Addicted (Ethan Frost #2)(8)

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“You want another?” Tori asks, as she pours two more shots and downs them in quick succession.

“Sure. Why not?” It’s not like I have anywhere else to be today, anything else to do. Ethan talked me into calling in sick to work this morning so we could—

My stomach drops all over again as I realize just how difficult this whole situation has suddenly become. I never want to see Ethan again, never want to look into his blue eyes and see Brandon’s staring back at me. But I have an internship at Frost Industries, one that I busted my ass for the last three years to get. One that I was counting on to help get me into a top law school when I graduate next year.

And now, now I can’t imagine going back there. Can’t imagine facing Ethan ever again. Not with the destruction and devastation that stretch between us. Collateral damage that I never could have anticipated.

But what’s the alternative? Going home to my family with my tail tucked between my legs? Letting my father spend some of his blood money—or more specifically, my blood, his money—to get me into law school? Just the thought makes me sick all over again.

“Is my drink ready?” I ask, desperate for something else to focus on besides how badly I’ve screwed up. It’s ridiculous, really. I’m a planner and always have been. I make a point of thinking out everything, of imagining every possible outcome and contingency plan before I do anything. With Brandon five years ago, I didn’t think, didn’t plan, and we all saw where that got me. Raped, brutalized, bullied. How ironic is it that the first time in five years that I throw caution to the wind, and I end up with Brandon’s brother. Right back where I started. The rape counselor I saw my first year at UCSD would be so unimpressed.

Oh, Ethan would never hurt me physically. I know that for certain—he’s never been anything but exceptionally gentle with me. But this, what I’m feeling now, is so much worse than any blow he could have given me. The fact that he knew, last night … That he made love to me knowing all along about what had happened between Brandon and me …

The tequila threatens to come back up.

And though there’s a part of me that knows it isn’t fair to hold this against him—he did try to break up with me when I showed up last night—there’s another part that doesn’t give a damn. Because he didn’t break up with me. And he didn’t tell me the truth. Instead he f*cked me until I couldn’t stand up, f*cked me nearly into oblivion. He told me that he loved me, let me tell him that I loved him. And all along he knew. He f*cking knew.

My thoughts must be written all over my face, because Tori rushes over and shoves a glass back into my hand. “Drink up,” she orders, slamming back her own shot. I follow suit, then watch as she pours two more shots from the Patron bottle she’s brought over from the bar.

“Sit,” she tells me, gesturing to the nearest sofa.

I do, because my knees are feeling a little unsteady. Three shots of tequila in five minutes—on an empty stomach, no less—is not something I’m used to.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell her as I all but collapse on the couch.

She settles down next to me with a snort. “Some things don’t need talking about. Especially not the fact that men are *s. They just are—it’s an immutable fact. Like it’s written in their f*cking DNA or something.”

She clinks her glass with mine and gestures for me to drink up.

So I do. Again and again and again, until my head is spinning and my stomach is roiling and the pain … the pain is still there, but it’s cushioned by the fuzziness that comes with having way too much to drink.

“Have another one,” Tori tells me, filling my glass yet again.

I moan a little from where I’m lying facedown on the couch cushions. “I don’t think so.”

“Come on,” she says. “We’re just getting started!”

Warning bells go off deep inside me, not for the first time when it comes to Tori and drinking. After all, she’s had just as many shots as I have and she barely looks drunk while I’m slurring my words and can’t even lift my head off the sofa. I mean, she’s been a heavy drinker for as long as I’ve known her, but this … this is something else. Something more, and I’m pretty sure it’s not a good thing.

“No more,” I tell her again, taking great pains to enunciate my words. It doesn’t work.

“Party pooper.” She takes another shot. I don’t know how many that is—I lost track of my own shots somewhere around number five. And that was a while ago …

My phone rings from its spot on the coffee table. I don’t have the energy—or the fine motor control—to pick it up at this point, so Tori does the honors. She scowls at the name on the display, then tilts it toward me so that I can see. My eyes are nearly crossing from the tequila, but I squint enough to make out the fact that my caller ID reads Ethan Frost.

“No,” I tell her, burying my face back in the couch. I can’t talk to him, not now. Not when I don’t know what I want to say … or what I want to hear. All I do know is that if I so much as hear his voice, the pain will come rushing back, and this time no amount of alcohol in the world will be able to dampen it.

She nods, sends the call directly to voicemail.

Seconds later, he calls back.