by Tracy Wolff
“Of course, Brandon. Everyone over at CVL is very excited about you becoming the next member of the House of Representatives. Ethan’s told us so much about you and we’re just thrilled to lend our support to the both of you.”
I can all but see his teeth grinding together.
The three of us chat amiably for a few more minutes, and with every second that passes, I can see Brandon getting more and more annoyed. Margo is more than polite to him, but she’s also pretty blatant about the fact that she’s my friend, not his. That she’s supporting him because I asked her to and because a large part of CVL’s revenue each year comes from the deal in place with Frost Industries.
I couldn’t have asked for a better segue into the conversation I came here to have, and as Margo drifts away to talk to someone else, I decide to take the opening she’s inadvertently provided me. After all, Brandon is a master at twisting things around and I’m not going to have that. Not today. Not about this. So it’s better to catch him when he’s pissed off and trying to hide it—he isn’t nearly as slippery when he’s just a little off his game.
“I need a few minutes of your time,” I tell him as Margo drifts back to her table.
His smile never falters. “I’m a little busy right now, in case you haven’t noticed. Besides, if you want to give me more shit about your little girlfriend, I have to tell you I’m just not that interested.”
The fury that’s been riding me for weeks explodes, makes me see red, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to lunge for him right here in the middle of this fancy hotel ballroom. But I’ve already done that and it hasn’t changed a damn thing. So instead of wrapping my hands around his neck and squeezing until his eyes bug out, I let all the rage and disgust I’m feeling show on my face, in my eyes.
“Make no mistake, little brother, we’re going to have this discussion. It makes no difference to me if we do it here, in front of all your donors, or if we find somewhere a little bit more private. But either way, it’s going to happen and it’s going to happen now.” I lay a hand on his shoulder to underscore my resolve.
He tries to shrug me off, but I’m not having it. I dig my fingers in, wait for him to decide what he wants to do. It doesn’t take long for him to come around to my way of thinking, though I don’t know if it’s because of the pain I’m causing him or because of the curious glances we’re attracting. I don’t give a shit what the reason is. All I care about is making sure Brandon gets my message loud and clear.
Without a word, I turn and walk toward the balcony doors at the back of the ballroom. It’s a warm day—probably one of the last here in Boston considering summer is drawing to a close—and the doors are closed to preserve the air-conditioning, which makes the balcony as good a place as any to talk. It’s probably the most privacy we’re going to find around here. We are the main attraction, after all.
Already, the handful of journalists he’s invited to attend are watching us, trying to figure out why we’re heading outside just as the room is filling up with Brandon’s supporters. I ignore them. Brandon doesn’t. He smiles and waves, tosses them a few carefully reviewed “off-the-cuff” comments. Then whirls on me the second the balcony doors close behind us.
“What the fuck is your problem, E?” he demands, furious. “I have a room full of people waiting to give me money and you have no business getting in the middle of that. The campaign needs these donations.” Despite his words, and the tone they’re delivered in, his smile stays in place.
The disgust I’ve been feeling since I got here solidifies in my stomach. Fueled by it—and the rage that’s been running just under my skin since this whole nightmare began—I do what I came here to do. I slap him down. Hard. Hard enough to make up for what I won’t be able to do if I keep my promise to Chloe.
“You’re not going to get one more penny from those people,” I tell him. “Not from them or from anyone else. Your days of collecting donations are over.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he scoffs with a disbelieving laugh.
“Is it? Because you can do it, or I can do it. And my way means you’ll never get support from anyone, anywhere, ever again.”
“Jesus. You think you’re so fucking important, y—”
“Make no mistake, Brandon. In this arena, I am very important.”
“Maybe so. But I have connections, too, you know. Even if you get Margo and some of the other donors to drop out, I have my own donors. I can still get the funds I need to run all on my own.”
“I assume you’re talking about Nico Valducci.” I have the pleasure of watching his jaw drop. “When’s the last time you talked to him?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, as of a week ago, Nico won’t take your calls. He won’t donate to your campaign, he won’t extend you any more credit for your little gambling problem. He’s out, and so are all of his friends.”
“You son of a bitch.”
“True words, Brandon. But you might want to keep in mind that we share the same mother.” I step back a little, gesture to the ballroom filled with press and campaign donors. “Now, this is the only chance you’re going to get to walk away from this, so I suggest you take it. I suggest you walk back into that room and formally withdraw your candidacy in front of all those reporters and donors. Tell them you’ve had a change of heart and that public service isn’t for you, after all. Which isn’t even a stretch now, is it?”
“Are you insane? Why would I do that?” His smile still hasn’t budged, though it has gone a little flat around the edges. Combined with the stirrings of fear in his eyes, the whole look is a little macabre.
“You’re going to do exactly that,” I tell him, “because if you do, I’ll walk away. I won’t tell them what you did to Chloe and all those other women. I won’t tell them about your gambling problem and your ties to the Vegas mafia. I won’t even tell them about the drugs. If you walk in there and do exactly what I’m telling you to do, I won’t rip you apart in front of the most influential people and reporters in Boston.”
