Addicted(4)

I turn and walk toward the bathroom with jerky, uncoordinated steps. I keep expecting him to stop me, keep expecting to feel his hand on my shoulder or his arm around my waist. But he doesn’t follow me, doesn’t so much as move a muscle in my direction. Hell, I’m not sure he could, even if he wanted to. He looks as frozen as I feel, like he isn’t even breathing.

I know I’m not. Not properly. Not the way I should be.

But it’s hard to take a breath when you feel the weight of your whole life—past, present, future—pressing on your chest, slowly crushing down on you.

It’s even harder to breathe when you realize that nothing is as it seems—and that it may never be again.





Chapter Two


The bathroom door closes behind me and I sag against it, its support the only thing keeping me upright at the moment.

There’s a part of me that wants to scream. To cry and rage and throw things. To shatter everything in this too big, too luxurious bathroom until it looks as broken as I feel.

But there’s another part of me that just wants out of here. Away from Ethan. Away from the lies and the confusion and the pain. Away from Brandon and the new carnage he’s brought into my life.

Tears roll slowly down my face and I dash them away impatiently. I’m not going to cry. Not here, not now, when Brandon is still lurking around. He broke me once. I’ll be damned if I give him the satisfaction of cracking me open all over again. I won’t be Humpty Dumpty, not for him. Not for anyone. Not after how far I’ve already come.

For long seconds, I concentrate on my too-erratic breathing. On forcing oxygen into my too-tight lungs. It isn’t easy, and more than once I have to fight back a sob, but eventually I can take a deep breath. Eventually, I have my emotions under control. Or at least a semblance of them.

Dropping my robe on the cold tile, I dress quickly, not bothering to look in the mirror. I tell myself it’s because right now my appearance is the last thing on my mind, but the truth is so much more complicated than that. And so much more basic.

I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I look in that goddamned mirror. Afraid that between last night and this morning, the new fractures will be all too evident. And I can’t have that, sure as hell can’t see it. Not if I’m going to walk out of this bathroom, down the stairs and out to my car. Not if I’m going to hold my head up and look right past Ethan, right through Brandon.

And that is what I’m going to do. What I have to do.

I walk to the sink, pull my hair into a ponytail using a hairband I’d left in Ethan’s drawer one of the nights I slept over. I use the toothbrush he gave me to brush my teeth, then splash cold water on my face—all still without looking in the mirror.

Then, squaring my shoulders, I reach into my pocket for my car keys. And end up with a handful of the platinum and diamond belly chain Ethan bought me after the first time we made love.

It’s the same belly chain I’d ripped off myself in the middle of our fight last night and it’s the same belly chain that threatens to shatter my resolve even as I struggle to cement it.

I won’t let it.

Not wanting yet another confrontation with Ethan—and I know there will be one if I try to give this back to him right now—I decide to leave it on the bathroom counter. Except it’s so much harder to relinquish than I thought it would be.

Maybe because in leaving it here, I’m letting go of so much more than a chain from Tiffany’s.

But I won’t think about that now, won’t think about anything but what I need to do to get out of here. Step by step by step.

Gritting my teeth, I force my fist to relax and watch as the jewelry slips through my fingers and lands in an elegant pile on the marble countertop. My stomach lurches sickly at the sight, and I turn away before I change my mind. Before I do something stupid. Something unforgivable.

Squaring my shoulders, I open the bathroom door, as prepared as I’m ever going to be for what I’m determined will be my last confrontation with Ethan Frost.

But he isn’t there to confront. The bedroom is as empty as I feel, only the rumpled covers of the bed—and the ache between my thighs—to remind me of how much better things were even an hour ago.

I’m not thinking about that, though. I’m not thinking about anything beyond getting out of here in one piece. I spend a minute looking for my shoes, but they’re nowhere to be found. I try to remember where I lost them last night—the foyer, the kitchen, somewhere in between—but I can’t remember. And since I have no interest in looking for them, I guess I’ll be driving home barefoot.