Access Denied

Chloe

"Tell me to stop."

Ethan's voice was low enough that I felt the words more than heard them.

His hands rested on either side of me, trapping me between the narrow counter and the solid warmth of his body. The top half of his firesuit hung loose around his hips, the sleeves knotted carelessly in front of him. A black compression shirt clung to his chest, still damp from the heat inside the car.

He smelled like champagne, sweat and the faintest trace of fuel.

Victory.

"Why would I do that?" I whispered.

One devastating dimple appeared. "Because you've spent the last three hours pretending you don't want this."

"I was in Victory Lane. There were cameras."

"There aren't any cameras here."

His motorcoach suddenly felt much smaller.

Outside, the celebration continued. Music pulsed somewhere beyond the tinted windows, mingling with distant voices and the occasional blast of an air horn. His team was still drinking the beer and champagne they hadn't sprayed over one another. Thousands of fans were beginning the slow migration toward the exits.

Inside, Ethan watched my mouth.

"You looked at me a certain way," he said.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Liar."

His thumb brushed the corner of my lips. My breath caught.

"You looked at me like champagne wasn't what you wanted to taste."

Every coherent thought disappeared.

He gave me one final opportunity to stop him. I curled my fingers into the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. The first touch of his mouth was almost careful. A question. The second wasn't.

Ethan kissed me with the same focused intensity he carried onto the track, one hand settling against my waist while the other slid into my hair. I parted my lips beneath his and tasted champagne on his tongue. He made a rough sound low in his throat, lifting me onto the counter as if I weighed nothing.

My knees framed his hips. His mouth left mine and moved along my jaw, then lower, finding the pulse racing beneath my skin.

"Still want me to stop?"

"Don't you dare."

His laugh warmed my throat.

One hand slipped beneath the hem of my dress. Then Ethan Hastings sank slowly to his knees.

I stared at the final line. It was cruel. Possibly evil. Definitely effective.

I moved the cursor to the end of the sentence, considered adding another paragraph and decided against it. Anticipation was an essential part of storytelling. At least that was what I planned to tell the readers who were about to threaten me with bodily harm.

At the bottom of the chapter, I added an author's note.

Yes, I really did just end it here. Now everyone is going to have to wait patiently. Be nice in the comments. Or at least be creative.

I clicked Publish.

The thirty-seventh chapter of my latest story went live on FFNation at 1:42 p.m.

The first comment appeared one minute and fourteen seconds later.

YOU DID NOT.

The second followed almost immediately.

PATIENTLY??? You have deeply misunderstood the relationship between an author and her readers.

A third notification slid across the corner of my screen.

I hope both sides of your pillow are warm.

I laughed and reached for my coffee.

Empty.

That was probably for the best. I had already consumed enough caffeine to make the individual beats of my heart feel negotiable.

Bristol raised his head from where he was curled beside my desk. His copper eyebrows shifted as he studied me with the quiet disapproval only a dog could achieve.

"Don't judge me. They love it."

His tail thumped once against the carpet.

Another comment appeared.

You are a menace and I will never forgive you. See you next chapter.

"See?" I gestured toward the monitor. "Perfectly healthy creative relationship."

Bristol sighed and put his head back down.

I refreshed the page. Twelve more comments.

My readers knew me as Heiress15. Someone bold enough to write Ethan Hastings pushing a woman onto a motorcoach counter after winning a race. They knew the version of me who traded jokes in the comments, chatted with other writers late into the night and posted unapologetically romantic stories for thousands of strangers.

They didn't know that I sometimes had to rehearse a phone call before ordering takeout.

They didn't know my real name, what I looked like or where I lived. They didn't know that the woman writing shamelessly confident heroines had once abandoned a full grocery cart because the store became too crowded.

Online, I could be anyone.

Offline, I was currently late for Thanksgiving.

"Shit."

I shot out of my chair so quickly that Bristol jumped to his feet.

Dinner was supposed to begin at two. Bethany had informed me that she expected everyone by one fifteen, which was absurd considering she lived twenty-five minutes away and she would not serve anything before precisely two o'clock.

Arriving early only created additional time for her to examine my clothes, criticize my life and ask questions she had no right to ask.

I had planned to leave at one thirty.

Then I had rewritten the motorcoach scene. Three times.

"This is Ethan Hastings's fault," I told Bristol as I hurried toward the bedroom.

The dog followed me.

"Okay, technically, fictional Ethan Hastings. The real one has no idea what I just made him do."

That thought should have bothered me more than it did.

I had seen the real Ethan once, several years ago, when I still worked in the IT department at American Speedway Holdings. He had rounded a corner while looking at his phone and walked directly into me, sending my folders and laptop bag crashing to the floor.

