by Tracy Wolff
“Great idea, Tori. You’re such a pal.”
“I am,” she agrees with a grin. “No need to thank me, though. It’s a gift.”
“It is,” I tell her, suddenly growing serious. “A really good gift. And I’m really lucky to have you.”
“Oh, God. It’s just a few headlines, not a terminal disease. Don’t go getting all maudlin on me.” She scoops our cups off the table and carries them back to the counter. As she fills them with coffee, she adds, “Bring me the Baileys, will you?”
“Sure. But I don’t want any. I think I’m going to stick to tea for a while.”
“Where’s the fun in that? I mean, really, I’m going easy on you with the Baileys. Back in high school, Breakfast Club was totally a drinking game. Every time Judd Nelson looks at Molly Ringwald like he wants to fuck her, you had to take a shot.”
“I’m not taking shots at eight in the morning.”
“How I ended up with such a party pooper for a best friend, I have no idea.” She waves my cup under my nose. “Here, take this and I’ll grab the donuts. We can gorge while we watch.”
The scent of coffee and alcohol hits me hard and, for the second time today, I make a mad dash for the nearest toilet. This time, I barely get there in time.
Tori gives me my privacy, but is standing there with a wet washcloth when I finally make it out of the bathroom. “Don’t tie yourself up in knots over this,” she says, rubbing my back sympathetically. “It’s just a little blip on your way to happily ever after. Ethan will fix it.”
“I actually think this is more than a blip.”
“Well, yeah, obviously.” She cuts the flippant attitude and is suddenly dead serious. “The whole situation sucks, Chloe. No doubt about it. But your man is hella amazing. With the plan he’s got going on, they’ll be crying for Brandon’s blood before nightfall.”
“You’re probably right,” I agree. “But that’s not the blip I was talking about.”
“Oh. Okay.” She looks confused but receptive as she waits for me to say more.
“I need you to do me a favor. And I need you not to tell anyone. And to not be judgey about it.”
“Where’s the fun in that? I live to be judgey.” Her sarcasm is not lost on me.
“I know, I know, sorry. I just…I need you to do something for me. I’d do it myself, but for obvious reasons, that’s not going to happen. At least not today. And I need—I need to know.”
“Okay. Of course. But you know, right, that if you want me to help you, you’re going to actually have to tell me what you need me to do.”
“I need you to run to the store and buy me a pregnancy test.”
Her mouth drops open and for the first time in my life, I understand the expression “her eyes bugged out of her head.” Because Tori’s eyes do exactly that. “A pregnancy test?” she all but shouts.
“I’ve thrown up the last two days. Plus I feel nauseous a lot of the time. And my period’s five days late. And we had unprotected sex. And—”
“Jesus! Who needs a pregnancy test when you’ve got every symptom in the fucking book? Unprotected sex? Really? Have I taught you nothing?”
“It just kind of happened. And I told you not to be judgey!”
“I’m not judgey. I’m in shock! But okay, look. You go put your feet up or something and drink lots of water! I’ll run and get a pregnancy test and be back in like, a minute.”
“I’m pretty sure I can stay upright. If I’m pregnant, it’s like only a little bit pregnant.”
“There’s no such thing as a little bit pregnant.” Tori grabs a glass from the cabinet and fills it with filtered water. “Now go do something pregnant. And drink that! I’ll be back in a jiff and I want an answer so you’d better be able to pee on the little stick!”
—
Twenty minutes later, Tori waltzes back in the front door, this time accompanied by a man whose face matches one of the pictures Ethan texted me. She’s carrying a large brown paper bag and is grinning from ear to ear.
“Thank you so much for your help, Alberto. Even threatening to run them over wasn’t getting those reporters to move.” She’s batting her eyes at him so hard that I’m afraid she’s going to take flight any moment.
His face stays carefully blank. “No problem, ma’am. Next time, text that number I gave you and we’ll make sure the path is clear for you.”
