by Tracy Wolff
I don’t know. I’ll never know. But these are the thoughts that keep running through my head. The thoughts that are making me crazy. I have a million questions in my head, questions like what exactly got him killed, why am I still so angry at him, why do I care that he’s dead, why don’t I care more that he’s dead? They’re all in there, churning in my brain.
Making it hard to breathe in the stuffy church.
Making it impossible for me hear, to see, to think.
My heart is beating too fast, my brain is working too hard, and my lungs feel like they aren’t working hard enough. The walls start closing in all around me and that’s when I know that I have to get the hell out of here. Forget decorum, forget tradition. Forget not giving the gossips anything else to talk about. If I don’t get some air I’m going to end up losing my shit right in the middle of this too big, too fancy church.
Freaking out but still determined not to show it, I push my way out of the pew. I head down the aisle at a fast clip, but once I’m at the back of the church, I realize I can’t go out that way. Not with all the reporters that are out there—it would be a free-for-all.
I detour at the last minute, end up going out a side door that leads to a small, walled-in courtyard. The door slams behind me and I’m pretty sure the sound echoes through the church, but I’m too busy trying to suck air into my starved lungs to care. Bending over, I brace my hands on my knees and try not to lose it completely.
Behind me, the door to the church opens again. I straighten up, try to get my shit together before I make an even bigger ass of myself in front of whoever the fuck—
“It’s okay, baby. I’m right here.” It’s Chloe’s hand on my shoulder, her concerned face peering up at mine. “I’m right here.”
I grab on to her then, pull her into my arms as I bury my face against her neck. She smells like Chloe—like honey and strawberries and home—and for long seconds I just stand there, breathing her in as sobs wrack my chest.
“I fucked up,” I tell her. “I fucked up.”
“You didn’t.”
“This is my fault.”
“It isn’t.”
“It is. I hated him so much. I hated him and I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to destroy him, to tear him apart so that he could suffer like you did. And now he’s dead and all I can think is the bastard got off too easy. My baby brother is dead and all I want is for him to suffer more. What the fuck does that say about me? What the fuck kind of man am I?”
“You’re the best man I know,” she tells me, her arms wrapping around me as she rocks me back and forth.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I got him killed and I can’t even bring myself to be sorry about it.”
“Oh, sweetheart. How were you supposed to know what would happen to Brandon? He had every advantage in life and he made all the wrong choices. Drugs, gambling, rape, getting involved with the mob. The FBI worked overtime trying to find his killer and they had a hard time doing it because so many people had motives. So many people wanted him dead.
“That’s not your fault, Ethan. That’s his fault. He’s the one who chose the life he led. He’s the one who made the mistakes he made. And he’s the one who, in the end, paid for those mistakes. It’s not your fault.” She pulls me closer, hugs me tighter. Then repeats, “It’s not your fault.”
“It’s my fault. If I hadn’t pushed—”
“If you hadn’t pushed, he would have gone on hurting other people. He would have amassed more and more power and then used that power to hurt others just because he could. That’s the kind of man he was. And that is not on you. That is on him.”
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, eyes burning with tears I refuse to shed. “My whole life, I’ve always had a plan. I’ve always known how to handle whatever problems creep up. I’ve always kept my eye on the ball. But this…I don’t know how to handle this. Not the rage, not the guilt, not the—” I cut myself off before I say something that can hurt Chloe.
But my wife knows me better than I know myself. “Not the grief,” she tells me, pressing soft kisses to my hair. “It’s okay to grieve for your brother, Ethan. It’s okay to grieve for the boy he was and the man you wanted him to be.”
“He hurt you.”
“He hurt a lot of people, including you.”
I pull away, stare at the ivy-covered walls because it’s easier than looking at her when I admit, “There’s a part of me that’s glad he’s dead.”
“I know.”
My eyes dart to hers. “Do you?”
“Yes. There’s a part of me that feels the same way.”
“He destroyed your life. You have every right to feel that way.”
“And he worked hard to destroy your life, too. He hurt the people you care most about in the world. You’re allowed to not be okay with that.”
“I know.” I swallow convulsively, look back at the courtyard walls. And nearly whisper, “I wished him dead. The day they found his body…I’d been dealing with his shit all day, trying to get out from under it, trying to find a way to protect you. And I remember thinking that if he was dead this wouldn’t be a problem anymore. If he was dead, everything would be better. And then he was. He is. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” She wraps her arms around me again, holds me so tight that I can feel her heart beating against her chest. “You didn’t cause this. This isn’t your fault.”
“It feels like my fault.”
“I know.” She presses a kiss to my cheek. “It’s probably going to feel like that for a while. But that doesn’t make it true.”
“I’m lost,” I admit because she’s my wife and I can tell her things I’ll never be able to tell another soul. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”
“That’s okay,” she tells me, taking my hand in hers. “Because I do.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. And it starts with putting one foot in front of the other and walking out of this place.” She puts her arm around me, urges me toward the gate at the back of the shaded courtyard.
“And then what?” I ask.
