Exposed

by Tracy Wolff

  “You know, most people wouldn’t actually think that part sucks.”

  “I know.” She levels me with a cool, inscrutable glance before stepping under the water. “But I’m not most people.”

  And fuck. There Brandon is, right between us again.

  Ignoring the hand she holds up to ward me off, I step into the shower with its numerous showerheads and steam-room capabilities. It’s the size of a small room, which gives me plenty of space to find my own showerhead and get clean. But that’s not what Chloe needs from me right now, no matter what she thinks.

  So instead of doing my own version of Chloe’s quick rinse-off, I step up behind her and pull her into my arms, her back to my chest.

  She struggles at first—“Ethan, I’ve got to get ready for work”—but it doesn’t take more than a few seconds before she’s sagging against me, resting the back of her head on my shoulder and just standing there under the warm and steady stream of water.

  “I’m going to see him while I’m in Boston,” I tell her after a minute, bracing for the explosion I know is coming.

  But it doesn’t come. Instead, she just sags against me a little more as she wraps her arms backward around my waist. “I know.”

  The quiet acceptance is the last thing I was expecting. “Brandon, Chloe. I’m going to see Brandon.”

  “I know who you meant, Ethan.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say about it? After all the arguments we’ve had over this?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know. I just—I thought I’d have more explaining to do.” A lot more. I want to turn her around, to look into her eyes and see what she’s really feeling. But when I try, she holds fast to the position we’re in. I could push it, but since I figure I’m already doing enough of that right now, I just let it go.

  Still, her easy acceptance doesn’t make sense. Not when this has been such a huge battle between us for weeks now. Not when she’d left me twice over it. Not when she’d begged me, just the other day, to stop.

  She shrugs. “I knew this was coming from the second you told me you were going to Boston.”

  “And you didn’t say anything?”

  “What’s there to say, babe? You’re going to do what you’re going to do.” She doesn’t sound angry, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about the situation. Not when her voice is so flat. Not when she won’t even look at me.

  Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. I drop my arms from around her, ignoring her resistance when I all but force her to turn around and face me. Then I tilt her face up to meet mine. “It’s not like that this time. I swear to you. I’ve done a lot of thinking about what you said and I’m trying to do what you want. So instead of putting the next stage of my plan into action, I’m just going to go talk to him. And if he’ll back off the race, if he’ll walk away from politics, then that will be the end. I won’t pursue this any further. Okay?”

  “And if he doesn’t back off?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’ll talk to my mother, talk to his father. Try to find a way around it that we can both live with. Okay?”

  For long seconds, it’s like she forgets to breathe. But then, suddenly, the tension just leaks out of her and she’s left standing there, staring up at me with tears in her eyes and a look of absolute wonder on her face. “Are you serious right now?” she demands. “Do you mean it?”

  “I do.” My stomach clenches but I just take a deep breath, once again making the conscious decision to step back from this. It’s the same decision I made the other day after Chloe and I spoke on the beach. “I don’t agree with you about how things are going to go. I’m pretty sure I could carry out my whole plan without Brandon being able to do a damn thing to either one of us—”

  “No! He’ll—”

  I hold a hand up, wait for her to stop arguing and just listen to me the way I’ve tried so hard to listen to her. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds. “But I understand where you’re coming from. I know why you’re afraid. He’s been the bogeyman to you for so long—I get that. I really do. And while I’m not afraid of him, I am afraid of hurting you. The last thing I want is to start our marriage with you terrified of what I’m going to do and what problems I’m going to cause. After everything you’ve been through, you deserve more than that.”

  The tears spill over now, roll slowly down her cheeks. But she’s smiling, and it’s a huge, genuine smile, so it’s worth the fact that saying this—doing this—is eating me up on the inside. I want to make Brandon pay for what he did to Chloe more than I want to breathe. More than I want to wake up tomorrow morning. More than I want anything in this world…except Chloe’s happiness. And that’s the kicker. That’s what has my hands tied and my stomach roiling. It’s what has me stepping back, playing it her way for a while. And praying that it’s enough, for both of our sakes.

  “But he can’t run for Congress,” I tell her. “I can live with him not going to jail, but I won’t be able to live with myself if he gets elected and gets more power and more chances to abuse other women.”

