Play Me Hard (Play Me 3)
“So, what are you doing here?” Ethan asks after draining half his scotch in one sip.
“Funny. I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I told you, I’m celebrating my engagement to a fabulous woman.” He eyes me over the rim of his glass.
“While I agree that getting a woman like Chloe to marry you definitely deserves a celebration, we’ve been friends a long time, Eth. Something else is going on, too.”
“You could say that.”
“I am saying that. So spill, man. What’s up?”
He shakes his head, looking more than a little sick. “The truth is, I knew you were back from Haiti. I came here because I wanted to talk to you about Brandon.”
“Ahh.” I take a sip of my beer. “Of course.”
I’ve met Ethan’s younger half-brother a couple dozen times through the years and I’ve always thought he was a dick. A total, out-for-number-one, always-gets-what-he-wants, willing-to-fuck-over-anyone, class-A dick. Of course, I’ve kept my opinion on the matter to myself. Partly because he’s Ethan’s little brother and the guy has always looked out for him and partly because my opinion has always been the minority. Most people who know Brandon can’t see past his charming demeanor to the asshole who lurks below. Ethan’s not one of those people—he knows exactly who his brother is—but he’s always taken care of him anyway. Tried to keep him out of trouble.
“What’s he done now?”
Ethan looks at me for long seconds, face hard and eyes cold as a desert night. “This doesn’t go any further.”
It’s not a question, but then again, it doesn’t have to be. Ethan and I may play in different pools, but we’ve had each other’s back for years.
“So it’s bad, then.” Not a question on my part, either. “Tell me.”
He’s silent for a while longer, but eventually he drains his drink and says, “He raped Chloe.”
At first, I’m sure I’ve heard him wrong. But the look on his face is so grim, the anger in his eyes so violent, that I know I haven’t. The silence stretches between us because I don’t have a clue what to say. I mean, there’s nothing to say, except, “What the fuck, Ethan?”
“It was a long time ago, when they were in school together. He was a senior, she was a freshman.”
“She didn’t report it.”
“She did.” He clenches his jaw. “My mother and her husband bought her family off, made her drop the charges. She recanted her statement, signed non-disclosure agreements.”
Again, nothing to say but, “What the fuck?”
I get up this time, though, take his glass from his hand and walk back over to the bar to refill it. And to pour a couple fingers for myself, as well. The fact that he doesn’t protest when I hand him three fingers of scotch this time—that, in fact, he slams it back like a sailor on payday—tells me everything I need to know about his state of mind. Or lack thereof.
“I can’t fucking sleep. Can’t fucking breathe. All I can do is think about what he did to her. About how he raped her and then shoved her out of the car onto the street like she was garbage. Like she was nothing.
“And she’s probably not the only one he did that to.” He slams his glass down onto the table in front of him. “He just turned twenty-five. He’s running for fucking Congress. It’s his first step toward the White House and there’s a damn good chance he’s going to win the seat. He’s a fucking rapist and he’s going to be a congressional representative. And then he’ll be a senator and then who the fuck knows. President?
“The thought makes me fucking sick. Chloe still has nightmares about what he did to her and that bastard is going to get a seat in Congress? Over my dead body. Over my dead fucking body.”
He looks vicious right now, and totally determined. Not that I blame him. If someone ever hurt Aria—I nip that thought right in the bud. Partly because I can’t handle thinking about something happening to her, and partly because I’ve only known her a couple days. It’s insane how much I’m feeling for her already. How attached I am.
“So what’s the plan?” I ask after a minute.
He’s far away, locked deep in the hell of his own mind and it takes him a few seconds to focus on the question. “The plan?”
“What are we going to do about it?”
He looks me dead in the eye. “We’re going to ruin him. I can’t send him to jail—at least not for raping Chloe. But I’ve been digging and the son of a bitch has been playing fast and loose with the law since before he was legal. He’s a rapist and a thief and a dealer—and that’s just what I know about so far. There’s no way he’s winning that election. No fucking way.”
“What does Vegas have to do with any of that?” I ask, but I already know. The sinking feeling in my stomach says it all.
“He’s got his fingers—and his trust fund—in a bunch of different pies here. Anthony Zanetti. Gabriel Santini.” He looks at me.