“And then,” she says as she pushes open the gate. “Then we wing it.”
“I don’t wing anything.”
“You do now, baby. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that when things go to shit around you? Sometimes it’s best to just make a whole new path.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me out into the warmth of the late summer sun. And it’s never felt so good.
Chapter 27
“Remind me why we decided to have this party at our house?” Ethan asks me as we both stand to the side and watch as the catering assistants string lights and set up food stations all over our patio.
“Because it’s more intimate this way.” He slings an arm around my shoulder and I lean into him, turning my head so that my cheek is nuzzling into his shoulder. For long seconds, I just stand there like that, drinking him in. Relishing the fact that we’re here, together, after everything that has happened. After everything that we’ve been through.
“More intimate,” he says with a laugh. “What you mean to say is that it keeps the guest list down.”
“Umm, exactly. I mean, if by down you’re talking about three hundred people. Because that’s how many people have RSVP’d that they will be here tonight. Three hundred and eight people, to be exact.” My mind still boggles. How can Ethan know three hundred and eight people well enough to invite them into his home? Our home? God knows, he’d culled the list down from the fifteen hundred he had originally planned to invite when he suggested holding the party on the grounds of the Hotel del Coronado.
Thank God I’d been able to talk him out of that. The hotel is beautiful, and throwing a party there would probably be a lot of fun—if I was into that sort of thing. But fifteen hundred people? Come on. That’s not a party. That’s a festival, especially considering Et
han wanted live music.
When he saw how much the idea of it was freaking me out, though, he totally backed off. But if I’m being honest, I think his easy acquiescence had as much to do with the fact that it felt odd to hold a party of that magnitude so soon after Brandon’s death as it had to do with me. After all, no matter how we felt about him, no matter what he’d done, he was Ethan’s brother. And his death had shaken him all the way to his bones.
Ethan has spent the last few weeks alternating between anger and grief—and trying not to hate himself for the fact that he does grieve for his brother. He’s also worked really hard to hide his feelings from me and that’s something I’m trying really hard to convince him he doesn’t have to do.
We’ve had numerous talks about the fact that he doesn’t have to worry about me or how I feel, that whatever he is feeling is perfectly legitimate and that I’ll never judge him for it. But on the days when the grief and the guilt are stronger than the anger, he still shuts down a little. Still tries to keep it from me. Still tries to protect me even though I no longer need protection. Not from Brandon, not from what he did to me, and certainly not from the fact that my husband is a wonderful, kind man who feels too much.
I’ll never be sorry about that, never need protection from the fact that Ethan is the best man I know.
Some days I still can’t believe that he’s mine. That I made it through all the horrible things that happened to me only to end up here. With him. I’d never choose to go through what happened with Brandon or my classmates or my parents, and I’ll never forget my past. But being with Ethan, loving him and being loved by him, makes it all so much more bearable. Makes it all worth it if, in the end, I get to have him. And to keep him.
A couple members of the setup crew come through carrying yet another food station and one nearly trips in his effort to keep from bumping into us. Of course, it’s our fault as we are pretty much standing directly in his way.
There are more people behind him, carrying boxes of glasses and dishes and table linens, so Ethan wraps a hand around my arm and pulls me gently back into the house where there’s a much smaller chance of us causing mayhem or injury.
“You know,” he tells me, pressing hot, openmouthed kisses in a line across my jaw. “We have nearly three hours before people start arriving. And the caterers seem to have things well in hand.”
“They do, don’t they?” I tilt my head back, bare my throat to him. In seconds, he’s kissing and licking and nibbling his way down my neck to the hollow of my throat. It’s one of his favorite places to kiss and one of my favorite places to be kissed, and so I bring one hand up to tangle in the silky strands of his hair as I give myself up to the heat sparking to life inside me.
Only Ethan can do this to me. Only he can turn me on with a simple look or touch or kiss. And only he can make me want him so completely, so absolutely, that I all but forget we’re making out in the middle of our family room while literally dozens of people buzz around us, getting the house ready for this evening.
He groans a little as my fingers tug on his hair, and the eyes he turns to me are as blue and wild as the waves crashing just outside our windows. I study them for a second, trying to gauge what kind of day this is. Trying to figure out how he’s feeling.
He smiles like he knows what I’m doing, but he doesn’t turn away, doesn’t try to hide. And that’s when I know it’s a good day. One of the first good days in a long time. It’s more than I had hoped for when I got up this morning and happiness floods me as I pull him into my arms and press kisses to the sensitive spot behind his ear.
“You know,” I whisper to him as another wave of workers comes through carrying boxes. “We do have a perfectly good bedroom with a perfectly good bed in it. I know we rarely make it there for round one, but maybe we could try it out today. I mean, since the house is filled with impressionable college kids we don’t want to shock.”
“More like impressionable college kids who would love to sell a picture of us making out to a gossip rag,” he tells me as he walks me out of the family room and down the long hall to the master bedroom.
