Addicted(5)

No big deal. It won’t be the first time.

Pulling my composure around me like a cloak, I head for the front door, looking neither left nor right. I keep waiting for Ethan to appear like a specter, to pop out from around every corner that I come to. He never does. I tell myself I’m relieved—and I am—but I’m also hurt. Also angry. Do I really mean so little to him?

It’s a ridiculous thought, considering I told him to leave me alone. But then, this is a ridiculous situation. Ridiculous and terrible and horrifying all rolled into one.

I plow through the house—a woman on a mission—and don’t stop until I get to the front door. I only pause then because I need a moment to compose myself. The doorbell stopped ringing a few minutes ago, which means one of two things. Ethan has invited Brandon in or he’s gone outside to talk to him. If it’s the latter, if they are both out there, then it’s going to be a long trip to my car. One where I refuse to so much as flinch.




Praying I’m wrong, praying Ethan has his brother out on the terrace or in his office or in the living room—anywhere but on the driveway where I need to be—I pull the door open. And feel my heart sink as I see the two of them squared off, fists clenched and faces angry, next to a red convertible I can only assume is Brandon’s.

Shit.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not like any other part of the last twelve hours has been easy. Why should this one be?

Head up, shoulders back, I ignore them as I march straight toward my car. I can feel Ethan’s eyes on me, can feel the concern and the worry radiating from him. For a moment, it threatens to melt my resolve, but then I remember that he could have told me this last night. He could have spared me—could have spared the both of us—from this.

My anger roars back to life.

I yank open my car door. Climb in. Put the key in the ignition. And then curse like a sailor inside my head when the car refuses to start.

Not now, damn it. Not now. Please. Any other time. In rush hour traffic. After a long day at work. In the morning when I’m running late for work. Any time other than right here, right now.

The car gods obviously don’t hear my plea, though—of course, they don’t—because the damn thing won’t turn over. I try a third time, a fourth time, but nothing happens.

By the fifth time I crank the starter, Ethan is opening the door. He doesn’t crowd me, doesn’t press against me in any way, but his presence is enough to make me feel hunted.

“Let me give you a ride home, Chloe.”

“I don’t need a ride home.” I try the ignition again. Nothing but the sick buzzing sound of a starter gone bad.

“Please, baby.” He still isn’t touching me, but he might as well be. Though I will it not to, my entire body responds to the dark hoarseness of his voice—which only upsets me more. My hands start to tremble despite my best intentions.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, grabbing my purse off the seat and ducking past him as I climb out of the car. It’s less than two miles to the condo I share with my best friend, Tori. I can be home in twenty minutes if I walk fast.

“Wow, times certainly have changed,” Brandon comments from where he’s lounging indolently against the side of his car. “It used to be a lot easier to talk her into a car. Then again, maybe you’re not the brother she wants.”

The words slam into me like bullets. My stomach revolts and for a second—just a second—the control I’ve wrapped around myself like a shield threatens to shatter.

Ethan whirls around, his hand clamping on to Brandon’s throat and squeezing until the younger man’s eyes practically bug out of his head and his air supply is obviously cut off.

“Since you weren’t listening the first time, I’m going to tell you this one more time,” Ethan growls, refusing to relinquish his hold even as Brandon’s fingers tug desperately at his hands. “You don’t look at her, you don’t talk to her, you don’t get near her. In fact—”

I don’t wait around to hear the rest, or to see what happens next. Instead, I take advantage of Ethan’s distraction to duck around him and start marching down the driveway.

I don’t even make it to the gate that borders the street before he’s beside me. “Chloe, baby, you’re barefoot. You can’t go home like that.”

I keep walking, refusing to even look at him. The driveway is hot beneath my bare feet and I know it won’t be long before I start to feel the burn. But I don’t care. The pain of hot cement is nothing compared to the emotions raging inside of me. In fact, I welcome the distraction of it. Welcome the way it gives me something to focus on besides the rage and sorrow and crushing betrayal.