Addicted

by Tracy Wolff

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.

  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.

  I’m close to breaking and I don’t want to do that here. Don’t want to do that now. Not when I’m so angry at Ethan. And not when Brandon is at the top of the driveway, watching me like the predator he is. I can feel his eyes on me, his malicious delight staining the air around me a dark and heavy gray. It’s hard to breathe through it, hard to think through it, but I’m determined.

  “Just wait here,” Ethan says desperately, and I’ve never seen him like this. So shaky, so distressed, so obviously not in control. “You don’t have to go back up and face him. Just stay here and I’ll bring the car—”

  His hand closes on my arm again and this time I reach out with my other hand and shove him as hard as I can.

  It doesn’t budge him, doesn’t make him stumble back as I’d been hoping it would. But it does freeze him in his tracks, his eyes wide and tortured and blue. So fucking blue that it takes every inch of spine that I have not to tumble straight into them.

  He lets go instantly, his hand dropping from my arm liked I’d burned him. I don’t feel any remorse. How can I when he’s torn me open, my whole being one raw, seething wound that makes it impossible to breathe without bleeding.

  “I won�
�t hurt you, Chloe,” he tells me, voice soft and hands raised in a soothing gesture.

  He already has. But I’ve never been one to point out the obvious, so I just turn and start walking again. This time, he lets me go.

  Relief sweeps through me as I make it to the end of the driveway. The ocean is stretched out in front of me, blue and wild and infinite. A storm is brewing and waves are tossing against the shore, slamming into early morning surfers and slapping them hard into the water. One by one they stand. One by one they get swamped, slammed, devoured by the ravenous pull of the ocean.

  I pause for a moment, just a moment, and watch because I can’t not watch. I’m on land but I know exactly how the surfers feel out there. I’m drowning in pain, drowning in shame, being tugged under with no surface in sight.

  The muted roar of an engine sounds behind me, and then Ethan’s voice—low, demanding, pleading. “Please, Chloe, get in. Just let me take you home and then I’ll leave.”

  I glance behind me for just a moment. Ethan is in one of his many cars—the green Tesla, this time—but for once I feel no modicum of interest, no shred of envy. Yesterday, I would have died for a chance to mess around with the guts of this car but today I don’t so much as want to touch it, let alone ride in it.

  Our eyes meet and my stomach lurches, threatens to rebel.

  He looks as lost as I feel, and angry as I am, I hate knowing that he’s suffering. Hate knowing that I caused it, even after everything. I wouldn’t wish the pain I feel on anyone, let alone on Ethan, the only man I’ve ever loved.

  That doesn’t mean I can stay, though. Doesn’t mean I can ever be with him again. Not with all the history crashing down on us like a tsunami.

  I turn away, walk down the street toward the ocean. It’s stretched out in front of me, blue and infinite and beautiful. For a second, just a second, I think about continuing to walk—down the sidewalk, across the beach, into the water. Walking and walking and walking until I’m totally immersed, the dark water closing over my head, the undercurrent pulling me down.

  It’s an inviting thought. Too inviting, considering how I spent the months and years directly after the rape. Drowning in fear, humiliation, self-loathing.

  Not wanting to go back there—refusing to go back there—I concentrate on nothing more complicated than putting one foot in front of the other. The heat of the sidewalk helps, the edge of pain keeping me sane. Keeping me focused.

  “Get in the car, Chloe.”

  Ethan’s voice is right beside me—he’s pacing me in the Tesla—but I don’t so much as turn to look at him. I’m done. With him. With us. With this whole fucked up situation.

  “Damn it, Chloe! Please. Just let me take you home, make sure you’re safe. I promise, I won’t bother you after that.”

  The crack inside me deepens at his words, breaks me wide open. I can barely stay upright under the onslaught.

  But I do stay upright.

  I do keep walking.

  I don’t answer him.

  There’s a part of me that can’t help but respond to the order—and the plea—in Ethan’s voice, but I ignore that part. Lock it down so deep inside of myself that I may never find it again.

  Which is exactly how I want it. I might not know much right now, but I know this. There is no way I’m getting in that car with Ethan. No way I’m giving him another chance to, however inadvertently, rip me to pieces.

  I turn the corner onto Prospect, one of the main streets that runs through La Jolla. I don’t look at Ethan, but I know he makes the turn with me because suddenly there’s a spate of loud honking. He’s still pacing me, despite now being on a street where he should be driving at least forty miles an hour.

  A particularly strident horn sounds, loud and long. It’s not until it finally stops that I hear Ethan cursing viciously.

  It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to glance at him out of the corner of my eye. But I’m not that weak. Not anymore. Not ever again.

  The honking stops abruptly and since I’m staring straight ahead I can’t miss Ethan suddenly burning rubber up the street.

  That didn’t take long. Not that I’m surprised. He’s never been the most patient guy.

  A new wave of agony sweeps over me, drags me under. I don’t struggle against it—I learned long ago that some things can’t be fought. Can’t be beaten. They can only be endured.

  Forcing myself to look away from the Tesla’s taillights, I once again concentrate on walking, just walking. The faster I get home, the faster this whole nightmare will be over.