For someone who made his living avoiding collisions, he had been spectacularly bad at it.

The entire interaction lasted less than two minutes. He apologized, helped gather my things and made some smart comment about normally having a spotter. Then he looked at my mismatched eyes, told me they were incredible and smiled.

Those dimples had been haunting my imagination ever since.

Not that he would remember me.

I pulled a black sweater from the closet and paired it with dark jeans. Comfortable, simple and unlikely to give Bethany material, although she had turned criticizing a person's existence into an art form. If I arrived in a burlap sack, she would have an opinion on the fit.

My makeup required damage control. A faint smudge of mascara had appeared beneath one eye, and the concealer around my nose had surrendered sometime during chapter thirty-seven. I repaired what I could, then dragged a brush through my hair.

Returning it to my natural dirty blonde had seemed like an excellent decision in the salon, and well worth the effort it took to drag myself there. The darker roots and wheat-colored lengths suited me better than the bright highlights I had maintained for years.

Bethany was going to hate it.

That thought almost made me like it more.

I reached for my purse and caught sight of Bristol watching me from the doorway.

He knew.

Shoes normally meant I was taking him outside or we were leaving together. When I picked up my keys instead of his leash, his ears lowered.

"Don't look at me like that."

He remained motionless.

"You can't come. Aunt Bethany is allergic to anything with fur."

Bristol glanced down at himself as if this were an unfortunate design flaw.

"I know. Personally, I think you're perfect."

He crossed the room and rested his chin on my knee.

My chest tightened.

Not because of Bristol. Because I was already imagining Bethany's house; the overlapping conversations, the clatter of dishes, the questions and the assessing looks. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin.

I wiped a bead of perspiration from my forehead, undoubtedly taking part of my freshly repaired makeup with it.

"Why do I even bother?"

Bristol leaned more firmly against me. The pressure around my chest increased. My pulse climbed. I recognized the progression, which didn't make it any less frightening.

No. I was not doing this.

I sat on the floor and lowered my head, concentrating on taking slow, measured breaths. In through my nose. Hold. Out through my mouth. Every coping technique my therapist had taught me seemed to vanish precisely when I needed it.

I buried both hands in Bristol's thick fur and focused on what was real.

His warmth. The softness beneath my fingers. The steady rise and fall of his ribs. His quiet huff as he settled more of his weight against me.

Gradually, I found my happy place.

The room disappeared beneath the thunder of high-horsepower engines. I imagined the vibration beneath my feet, the sharp smell of fuel and hot rubber, and the rush of race cars streaking past in a blur of color.

A racetrack was a strange sanctuary for someone with social anxiety, but racing had never been what frightened me.

People did.

My breathing slowly steadied. The pressure around my chest loosened.

I could do this. It was only Thanksgiving with my family.

Then again, most people didn't have Bethany for a sister.

I kissed the top of Bristol's head and stood.

"If she asks why I'm still single, I'm leaving."

He tilted his head.

"Fine. When she asks."

*****************

"You're late, Chloe."

Bethany greeted me with a frown and a stiff, awkward hug that brought our bodies into the least possible amount of contact.

I glanced at the clock above her shoulder. Two-eighteen.

"Just a few minutes." I replied, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

"I expected you an hour ago."

"You didn't tell me that. You said two."

"I shouldn't have to."

There it was. Bethany logic. A separate branch of reasoning unsupported by fact, science or basic human decency.

At forty-eight, my half sister could easily pass for younger. She looked almost exactly like our mother had at that age; tall, slender, blonde and blue-eyed. The resemblance might have been comforting if Bethany hadn't paired it with an inverted bob and the permanent expression of a woman demanding to speak to the manager.

Karen.

I had never called her that to her face.

Yet.

"Good to see you, kiddo."

Travis appeared behind her and pulled me into a much warmer hug. At forty-five, my half brother had seventeen years on me, but he had never tried to use the age difference as proof that he was entitled to manage my life.

"You look nice," he added.

"Thanks."

Bethany touched the ends of my hair. I resisted the instinct to jerk away.

"What did you do to this?"

"Returned it to its natural color."

"It's too dark. It makes you look pale."

"Hello to you too."

"I'm only being honest."

Bethany's cruelty frequently arrived disguised as honesty, concern or advice. The packaging changed. The contents did not.

"I like it," Travis said. "Makes your eyes stand out."

"Thank you."

"They already stand out," Bethany said. "They don't need help."

I smiled sweetly. "It's reassuring to know my natural appearance has your approval."

Her eyes narrowed.

