grief and pain and betrayal, I might actually appreciate the fact that I’ve caught him off guard, especially considering how rare such a reaction is from the great Ethan Frost.

“The last fund-raiser I hosted for my brother was in May, before I met you. Long before I knew what kind of man he was. What he was capable of.”

“I saw you. I saw the footage with your mother and your brother. I saw it—”

“It was from May!” he tells me again, more forcefully. “Or maybe even before that. I don’t know, I didn’t see the story. But there has been no fund-raiser since I found out. There’s been nothing. I swear.”

His words echo in the fragrant air around us. They wrap themselves around me, burrow deep inside me. I believe him. I don’t think anyone looking at him now, face stoic, eyes wide and angry and alarmed, could doubt the veracity of his words.

I know I don’t. They make sense—so much more sense than the idea that he ran off and did this during the two weeks we were apart.