  But I haven’t gone very far—about a block and a half—before I see Ethan striding purposefully down the street toward me. I flinch away when he gets close, though he makes no move to reach for me.

  He catalogues my instinctive movement, his eyes darkening to midnight blue as he very deliberately tucks his hands into his pockets.

  “I won’t touch you,” he tells me in a voice that sounds like gravel. “I won’t talk to you, won’t do anything else to upset you. But one way or another, I’m going to make sure that you get home safely, so you might as well accept it.”

  “I’m not your problem anymore.” The words slip past my lips before I know I’m going to say them.

  “You were never a problem,” he answers, his voice warm and steady and familiar. So familiar. It’s the same voice he uses when he cuddles me in bed. When he washes me in the shower. When he tells me he loves me.

  Another wave of agony rolls through me and I walk faster. I can see Tori’s condominium complex in the distance and for a moment I’m afraid it’s a mirage. I’m that desperate to get to it—and away from Ethan.

  I start running without making the conscious decision to do so. The hot pavement scrapes against the bottom of my feet, but I don’t give a shit right now. Tears are burning behind my eyes, my whole body is shaking and my chest is so tight that I’d think I was having a heart attack if I didn’t know better. I’m one tiny step from falling apart and I’m not going to do that on one of the busiest streets of La Jolla, with Ethan Frost and a million tourists looking on.

  By the time I get to the front gates of the condominium, cold sweat is pouring down my back and my breath is coming out in strangled gasps. I’d like to blame it on the run, but I know better. So does Ethan, who’s watching me with pained eyes and a tightly clenched jaw.

  I fumble with the key, try to get the front gate open, but my hands are trembling too hard for me to even get it in the lock. Ethan reaches for me, tries to take the key.

  “Don’t!” It’s part gasp, part screech, and all batshit crazy. I don’t care, though, not when it gets the job done and he takes a step back.

  “Chloe, please. I just want to—”

  “I don’t give a shit what you want!” The words are garbled—my tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth—but that doesn’t matter to me. Nothing does but getting in my goddamn building and getting the fuck away from Ethan Frost.

  Miraculously, the key slides into the lock at the same moment my control breaks. I shove the gate open, and make a run for it.

  Ethan calls my name as the gate clatters shut behind me, but I’m too far gone to care. Too far gone to do anything but wrap my arms around myself as I shatter into a million pieces.

  Turns out Humpty Dumpty has nothing on me.

  Chapter Three

  Tori jumps up from her spot on the couch the second I slam into the condo.

  “Chloe?” she asks, the look of expectation on her face turning to horror as my legs give out and I tumble roughly to the ceramic tile of our entryway.

  “Chlo?” She crosses to me then, leans down to help me up, but I don’t grab on to the hand she offers. I can’t. Everything hurts and right now, just breathing is all I can handle.

  “Chloe, what’s wrong?” When I still don’t respond, she drops onto the floor beside me, her voice growing more urgent with every word she speaks. “What’s going on? Are you hurt? Did you have an accident—”

&nbs
p; I laugh then, a harsh, hysterical sort of sound that is torn from deep inside me. It hurts my chest even as it hangs in the air around us.

  I want to answer her. I do. If for no other reason than to get her to leave me to lick my wounds in peace. But I can’t. My mouth is dry, too dry to make any coherent noises, and my lips seem to have forgotten how to form words anyway.

  I seem to have forgotten everything.

  Everything but Ethan and Brandon and the emptiness that stretches between us.

  Ethan. His name is a dull blade deep inside of me, a piece of jagged glass that cuts from every edge.

  “At least tell me if you’re hurt,” Tori demands, her hands fisting at her sides.

  I shake my head before laying my cheek against the cool tile. I’m curled up in a macabre imitation of child’s pose, my knees tucked beneath me, my hips resting on my heels, my face to the floor. Only, there is no peace in this pose for me. No serenity. Only hopelessness and rage and sickness. So much sickness that every breath I take brings a new wave of it.

  Brandon. Ethan. Brandon. Ethan.

  Their names echo with each beat of my heart.

  “Damn it, Chloe! What is going on?” Tori’s face is next to mine now, her green eyes narrow with fear and fury. She looks like an avenging angel—all wrath and vengeance and bright pink hair. At another moment, I might appreciate her determined defense of me. But right now, it just makes me tired. “What did Ethan Frost do to you?” she demands.

  Too much. He’s done too much and not enough. He’s ruined me all over again and this time, I can’t even say I didn’t see it coming. Because I did. Oh, God, I did. At the very beginning, when I was fighting this thing between us, I’d known how it would end. I didn’t imagine this—how could I have—but I’d known things wouldn’t end like a Disney fairy tale. Not when my life is so much more Hans Christian Andersen. But even knowing that, I’d let him in, preferring to believe his pretty words and my pathetic heart instead of the hard truths life has taught me again and again and again.

  I’m paying for it now. Paying for my foolish optimism and even more foolish emotions. Part of me thinks it’s no more than I deserve. And the rest of me … the rest of me is too destroyed to care.