Before she could respond, Mason appeared and slung an arm around my shoulders.

"Aunt Chloe."

"Call me that again and I'll change the Wi-Fi password."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me, nephew."

He grinned and released me. Mason was Bethany's son, but only five years younger than me. Calling him my nephew felt like a genealogical technicality. We had grown up more like siblings, and he spent enough nights at my house to have accumulated an entire wardrobe there while I continued to insist he did not live with me.

He leaned closer. "You okay?"

I nodded.

His gaze lingered for another second. Mason knew the difference between okay and capable of remaining upright for the foreseeable future.

"Hannah's family is expecting me at four," he said. "You want to escape when I do?"

"I might escape before appetizers."

"Fair."

Dinner was served at two forty because, despite the emergency allegedly created by my arrival, nothing had been ready.

The turkey was dry. Bethany implied this was my fault.

"It had to stay in the oven longer while we waited," she said.

"You removed it before I arrived."

"The rest of the meal was delayed."

"Which somehow traveled backward in time and affected the turkey?"

Travis disguised a laugh as a cough. His wife, Anna, became deeply interested in her mashed potatoes.

Conversation remained cautious through dinner. Everyone knew it took very little to set Bethany off, and no one wanted to become her next project. Mason and his younger sister, Amelia, ate quickly. Travis and Anna's children, Nathan and Lydia, spoke primarily to one another.

I took small bites and tried not to think about the story notifications accumulating on my phone. I had eaten cereal for breakfast and a stale strawberry Pop-Tart sometime before noon, but anxiety had transformed the meal in front of me into something largely theoretical.

Amelia left for her boyfriend's house as soon as the plates were cleared. Mason lasted another six minutes before grabbing his jacket.

He stopped behind my chair and squeezed my shoulder.

"Text me if you need me."

"Go have fun."

"I'm serious."

"I know."

He gave his mother a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, ignored her complaint that he was abandoning the family, and disappeared through the front door.

Traitor.

I waited three minutes before reaching for my purse.

"Are you still going to therapy regularly?" Bethany asked.

My hand stopped. Of course.

"Yes. My next appointment is in two weeks."

"Well, at least that gets you out of the house."

"Sometimes my appointments are virtual."

Her mouth tightened. "Naturally."

Travis set down his coffee. "How is work?"

I recognized the attempted rescue and loved him for it.

"Technically, I'm not working right now."

"What happened?"

"I sold Imperial."

Travis stared at me. "The program or the company?"

"Both."

"When?"

"We finalized everything last month."

His surprise turned into a broad smile. "Chloe, that's incredible."

"It was the right offer at the right time."

"You built that platform from nothing."

"I designed it. My team helped build it."

"You're allowed to take credit for your own work."

"I am. I'm also not going to pretend I did it alone."

The acquiring company had agreed to retain my entire development team, including the two technicians who had been with me from the beginning. That mattered more to me than seeing my name on the final contract.

"What are you going to do now?" Anna asked.

I shrugged. "Take some time off. Sleep. Figure out whether I still remember what daylight looks like."

"So you're financially independent," Travis said.

"I was financially independent before."

"You know what I mean. You don't have to rush into another project."

Bethany's upper lip curled. "It isn't as though she ever had to work. Her father is worth hundreds of millions."

The familiar anger arrived instantly.

"My father's money didn't write the code."

"It paid for your education."

"I have never denied that."

"And there's a trust fund waiting if you ever get bored with playing businesswoman."

"I built a real company, Bethany."

"I'm aware." She waved one hand dismissively. "I'm simply saying there's no need to exhaust yourself proving a point. You could enjoy your life for once."

"I do enjoy my life."

"Do you?"

The question carried more judgment than concern.

"You sit in that house alone, working all night and sleeping half the day. You rarely go anywhere. You don't have friends your own age."

"Mason is at my house more than he's at yours."

"He claims it's closer to school."

"It is."

"By seven minutes."

I almost smiled. She had apparently calculated it.

"You need to get out and meet people," Bethany continued. "What about relationships? I was happy when you finally dated Christian. He was a catch, and you threw that away."

My stomach twisted.

"Christian was only interested in my family connections."

"He wanted a racing career. Ambition isn't a crime."

"He stole my father's number from my phone and asked him for sponsorship introductions behind my back."

"Maybe he knew you'd overreact."

For several seconds, I could only stare at her.

"He used me."

"You always assume the worst of people. Christian could have married you and given you a family."

"I have a family."

Bethany glanced around the table as if presenting evidence to the contrary. "You know what I mean. I didn't have Ben as a father, setting up trust funds and handing me a family legacy. I had to make my own way."