“You’re so kind. Thank you so much.”
“It’s not a problem.” He turns to leave.
“Should I give you my number? I mean, so you know who it is you’re getting a text from.”
“As long as you identify yourself in your text, ma’am, it will be fine.”
“But what if I forget—”
“Thank you, Alberto. We appreciate your help.” I cut my best friend off before she can make an even bigger fool of herself. “You can go now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He practically runs back outside, pausing only to make sure the door is firmly closed behind him.
“Seriously?” I say. “That really seemed like a good idea to you?”
“It seemed like a great idea to me. He’s adorable!”
“Whatever. Did you get the test?”
“I did!” she crows triumphantly as she follows me into the master bedroom.
Once there, she walks over to our unmade bed and turns the bag upside down. A ton of different things come pouring out.
“What did you do?” I demand, staring at the bed in shock.
“Okay, I’m sorry! I know it’s a lot—”
“A lot? We don’t even know if I’m pregnant yet.”
“I know. But if you are, you’ll need all of this stuff.” She picks up a gallon of milk in one hand and a bottle of prenatal vitamins in the other. “I was reading about it on my phone. Pregnant women need lots of added calcium and iron. So I got you a steak, too. I’ll make it for you for lunch.”
She puts those items aside and reaches for an oddly shaped baby bottle. “Parenting magazine says this is the best shape to keep gas from getting into your baby’s stomach. But I also got nipple cream, in case you want to breast-feed. Because, ouch. Nobody wants cracked nipples. And there’s a pacifier and a bib and a onesie with cherries on it! Cherries, Chloe! Cherries!”
“I can see that. And, are those baby go-go boots?” I ask, looking at the hot pink, sequined boots that—except for a very cute teddy bear—are the last thing on the bed.
“They are, Chloe! They are! Every well-dressed baby needs go-go boots.”
“What if it’s a boy?”
“As if. I’ve already decided you’re having a girl.”
“Well, as long as you’ve decided…”
“Exactly. It’s the universe according to Tori. Things always work out exactly how I want them to.”
I laugh, then, because she’s pretty much right. The universe does tend to do exactly what Tori wants it to. “You’re really excited by the idea of me being pregnant, aren’t you?”
“Are you kidding me? Of course I’m excited. I am going to be the best aunt ever.”
“You sure about that?” I tease.
“Excuse me.” She holds the boots up again. Strangely, they go pretty well with her recently dyed turquoise hair. “Did I or did I not pick out the absolutely most adorable baby go-go boots in the whole world?”
“I’m pretty sure they might be the only baby go-go boots in the whole world.”
She shrugs. “Semantics.”
“Okay, Tor.” I look at the now empty bed. “Except, did you forget something?”
“What? What did I forget? I can go back out—”
“The pregnancy test. Did you forget the pregnancy test?”
“What? No, of course not. It’s in my purse. If I dropped the bag in front of the reporters, I didn’t want it to come flying out or something.”
“Because the prenatal vitamins and nipple cream wouldn’t have been a dead giveaway? Not to mention the baby go-go boots?”
&n
bsp; “Shut up!” She pulls the test out of her purse and throws it at me. “Now go pee on the stick.”
“But I don’t have to pee now—” I start to tease.
“GO PEE ON THE STICK!”
“Okay, I’m going. I’m going.”
I’m still laughing when I pull my pants down and try to follow Tori’s orders. Trust my best friend to make into an adventure something that should have been incredibly stressful.
I’ve barely got my pants zipped up when Tori’s pounding on the door. “Are you done? Are you done? Is it turning purple? Is there a plus sign? A happy face? An exclamation point? For the love of God, woman, tell me something.”
I wash my hands, then go to open the door. “The directions say I have to wait five minutes.”
“What? That’s crazy. Either the hormone is there or it isn’t.”
I glance at the stick. “Well, it hasn’t done anything yet.”
