Addicted (Ethan Frost 2)

By the time I get to the front gates of the condominium, cold sweat is pouring down my back and my breath is coming out in strangled gasps. I’d like to blame it on the run, but I know better. So does Ethan, who’s watching me with pained eyes and a tightly clenched jaw.

I fumble with the key, try to get the front gate open, but my hands are trembling too hard for me to even get it in the lock. Ethan reaches for me, tries to take the key.

“Don’t!” It’s part gasp, part screech, and all batshit crazy. I don’t care, though, not when it gets the job done and he takes a step back.

“Chloe, please. I just want to—”

“I don’t give a shit what you want!” The words are garbled—my tongue feels thick and clumsy in my mouth—but that doesn’t matter to me. Nothing does but getting in my goddamn building and getting the fuck away from Ethan Frost.

Miraculously, the key slides into the lock at the same moment my control breaks. I shove the gate open, and make a run for it.

Ethan calls my name as the gate clatters shut behind me, but I’m too far gone to care. Too far gone to do anything but wrap my arms around myself as I shatter into a million pieces.

Turns out Humpty Dumpty has nothing on me.

Chapter Three

Tori jumps up from her spot on the couch the second I slam into the condo.

“Chloe?” she asks, the look of expectation on her face turning to horror as my legs give out and I tumble roughly to the ceramic tile of our entryway.

“Chlo?” She crosses to me then, leans down to help me up, but I don’t grab on to the hand she offers. I can’t. Everything hurts and right now, just breathing is all I can handle.

“Chloe, what’s wrong?” When I still don’t respond, she drops onto the floor beside me, her voice growing more urgent with every word she speaks. “What’s going on? Are you hurt? Did you have an accident—”

&nbs

p; I laugh then, a harsh, hysterical sort of sound that is torn from deep inside me. It hurts my chest even as it hangs in the air around us.

I want to answer her. I do. If for no other reason than to get her to leave me to lick my wounds in peace. But I can’t. My mouth is dry, too dry to make any coherent noises, and my lips seem to have forgotten how to form words anyway.

I seem to have forgotten everything.

Everything but Ethan and Brandon and the emptiness that stretches between us.

Ethan. His name is a dull blade deep inside of me, a piece of jagged glass that cuts from every edge.

“At least tell me if you’re hurt,” Tori demands, her hands fisting at her sides.

I shake my head before laying my cheek against the cool tile. I’m curled up in a macabre imitation of child’s pose, my knees tucked beneath me, my hips resting on my heels, my face to the floor. Only, there is no peace in this pose for me. No serenity. Only hopelessness and rage and sickness. So much sickness that every breath I take brings a new wave of it.

Brandon. Ethan. Brandon. Ethan.

Their names echo with each beat of my heart.

“Damn it, Chloe! What is going on?” Tori’s face is next to mine now, her green eyes narrow with fear and fury. She looks like an avenging angel—all wrath and vengeance and bright pink hair. At another moment, I might appreciate her determined defense of me. But right now, it just makes me tired. “What did Ethan Frost do to you?” she demands.

Too much. He’s done too much and not enough. He’s ruined me all over again and this time, I can’t even say I didn’t see it coming. Because I did. Oh, God, I did. At the very beginning, when I was fighting this thing between us, I’d known how it would end. I didn’t imagine this—how could I have—but I’d known things wouldn’t end like a Disney fairy tale. Not when my life is so much more Hans Christian Andersen. But even knowing that, I’d let him in, preferring to believe his pretty words and my pathetic heart instead of the hard truths life has taught me again and again and again.

I’m paying for it now. Paying for my foolish optimism and even more foolish emotions. Part of me thinks it’s no more than I deserve. And the rest of me … the rest of me is too destroyed to care.

“I’m fine.” The words are low and gritty as I force them out of my too-tight throat.

Tori snorts. “Yeah. Because that’s totally what I think of when I look at you. Fine.”

She wraps one tattooed arm around my waist, and grabs on to my wrist with her other hand. Before I know it, she’s pulling me off the floor and into a warm, comforting hug.

Comfort isn’t her typical modus operandi—her shell’s a little too hard for that—so I figure I must look as bad as I feel. It’s a frightening thought, since currently death feels like it would be a step up.