The fear has turned to sheer, out-and-out panic combined with a healthy dose of anger. His anger is nothing compared to the fury that seethes inside of me, growing with every second that Chloe’s rape and pain is unavenged.
“You wouldn’t!!” he snaps out. “Mom would—”
“First of all, you’re going to want to be very careful about bringing our mother into this,” I warn him. “After the stunt she pulled a couple of weeks ago, I’ve got about as much respect for her as I do for you. And second, ignore me and I’ll do exactly that and not feel an ounce of guilt about it.”
“There’s no way I’m giving up my candidacy. I’ve worked too hard to get here,” he snarls, sounding more like a petulant child than a candidate for Congress. “And you can’t make me.”
“Maybe you’re right.” I lift a brow, shrug negligently. “Maybe I can’t make you withdraw from the race. But I can damn sure make it so that the press destroys you. By the time I’m done, there won’t be a person left in this whole goddamned state willing to vote for you.”
“You wouldn’t dare—”
I snap then, my good intentions going out the window like so much smoke. This is the bastard who raped my wife, who made her life a living hell for years after that. The thought keeps pounding in my brain, keeps moving forward until my hands are grabbing onto the lapels of his jacket and I’m hauling him onto his tiptoes so that we’re face-to-face. “You don’t have a fucking clue what I’ll dare to keep you from being elected, Brandon. Not one fucking clue. But keep pushing and you’ll find out.”
“Ethan.” He goes from confrontational to wheedling in seconds. “Come on, man. I’ve been working for this my whole life—”
“You should have thought of that before you decided raping a woman was an appropriate way to end a date. It’s about time you realized that actions have consequences, Brandon. That the whole damn world isn’t yours for the taking. Most people le
arn that lesson by kindergarten—”
“Don’t lecture me, you sanctimonious prick.” He struggles to throw my hands off, but I’m not budging. Not now, not on this. “You’ve had everything you’ve ever wanted just handed to you. And if you think you can come in here and order me to give up my candidacy, then fuck you.”
“Throwing a temper tantrum isn’t going to change the way this plays out, little brother.” I use the nickname deliberately. “You’ve only got one option.”
“There are nondisclosure agreements—”
“Fuck nondisclosure agreements. You think I won’t buy those women’s way out of them and consider it the best use of my money, ever?”
He pales for the first time, the angry red flush fading into pasty whiteness. “You’re my brother. You wouldn’t do that to me.”
I ignore the pang that comes with his words, shove it down deep where he can’t see just how close to home he’s hitting. “You raped the woman I love and made her lie about it. Then you came to my house and taunted her with what you’d done. Any small amount of loyalty I felt for you died the day you sent Chloe fleeing barefoot from my house. From me.”
If possible, he grows even paler. “You’re bluffing.”
“Call my bluff then,” I tell him with a shrug. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“There’s no way you’d go out there and spill Chloe’s dirty little secret to the world.”
My control slips another notch. “Let’s get one thing straight, asshole. It’s your dirty secret, not Chloe’s. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Do you really think the world will see it that way by the time I get done with her? Especially when they find out just how much money she took to rescind those vicious lies about me?”
“And the other women?”
“What other women?” It’s his turn to lean forward. “It’s funny, really. As rich as you are and you still don’t get that money truly can buy anything.”
“The fact that you actually believe that just might be the most pathetic thing about you. Maybe.”
“Who the fuck are you to call me pathetic? You’re so whipped—”
He breaks off as his campaign manager opens the doors, a concerned look on her face. “Brandon, people are getting restless. They paid for a chance to see you and you’re spending all your time out here.” She looks at me quizzically. “Everything okay, Ethan?”
“It will be, Debra.” The words are as much a threat as they are a promise, and by the way Brandon stiffens next to me, I know he understands that.
Debra looks between us, then pastes a bright smile on her own lips. “Excellent. Then you won’t mind if I borrow our candidate for a little while?”
“Not at all. Have at him.” I gesture for Brandon to proceed me through the doors.
He does, without another word. And as he crosses the room to one of his other big donors, hand out and smile fixed permanently in place, he doesn’t look back once.
“Are you staying for his speech?” Debra asks as we watch him schmooze the crowd.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
—
An hour and fifteen minutes later, I watch as Brandon wraps up his speech. A speech that in no way contained the withdrawal from the race that I demanded of him.
Damn it.
As he steps down off the elevated platform in the front of the room, he shoots me a defiant look. One that very blatantly tells me that he’s sure he’s called my bluff. Sure that he has the upper hand.
And a few months ago, he might have. Then again, a few months ago, I never would have imagined doing anything that might jeopardize his political career. But that was then and this is now.
In the last couple of months, I’ve held Chloe while she cried. I’ve listened as she talked about her family’s betrayal and watched helplessly as she’s walked away from me on numerous occasions. The Ethan who used to pull his punches, who would have done anything to protect his younger brother, is long gone. Now, what I want—all I want—is to protect Chloe. And to avenge her.