“What? Let me see.” She grabs it out of my hand and frowns at it. “Maybe you drank too much water and diluted it or something.”
“I don’t think you can dilute it.”
“I think you can. Maybe you should take another one.” She rushes back to her purse and pulls out another test.
“How many of those did you buy?”
“I don’t know. Like seven, maybe? There were a lot of different brands. I didn’t know which one to choose!”
“So you chose all of them?”
“Umm, yes. When exactly did you get so judgey anyway?”
“I’m not being judgey. I’m—oh wait! It’s doing something!”
“It’s doing something? What is it doing?” She rushes back across the room straight at me. “Let me see! Let me see!”
She all but rips it out of my hand and then we both stand there, staring down at the little plastic wand as a symbol starts to appear in the little box.
“Holy shit!” Tori says. “Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.”
“Holy shit,” I agree.
“You’re pregnant.”
“I’m pregnant.”
Chapter 22
“How’d it go?” Sebastian asks as soon as I pick up the phone.
“About as well as can be expected.”
“What does that mean, precisely?”
“It means he wasn’t happy about the fact that I sat on a lot of illegal information about Brandon. Especially since I wasn’t about to admit that I’m pulling the strings on a very elaborate plot designed to have my brother incarcerated for twenty years or so.”
“I bet. What did he say, though? About the evidence? Was it enough?”
“On the record, he played it really close to the vest. Told me the department would be looking into my complaint.” I pull out my sunglasses as I step outside and into the heat. The LA sun is brutal on the eyes at midday. “But off the record, he said he’d made some calls to the Vegas unit before our meeting. According to them, there’s been a sudden recent influx of calls from my brother to Nico Valducci.”
“So, Aria’s dad was telling the truth, then.”
“Looks like. They also said he isn’t the only mob guy Brandon’s been dealing with.”
“They’re talking about the recent phone calls to the others, when he was trying to drum up support?”
“He didn’t say, but I didn’t get that impression. It sounded to me like they were talking about the Armenians.”
“Really?” There’s silence for a few moments as Sebastian digests my words, tries to think through them. I wish him luck, because I’ve been spinning ideas about it around in my mind ever since James mentioned it to me.
“So he’s been fucking around behind the mafia’s back?” Sebastian asks, incredulous. “I never credited him for the guts to do that. Then again, he could just be a moron. Fucking around between the Italians and Armenians is not a smart move on his part. If Valducci finds out, he’s going to go ballistic. From what I understand, he despises the Armenians.”
“Yeah, I know.” The thought sends a chill down my spine. “The question is what Brandon has to offer the Armenians, though. His money, sure, because I have no doubt he’s run up gambling debts with them, too. But from what I can tell, they’re more brute force than political finesse. What do you think?”
“I think that’s a good way to put it. They’re not the patient sort—I can’t see them waiting for him to be elected, waiting for him to get some power in Congress before they start calling in favors he owes them. I mean, I don’t know for sure. I can do some digging.”
“No, don’t worry about it. You’re already up to your balls dealing with all the Valducci crap,” I tell him as I climb into the limo waiting to take me back to the nearest public heliport. “I don’t want you to stick your neck out any more than you already have. And I sure as hell don’t want you drawing the attention of the Armenians by asking questions they don’t want you getting answers to.” I was okay with him helping me with the Valducci thing because he had his own ax to grind in that. But the Armenians? No way.
“I can be subtle.”
“Yeah, like an eighteen-wheeler can be subtle,” I tell him. “No, Sebastian. You’ve already done more than enough. I’ll call my PI. Let him dig around for a while, see if he can figure out what he missed.”
“I don’t mind. You’re my best friend.”
“Yeah, and that’s why I do mind.”
He snorts. “Well, shit, Frost. I didn’t realize you were going to go all kumbaya on my ass.”
“What can I say? It’s Chloe’s influence.”