"No, you didn't." I snapped. "You married a wealthy man, then received a hefty divorce settlement and alimony. You didn't earn any of it."

Anna inhaled sharply. Travis muttered my name, but it was too late.

Bethany's face hardened. "You don't get to judge me. At least I put myself out there. I got married. I had children. I went after the life I wanted instead of hiding from it."

"Your children fled the house before dessert."

"They had plans."

"They always have plans."

"My children understand that I refuse to take anyone's shit."

"They understand that every conversation with you is a hostage situation."

"How dare you speak to me like that."

"Okay, Karen."

The words escaped beneath my breath. Travis made a strangled sound behind me.

Bethany's head snapped around. "What did you call me?"

"Bethany."

"You said Karen."

"Did I?"

"I heard you."

"Then why did you ask?"

"You should show me some respect."

I glared at her. “You aren't my mother."

The moment the words left my mouth, something flickered across her face. Grief, perhaps. Or anger that I had invoked the one person neither of us could fight about without drawing blood.

It vanished quickly.

"No," she said. "I'm not. But someone needs to tell you how to live your life, because you aren't doing a very good job of it."

"What I need is for you to be my sister. Stop trying to control me and support me for once."

"How can I support you when you keep making a mess of things? This social-avoidance phase has gone on long enough."

"It isn't a phase."

"You've worked from home for years. You barely see anyone, and now you've sold the only thing forcing you to interact with people."

"My company employed twelve people."

"Through a computer."

"They were still real people."

"You can't spend the rest of your life hiding in that house with a dog."

"Watch me."

"Therapy is supposed to make you better, Chloe."

The words landed exactly where she intended them to.

"It helps me manage my anxiety."

"Everyone gets nervous. The rest of us don't arrange our entire lives around avoiding discomfort."

"I have a diagnosis, Bethany. You have an opinion."

"I'm trying to help."

"No. You're trying to turn me into someone you find easier to understand."

"That's enough."

Travis's voice cut across the room. Everyone went silent. He rarely raised his voice. He didn't need to.

"Chloe built a company from nothing, sold it on her own terms and made certain every person working for her still had a job afterward. She owns her home. She supports herself. She sees a therapist because she takes her health seriously."

His expression hardened as he looked at Bethany. "Which part of that looks like she isn't managing her life?"

"You don't know everything."

"I know enough. You're picking at her because tearing Chloe down makes you feel better about yourself."

"Stay out of it, Travis." Bethany glared at him.

"No. I've stayed out of it for too long."

I noticed the shocked faces around the table. Anna looked quietly proud. Nathan and Lydia appeared to be reconsidering every complaint they had ever made about their father.

I stood and picked up my purse.

"I think I've had enough socializing for the day. I wish I could say it was a pleasure." I forced a smile. "Happy Thanksgiving."

Travis rose with me. "We're leaving too."

"You don't have to..."

"We were leaving anyway," Anna said, already gathering her coat.

We walked outside together. The cold air struck my face, sharp and clean after the suffocating warmth of Bethany's dining room.

"Don't let her get to you," Travis said.

"That's easier said than done."

"I know." He pulled me into another hug. "I'm proud of you, kiddo. I hope you know that."

My throat tightened.

"I do now."

"You should've told me about the company."

"I should've told a lot of people."

It was easier to announce things to thousands of strangers who didn't know my name.

"Be careful driving home," he said. "And wish your dad a happy Thanksgiving."

"I will."

Eventually.

Dad had called that morning from his office. He had invited me to dinner at his house the following day, promised he wouldn't work through it and sounded almost convincing.

I couldn't handle another person tonight. Not even him.

I climbed into my SUV and locked the doors. Only twenty-five minutes stood between me and home. Bristol would behave as though I had been missing for weeks. I would change into pajamas, pour a glass of wine and enjoy the increasingly creative outrage beneath chapter thirty-seven.

My phone connected to the stereo. Music filled the vehicle, softening the silence as I pulled onto the road.

By the time I reached the highway, my hands had stopped shaking.

Thanksgiving was over. Bethany was behind me. Soon I would be home inside the quiet world I had created, where no one knew my father's name and Ethan Hastings always said exactly what I needed him to say.

I turned up the music and settled deeper into my seat.

The explosion came without warning. The steering wheel ripped violently to the left.

I screamed and grabbed it with both hands as the SUV lurched toward the next lane. A horn blared. Headlights flashed across my mirrors. I fought to correct, but the rear swung in the opposite direction and sent me toward the guardrail.

Metal filled my windshield. For one terrifying second, the vehicle stopped responding to me completely.

Then the world went sideways.