I watch Brandon make a final loop around the room, oozing charm and confidence and charisma as he takes the big-fish donors for everything he can get. The press are following him, the reporters looking game if a little bored as the cameras record the whole thing.
I bide my time, keeping busy by chatting aimlessly with Margo and the COO of one of the big medical centers located in the Boston area. It doesn’t take long for my brother to work his way around to us—and the journalists with him.
As he shakes Margo’s hand, I turn my body, make myself a little more available. Sure enough, it only takes a few seconds before one of the television reporters calls out, “Ethan, it’s great of you to be here today. Do you have any words of encouragement for your brother now that we’re only a couple months out from the election?”
And there it is. The opening I’ve been waiting for.
Beside me, I feel Brandon tense as it occurs to him for the first time that the only reason the press even bothered to show up to his run-of-the-mill fund-raiser is because I wanted them here. He might be running for Congress, but I’m the real story here—especially now that the news has broken that I’m off the bachelor market.
But that isn’t the story I want to make headlines tonight—Chloe is my business and mine alone. And if Brandon hasn’t figured out yet that I don’t need to use Chloe’s pain to tank his political career, then he’s about to learn a very valuable lesson.
“Actually, Daniel, in light of some new information that I’ve received, I have to tell you that I no longer support Brandon’s run for Congress in any way. In fact, I’m so concerned that he doesn’t have what it takes to be a member of the United States House of Representatives that I’m withdrawing all my financial support for his campaign and pledging it to his competitor, Lauren Bradley, instead. “
For long seconds, nobody moves or speaks or even breathes. And then, as one, all the reporters in the room explode with questions.
“What new information?”
“You’re actually withdrawing your support from your brother?”
“Is this new information about illegal activity?”
“What information provoked such a drastic change of heart?”
I let them fire the questions at me for long seconds, before holding a hand up to silence them. Brandon is next to me, all but tripping over his own tongue as he tries to do damage control. Too bad he didn’t think of that before.
“At this point, I have no other comment on the matter. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a plane to catch.”
I turn and walk away with the reporters’ questions ringing in my ears.
Chapter 16
So that didn’t go quite as I planned. Fuck. So nice to know I can keep my cool when it comes to my younger brother’s complete and utter lack of a conscience or any moral compass whatsoever.
The bastard. The unbelievable bastard.
How he could be so smug, so obnoxious, so utterly lacking in both human decency and self-preservation, I will never know. But his personality defects make me want to go back in there and beat the shit out of him all over again. In front of every reporter in the goddamn room.
The fucking, fucking, fucking bastard.
I don’t, though. Instead, I keep walking, telling myself that I’ve done more than enough damage tonight—something my phone only underscores as the thing completely blows up before I even make it back to my car.
My publicist, Stu, is leading the pack with a string of nearly incoherent texts, each one ending with a request that I call him ASAP. Judging by the sheer volume of texts he’s managed to send in the ten minutes since I walked out of Brandon’s fund-raiser, I’d say the reporters in there have been busy.
I probably should have given the poor guy a heads-up about what to expect. Especially considering the fact that it’s close to nine o’clock California time.
I shoot him back a quick text that tells him to hold
at no comment for the rest of the night—we’ll work up a more formal statement when I’m back in the office tomorrow morning.
I glance at my other texts, all from donors who were in that room tonight because, at one time, I had asked them to be there. I owe them all an explanation and I’ll be giving them one—just not now. Just not tonight.
The last text is from my mother. It’s a simple request that I call her but I can all but hear the rage in her voice. It’s nothing compared to the rage in my own head, however, so I figure I should probably wait awhile before actually heeding her request.
My plane is set to take off at one this morning, and since it’s nearly midnight, I need to hustle if I’m going to get the rental car back and still make the flight time. I kept the three VPs who accompanied me on this trip waiting half an hour on the tarmac in San Diego. I don’t want to do the same thing here.
I fire off another quick text to Stuart, telling him the bare bones of the situation that just occurred. Seeing as how he’s been bombarded with requests from every news organization that was in the room when I made the announcement, I’m sure he already knows. Still, he needs to understand my side of what happened as opposed to theirs. I tack on one final text to him—this one an apology for not giving him any warning of what was about to come his way—then shove my phone into my pocket.
I want to text Chloe, just to check on her and to hear her voice in my head when I read her answering texts. But I’m still furious from my run-in with Brandon and I don’t want to have to explain all of this to her when I’m thousands of miles away. She knows me well enough to read between the lines when I’m upset and I don’t want her to push for answers I’m not ready to give.
I’m halfway to the airport when my phone rings. The in-dash console lets me know that it’s my mother calling. I think about ignoring her for a while longer, but the truth is, I’d rather get this done before I get on the plane instead of after.
Tamping down my anger, I accept the call. “Hi, Mom. How are you?”
“Is that even a serious question?” she demands after a too-long pause. “Ethan Matthew Frost, have you actually lost your mind?”