  “I know that.” She nods against me. “I wouldn’t want it any other way. But I want you to know it means everything to me that you’re willing to put aside your anger and walk away from this. I know how hard it is for you, and that you’re willing to try…I can’t describe how relieved I am.”

  Yeah. Try is the important word in that sentence. I’m going to try to walk away and hope it doesn’t give me a fucking stroke.

  Brandon isn’t what matters here, I remind myself. Chloe is and this decision puts her mind at ease. So I’m just going to go with it. I’m going to do what she says and let go the rest of my plan to make Brandon pay.

  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 s
tart 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.

  “So, Ethan.” He shoots me a smile so sincere that it makes me want to knock his teeth down his throat. “What’s up, man? Have you come to help with the cause? You know we’ll never turn you away.”

  It’s all an act for the people and the reporters around us, and still it makes me seethe. Still it makes me want to wipe away that smug-as-fuck look he’s wearing. It would be so easy—I can almost feel his face crumbling under my fist. But there are other, better ways than violence to get my point across. None that are nearly as satisfying, but if I’m going to keep Chloe happy—and I am—sacrifices have to be made. Sacrifices that include scaring the shit out of my brother instead of ripping him limb from fucking limb.

  For a second, I can’t believe that this is where we’ve ended up. I’ve spent my life protecting Brandon. Taking care of him, helping him make important decisions, paying for him to go to the best universities—and fixing his mistakes. And now I’m here to tear all that down, to destroy it—and him, if I have to.

  Six months ago, when he kicked off his campaign for the House of Representatives, it never would have occurred to me that this is where we’d be three months before the election. But six months ago, I didn’t even know Chloe existed. Now I do and that changes everything. She changes everything.

  “I tried to catch you at the hotel, but you’d already left.”

  “Yeah, well, it doesn’t pay to be late to your own party.” He shoots a grin at Margo French as she approaches from the left. She’s the fifty-five-year-old, tough-as-nails CEO of a company Frost Industries does business with and five months ago I convinced her to pledge her support—and her company’s money—to Brandon. “You taught me that.”

  “I taught you a lot of things. Too bad most of them didn’t stick.”

  “Is that what you’re here for?” he asks, keeping his voice soft enough that we aren’t overheard. The tells are gone and in their place is the slick, politician’s façade that hides a multitude of sins. “To tell me again how disappointed you are in me? Because I got the memo weeks ago and I’m okay with it.”

  Of course he is. As long as he isn’t inconvenienced, why should he care how many people he’s hurt? How many lives he’s destroyed?

  “Ethan, hello!” Margo says when she finally reaches
us. “It’s so good to see you. I was worried when I heard about the forest fires that took over so much of San Diego. You made it through okay?”

  She leans in for a quick hug and as I reciprocate, I keep my eyes trained on Brandon. Once again, just for a split second, his convivial mask falters and I see the quick flash of rage. Like a spoiled child who has to share his favorite toy, he’s furious that one of his biggest donors is more interested in me than she is in him.

  Of course, he doesn’t mind using my name to garner votes and fund-raising dollars, but that’s only as long as I don’t take too much of the spotlight off him. For most of our lives, I’ve been happy to play it that way. To give my baby brother the spotlight he so desperately craves while I stay in the background. But not here and not now. Not anymore. It’s past time my baby brother figures out just how many of his donors are here because of me.

  “We made it through unscathed,” I tell her. “But a lot of San Diego didn’t. Frost Industries has set up a fund to help people who have lost everything—a lot of people can’t afford to wait for their insurance money to come in. Especially not when they have to pay for a hotel, new clothes, new electronics. New everything, really.”

  “Trust you to think of that,” she says with an indulgent smile. “Have Claire give Steven a call tomorrow about a contribution to the fund,” she says, referring to the executives who are, respectively, in charge of our companies’ charitable donations.

  “I’ll have her do it first thing. Thank you.”

  “Anything for you, Ethan. You know that.” She pats my shoulder, then leans over the bar and orders a whiskey, neat.

  “Thank you for coming, Margo,” Brandon says once she’s got a drink in her hand. “Your support means the world to me.”