“Yeah. How’s she doing? What happened today was insane.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“Your mom, man. Bringing this shit up, going after Chloe like that, was stone-cold crazy. She had to know you’d fire back.”
“I’m pretty sure she thought family loyalty would keep me in line.”
Sebastian snorts. “Well then, she’s obviously never seen you with your wife. You look at her like she’s the sun.”
“For me, she is.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “I feel that way about Aria, too.”
“Now who’s going all kumbaya on whom?”
“Fuck off.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
He laughs, but then he turns serious pretty quickly. “Hang in there with the Chloe situation, okay? I was online a little while ago—the media’s already beginning to turn in her favor. I assume you had something to do with that?”
“I had everything to do with it.”
“I figured.” He clears his throat. “Well, if you need anything, let me know. I’ll be happy to help out any way I can.”
“I know, man. Thanks.”
“Tell Chloe that Aria and I are pulling for her.”
“I’ll do that.”
We hang up and the phone rings again seconds later, before I’ve had so much as a chance to glance through the first of the texts I got from Stu and my attorneys while I was in the meeting with James. It’s not Chloe—which is all that matters—so I start to let it go to voicemail. Until I see the name that pops up on my screen.
Miles Girard.
Fuck. Chloe’s older brother is calling me. Seeing as how we’re not in the habit of friendly little chats—the first and only time we’ve ever met ended in a fistfight—I know he’s got a reason to be calling. And it doesn’t take a genius to know what that reason is.
Talking to him is pretty much the last thing I want to do right now—I hold him and her parents as culpable in Chloe’s pain as I hold myself and my own family—and a million different curses run through my mind as I accept the call.
“This is Ethan Frost,” I say the moment the phone stops ringing.
“Ethan. This is Miles, Chloe’s brother.”
“I know who it is.”
“Yeah.” I don’t say anything else and neither does he, so it doesn’t take long for the silence to stretch out awkwardly between us. Maybe I should make it easier for
him by getting the ball rolling, but the fact of the matter is, he sold my wife out. For a million dollars and a shot at turning his precious inventions into a business, he sold out his baby sister. He let her rescind her statement, let her bear the brunt of psychological terror and vicious ridicule all on her own. None of which makes me inclined to help him out with so much as a conversation starter.
“Look, I know you hate me, but I need to talk to you.”
“So talk.”
“I’ve seen the news. I mean, not that that’s exactly a surprise. Most of the English-speaking world has seen at least a little bit of today’s coverage on my sister. They’re tearing her apart.”
“Yeah, they are.”
“Why aren’t you stopping it? She’s your wife, man. It’s your job—”
“Don’t tell me what my job is. When it comes to Chloe, I know exactly what my responsibilities are and the last thing I want is to hear her weak, sell-out, throw-her-to-the-wolves-for-his-own-gain older brother telling me that I’m falling down on the job.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“That’s exactly what you meant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting starting in fifteen minutes to discuss the best moves to make in this situation.” It’s a lie—I’ve already had that meeting, three times today alone—but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Jesus. You don’t make this easy, do you?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize making things better for you was in my job description.” I sound like an asshole, but the truth is I don’t even care. If he was here, I’d beat the shit out of him. Tear him limb from limb as payback for what Chloe is going through. But he’s three thousand miles away right now and all I’ve got to make my point perfectly clear is my asshole behavior.
“I want to help.”
“What?” If there were any four words in the English language that I wasn’t expecting to come out of this dickhead’s mouth, it was definitely those four. And definitely in that order.
“What does that even mean? You want to help?”
“I don’t know. But I can’t stand seeing her get ripped apart when she did nothing wrong. When she caved to parents who made her life a living hell until she did. I want people to know that. I want people to know the real Chloe Girard, not the one your mother—and the press—is painting her as. I was there, man. I watched your mother rip her to shreds, then came home and watched my parents do the same thing. And I did nothing. I was so caught up in my inventions, so caught up in my head, that the change in my sister barely registered. Until it was too late.”