“Well, there is that, too.” But to be honest, it hadn’t even occurred to me. I’ve been Mrs. Ethan Frost for six weeks now and it’s still weird to think like that. To imagine that there’s enough interest in me to warrant paparazzi photos and dedicated Tumblrs and fans. I have fans even though I never do anything particularly interesting.
“Besides,” he tells me once we’ve made it to our room and the door is safely closed behind us. “You’re still an impressionable college kid yourself. Which, if I’m honest, makes me feel like a dirty old man every time I think about it.”
It surprises me to see that he actually does look uncomfortable at the thought. I roll my eyes at him, press kisses against his darkly stubbled jaw. “You’re still in your twenties. I think you’ve got a few years before you need to worry about being a lech.”
“I’m not so sure about that.” He unties my halter top, watches with dark intent as the fabric falls to my waist. “I’m feeling pretty lecherous right about now.”
I laugh as I tug his T-shirt free of his jeans and pull it over his head. “You’re not the only one.”
“Is that right?” He undoes the buttons on my shorts before dropping to his knees in front of me and tugging them down and off. Then he slides a finger inside the elastic leg of my silk panties, groans as he feels how wet I am. “Fuck, Chloe. You feel so good.”
I widen my legs to give him better access, then grab on to his shoulders for support when he yanks my underwear down my thighs just far enough to bare me to his gaze.
“Fuck,” he breathes again. “I’ll never get enough of you.”
And then he’s leaning forward, wrapping an arm around my upper thighs even as he uses his other hand to splay me wide open for his gaze…and for his tongue.
I whimper at the first touch of his tongue on my clit, clutch at his hair, his shoulders, his beautiful, well-muscled chest. It doesn’t take long before I’m calling his name in a kind of litany, begging for the orgasm he’s deliberately keeping just out of my reach as he flicks his tongue over me again and again and again.
“Ethan. Ethan, please! I want, I want—”
“What?” he whispers, as he slips two fingers inside of me, crooks them slightly and starts to stroke. “What do you want, love?”
“You!” I cry out as the orgasm breaks over me, pulling me under, under, under like a riptide I just can’t break free of. “I want you. I want—”
I break off as he sucks my clit between his lips, his tongue circling it in a way that only takes me higher. Wave after wave of pleasure swamps me until I can barely breathe, barely think. Until the only thing keeping me grounded is the feel of Ethan against me, around me, inside me.
When it’s over, when the pleasure has dimmed to a dull thud inside of me and I can breathe again, think again, I clasp his hand in mine, move the few steps backward until the backs of my thighs hit the edge of the bed. “I just want you. I’ll always want you.”
He smiles then, even as he climbs to his feet and prowls across the few steps separating us. Then he’s climbing on top of me, gently pushing me down so that my back is flat against the cool silk of the sheets and he’s above me. “You’ve got me, Chloe. You’ll always have me.”
I already know that—he’s proved it over and over again in the months we’ve been together—but still it hits me hard when he says it. Because until now, until Ethan, I’ve faced everything alone. I’ve carried all the pain, all the loss, all the disappointment by myself. The fact that I don’t have to now, the fact that I can share my pain with him and he can share his pain with me…it seems like a miracle. One I will be grateful for every day for the rest of my life.
“I love you.” I cup his face in my hands, pull him down for a kiss. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too.”
And then he’s stripping out of his own jeans, shoving them down h
is legs and onto the floor at the foot of the bed. He stretches over me, lowers his mouth to mine. Kisses me so tenderly that tears of joy, of love, of gratitude, bloom behind my closed eyelids.
“Don’t hide from me.” It’s a plea as much as it is a command. “I need to see you.”
I open my eyes then, look into the bright, crazy blue of his. The look in those eyes, on his face—the love and adoration he doesn’t try to hide—reaches inside of me. Warms every part of me, even those that still hurt. That will always hurt.
The pain doesn’t matter so much now, though, not when my new life is filled with so much love that some days I can’t help but pinch myself just to make sure that it’s all real. That Ethan, and what we have together, is real.
I reach for his hands, twine our fingers together even as I try to bring him closer. Ethan just smiles, presses my hands into the bed as he slides slowly, slowly, slowly inside of me. I arch against him, calling his name as I wrap my legs around his waist. He feels so good—so long and hot and hard inside of me—that it doesn’t take long before I’m trembling on the brink of another climax.
I try to break free of his grip, try to wrap my arms around him, but Ethan refuses to let me go. Instead, he slides one hand down to the middle of my forearm, his long fingers brushing against the bracelet that rests there before covering it with his palm.
I gasp at the possessive gesture, turn my head because I want to see him holding me. Want to see his tanned fingers encircling the bracelet I haven’t taken off since he gave it to me the day before our wedding. It’s as much a sign of his possession as the belly chain I still wear around my waist, of the rings I wear on my finger, and I adore it. Just as I adore the man who gave it to me.
“You’re mine, Chloe. You’ll always be mine.”
“Yes,” I tell him, because sometimes he needs to hear it as much as I do. And because he’s right. No matter what happens from here on out, no matter where we go or what we do or where we end up, it will all be okay. Because this thing between us—it really is forever. “And you’ll always be mine.”