Flawed (Ethan Frost 4)

She looks at me for the first time since she started this conversation. “Isn’t what?”

“Isn’t easy for me to say. I want to watch you hang that bastard out to dry, want to watch you fry his ass every way it can be fried. But this isn’t about me or what I want. And it’s not about Ethan or Chloe or Ethan’s PR people, either. No matter how much we’re trying to help, no matter how hard we’re trying to spin this in your favor, in the end it isn’t about any of us. It’s about you. And if you don’t want to do it, if you feel like going on TV and talking about this will only hurt you more or make you feel worse, then don’t do it.”

I reach over, put a hand on her knee. There’s a part of me that expects her to pull back, to pull into herself and away from my touch—and my advice. But the opposite happens instead. It’s like she’s just been waiting for me to reach out to her, because her whole body goes limp and she melts into my touch. Melts into me.

I pull her close, into my side at first and then onto my lap as I use every ounce of willpower I have to keep myself from trembling with relief. With gratitude.

She burrows into me, wraps her arms and legs around me and buries her face against my neck. I pull her even closer—hold her even tighter—and start to rock her back and forth. As I do, I realize she’s not crying tonight, and she’s not shaking.

She might be clinging to me like a limpet, but when she lifts her head to look at me, she is dry-eyed and resolute.

“You really don’t think I should do the interview?” she asks, studying my face.

“I didn’t say that.”

She looks confused. “I thought that was exactly what you said.”

“What I said was, if you don’t want to do it, then it’s okay not to do it. The last thing you need is to be forced into it—even if it is by the people who love you. If going to that studio and letting them ask questions about that tape and your relationship with that asshole upsets you or freaks you out or makes you—for even one second—feel like Parsons is getting another chance to hurt you, then fuck, no, you shouldn’t do the interview. This is about you now, not him, and how you handle it needs to make sense to you. Nobody else, just you.”

“So you think I should do the interview?” She looks totally confused and I don’t blame her.

Because the truth is, hell, yeah, I think she should do the interview. If she’s on her game, Tori could annihilate the motherfucker in a single sound bite. She could blow his whole stack of cards ten miles high, and that is something I would pay a lot of money to see. But not if it hurts her. Not if it causes her any more pain than she’s already gone through.

“I think you should do what’s right for you, sweetheart.”

“Chloe said I could be a spokesperson for other women who have gone through the same thing. That I could draw attention to the double standard and—”

“No offense to my sister, but fuck that.”

Her eyes go wide. “Excuse me?”

“Seriously. Fuck that. I mean, sure, maybe you could draw a spotlight to the double standard on this sort of thing. Maybe you could do some good. But not if it risks your own psyche. Remember, you are what’s important here. You are what matters. Not the American public’s curiosity. Not being a spokesperson for other women who have suffered this same thing. And definitely not the bastard who got you into this mess.”

“You’re not making this decision any easier, you know.” She sighs heavily. “I’m a grown woman. It shouldn’t be this hard to figure out what’s right for myself.”

“I’m sorry.” I press a kiss to the top of her head since she’s got her face buried in my chest again. “I wish I could do this for you.”

“No, you don’t.” She’s smirking when she lifts her face to mine. “No sane person would wish this craziness on themselves.”

“I’d trade places with you in a second if I could. You don’t deserve this.”

Her laugh is bitter. “You sure about that? A girl plays with fire long enough, she’s bound to get burned.”

“This isn’t getting burned. This is getting incinerated. And yeah, I’m damn sure you don’t deserve it.”

I grab the almost empty wine bottle, pour the dregs into Tori’s glass, and hold it out to her.

She shakes her head. “I’ve had enough, thanks.”

It’s not the answer I was expecting. Not because I haven’t noticed that Tori’s cleaned up her act recently—I have—but because I don’t think anyone would blame her for needing some liquid courage right now. Or just something to help her relax. God knows, I’m ready to grab the nearest bottle of Jack and down a couple of shots, and all of this isn’t even happening to me.

I grab on to her instead, pull her even closer. And then kiss her with all the rampaging emotion inside me. With all the love and fury and fear for her that are slowly eating away at me.

She pulls back first, and when she opens her eyes I see the tears she tries desperately to blink away. It fuels the fire inside me, brings my rage to a boiling point. Goddamnit.

I want to tell her not to cry, want to tell her everything is going to be okay. But who the fuck knows if that’s even true? Who the fuck knows how this is going to turn out?

Look at Chloe and the mess that came back years later to tear her life apart. Tori wasn’t raped like Chloe was, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t violated. Doesn’t mean she isn’t suffering. If she wants to cry, I damn well feel like she’s earned that right.