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I’ll call Sebastian later, tell him he doesn’t have to wait any longer to set his plan in motion to bring down Valducci. There’s no point in holding off if I’m not going to use the plan to bring my brother down as well.
As for Brandon, I’ll speak to him about running for Congress, and after that, I’ll turn all the information I have on his illegal activities over to a friend of mine at the FBI. And then I’ll walk away. If they choose to prosecute him, excellent. If they don’t, if he and his father manage to buy his way out of trouble again…well then, I’ll find a way to live with it. I don’t have a fucking clue how I’m supposed to do that, but for Chloe I’m willing to try.
She means everything to me and she’s been hurt more than enough by my brother—and by me. If my pursuing this worries her and makes her feel insecure, then I need to find a way to fix that. And if fixing it means taking one for the team, then that’s exactly what I’m going to do. God knows, she’s gotten past a lot to be with me. I can’t do any less.
Still, my stomach churns with impotent rage. I don’t let it out, though. Instead, I lock it down deep inside of myself where I put the rest of the things I can’t change. It’s not a great solution, but for now—looking at the way Chloe’s smiling at me, at the relief that’s all but shining from her eyes—it’s more than enough.
“I know how hard this is for you,” she tells me, pressing kisses to my cheeks, my jaw, my lips. “And I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”
“Do you?” I ask, determined to lighten the mood before I go away for three days. I don’t want my last memory of my time with Chloe to be the taste of bile climbing up my throat. “And do you have any plans on how you’re going to show me this appreciation?”
“I do,” she answers, pouring shower gel into her hand and then rubbing her hands together. I watch, transfixed, as she slides her fingers over her shoulders, down her arms, around her breasts. She pays careful attention to her nipples, rubbing her thumbs over them in a repetitive circular motion that has me forgetting about anything and everything but her. “In fact, I think you deserve a reward.”
“Oh, yeah?” Grabbing the shower gel from where she dropped it, I squirt some on my hands, too. Then start rubbing it over my wife’s naked torso, spending a little extra time on her breasts myself. One can never be too conscientious, after all. Or too clean. “I can get behind that.”
“You can always get behind that,” she tells me, pushing me toward the other side of the shower as she steps under her spray and starts to rinse clean. “But that wasn’t what I was talking about.”
“Well, that’s a disappointment,” I say, reaching for her again. “You sure I can’t change your mind?”
“I’m positive. Ben’s waiting outside for you—you’ve got to go. And so do I, or I’m going to be late for the internship I can’t get fired from.”
I wince. “You know that’s not what I meant—”
“I know. But it’s going to be a while before I stop teasing you about it. And for everyone who thinks I’m only keeping my position because I’m your wife…I guess I’ll just have to prove them wrong.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard. You are brilliant, after all.” I duck my head under the spray, start rinsing off.
She laughs, then crosses the few steps between us to press a long, slow kiss to my mouth. “Call me tonight from Boston. We’ll talk about this non-wedding reception you want to have.”
It takes a second for her words to sink in, but when they do, love swamps me. It just pours over me in ridiculous, gooey waves and I can’t stop myself from pulling her into my arms and whispering to her how much I adore her. Because I know the absolute last thing Chloe wants is to have a huge, fancy reception with a bunch of people she doesn’t know or trust. She’s a private person—for a lot of reasons—but she’s going to do it. For me. Because it’s an important show of power on my part, an important part of me introducing my wife to the very curious world on our terms. It’s also a chance to throw a kickass party to show everyone just how happy I am that she’s my wife.
That she’s willing to let me do that—to open her up to the world’s scrutiny and trust me to take care of her through it all—means everything to me.
Just like the fact that I’m willing to step back on the Brandon thing means everything to her, I realize.
Compromise, I tell myself as I step out of the shower a couple minutes later. This marriage thing is all about compromise and communication. So far, Chloe and I are rocking the compromise portion of that equation. And I’m working my ass off to get the communication half down, too. She’s left me twice because I couldn’t talk to her, or because I wouldn’t listen. No way in hell is it happening a third time.
Yes, compromise. It’s definitely the way to go.
Chapter 15
My first two days in Boston are uneventful, exactly as I like them. Normally, I’d take my mother out to dinner at least once while I’m in town, but she pretty much blew up the bridges between us the last time I saw her. If she wants to mess around in my head, that’s one thing. Fucking with Chloe’s head is another thing entirely. I’ll have to speak to her eventually¸ if for no other reason than to make sure she continues to understand the limits we talked about when she crashed my time with Chloe in Napa a few weeks ago. But I’m not sure I’m at the point to be civil to the woman who helped orchestrate so much of my wife’s pain, even if she did give birth to me.
So it’s probably a good thing that she’s not scheduled to be at Brandon’s latest five-hundred-dollar-a-plate fund-raiser. Of course, neither am I.
I arrive fashionably late—more due to a late-running meeting and Boston traffic than any design, but it works out fairly well for me. Brandon’s already had a chance to work the room once by the time I walk in the door. I catch him just as he’s about to start his second loop.
“Ethan! I wasn’t expecting you. But I’m so glad you could make it.” He looks pleasantly surprised when he gestures for me to join him at the bar, like the sight of me in this room is cause for celebration instead of concern. But I get a quick glimpse of his eyes as he turns to order me a tequila on the rocks and I see the fear before he can mask it.
Good. He should be afraid. I may be trying to step back from this whole thing, but he doesn’t know that. And there’s nothing that says I can’t scare the shit out of him before I walk away. In fact, if I do it well enough, maybe he’ll actually give the whole straight-and-narrow thing a try. Doubtful, but anything’s possible. After all, Chloe managed to back me off him when a week ago I would have sworn nothing short of his blood would satisfy me.
Then again, it is taking every ounce of self-control I have not to plow my fist into his face repeatedly. The bruises from our last encounter have faded from his jaw and around his eyes, and there’s a part of me that wants to put a whole new set there, just to remind him. Just so that he has to live with them every day when he looks in the mirror, the same way Chloe has to live every day with what he’s done to her.
But that’s not what I’m here for, I remind myself, keeping a vicious hold on the temper that is seething right beneath my skin. I’m here to explain the situation to him, to tell him my expectations and give him a chance to meet those expectations. I’m here to explain the cold, hard truth of what will happen to him if he doesn’t do exactly as I say. Nowhere in this new plan does it call for me to beat the ever-living shit out of him.
More’s the pity.
Sipping my tequila, I watch as my brother downs two fingers of scotch like it’s water. He’s trying to act cool, to pretend that my being here doesn’t make him nervous at all. But he’s got too many tells—his eyes keep darting back and forth between me and his drink, the hand not holding his drink keeps clenching and unclenching, and he’s blinking at about three times the normal rate. Jesus, no wonder he owed so much money to Valducci. With all these tells, he has to be a lousy fucking poker player.
