Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (46 page)

She jumps to her feet, fire in her whiskey irises as she follows me to the front door, stabbing her finger into my shoulder the entire time. “Turn the hell around, Ashcroft,” she demands, a hiss biting
her breathless tone as my hand makes contact with the doorknob. Playing the dick this situation’s turned me into, I freeze, my need to make her sweat it out hardening my cock as I ignore her order. “
Now
, asshole. I’m not kidding. If you don’t turn the fuck around right now, then I’ll have no other choice but to show you the damage my punch
will
do to the back of that thick, idiotic, greasy skull of yours.”

Is there nothing the girl can say that won’t make me fall harder for her? This I highly doubt.

I turn, my gaze meeting hers with the same intensity it always has, the same
I’m about to fuck the fuck right outta ya
look it’ll forever possess.

An unsteady breath, followed by an unsteady step forward, and Amber’s chest is pressed to mine, our heart’s beating in bullet-fast sync as she takes my cheeks prisoner between her shaky hands. I try to look away, but she tightens her hold on my face, her eyes narrowed.

“What the hell’s your problem?” she asks through an aggravated huff. “Can’t handle the pressure?”

I slide my hands to her hips, gripping them as I try to contain my urge to kiss her until she begs me to stop. “What the fuck’s
that
supposed to mean?”

“Now all of a sudden the genius is stupid?” she tosses back, her glare unwavering as she all but smashes her nose to mine. “It means exactly what I said. You’re a pussy, Ryder Ashcroft, a softy. The big, bad, tattooed, pierced former quarterback can’t handle the pressure of sharing me when he thought he could. You agreed to this setup as much as I did. Now all of a sudden it’s too much to take?”

At this point, I have two options, both I’m quite fond of.

One: strip her bare of her Hadley gear, bend her over the entryway table, and show her how
un
soft I currently am, her anger hardening my cock by the second.

Two: repeat option one until she can’t take it anymore, her inability to walk straight, for at least a week, my top priority.

I decide on an unplanned option three, my mouth crashing down over hers with lightning speed. She reciprocates with the same angry passion as I tangle my fingers in her hair.

“I hate you,” she hums through a moan, her nails leaving their stamp on the back of my neck as she kisses me deeper, harder. “I swear to
God
I do.”

“Right,” I growl as I hike her leg up over my waist. “I can tell. I guess our hatred for each other is a mutual feeling, then, peach.”

A moan floats past her lips, her breathing choppy as I lift her off the ground, pressing her back to the cold mahogany door. “You’re staying here tonight,” she says, insistency thick in her rasp as she knots her legs around my waist. “I’m not kidding.” She pulls back and stares straight beyond my soul, a glimpse of sorrow drowning her eyes. “I
need
you to stay here. Don’t make me feel like you used me, that this was a onetime deal.” She pauses and my heart comes to a dead stop, my breath faltering as a tear slips down her flushed cheek. “I don’t want that with you. I—I don’t know what I want or how either of us is going to deal with any of this, Brock included. All I know, all I feel with everything that makes me, is you and I
can’t
be a onetime deal. We weren’t placed in each other’s lives to become that. God’s cruel, but I have to believe he has his moments.”

Before he died, my grandfather told me I’d know if I was falling for a woman based on my reaction to her words—that if it wasn’t just simply lust, and I was truly in way over my head, the girl would be able to demolish my senses the second not only her flesh connected with mine but the very moment she opened her mouth. As it stands, Amber’s already the keeper of each and every single one of my senses, the owner of every breath that moves in and out of my lungs. The potency of her touch, her smile, hell, her goddamn spirit, has blinded me from being able to see anyone else but her, her eyes a constant image playing in my head. She’s thieved my ability to hear, the angelic tune of her voice the only sound in my ears. Whether or not she’s near me,
the scent of her skin lingers in my nose, my body incapable of smelling anything else but her sweet vanilla perfume.

Yeah, I’m in deep, every inch of me past the point of being in way over my head. What started out as lust for Amber is gone, my absolute need to have her by my side replacing it. This girl’s a rose amid a garden of weeds, her mind, body, and soul a representation of her beautiful petals. Though I know how to take care and love her in the purest way—which is constantly through the silence of time—I’m aware I have to tread lightly. One ugly tug on those petals, one uncareful touch, and she’ll fall apart, withering away, my fingertips bleeding from the painful prick of her thorns.

With that, I nod, however, not without setting boundaries. “All right, peach, you win. But I’m staying on the couch. I don’t belong sleeping in the bed with you and Brock. I just don’t.”

“But if—”

“No,” I whisper, setting her down. I cup her dampened cheeks, my thumbs grazing her quivering lips. “The couch. That’s my limit. I’ll be here when you wake up. I swear I will.” I kiss her forehead, my words remaining soft, calming. “Besides, how can I resist seeing what you
truly
look like when you crack open those pretty eyes?”

She gives me a weary smile, surrender painting her features. “Okay, but I’m tucking you in, though. No arguing with me on that, or else, got it?”

“Mm. The ‘or else’ has me curious.” I pull her into my embrace, my heart thrumming at how perfectly she fits in my arms. She presses her cheek to my chest, her silken skin a piece of heaven to my racing thoughts as she releases a small sigh of relief. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, realizing how much my douchebag move impacted her. “The last thing I’d ever intentionally do to you is make anything resembling a tear fall from your eyes. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

She looks up at me, the devastation coloring her whiskey orbs telling me all I need to know . . . She’s just as deep in over her head as
I am, both our hearts struggling with this hazardous situation. “No, Ryder, I’m the one who’s sorry,” she admits.

“All right. So you’re both sorry.” Brock steps from the bedroom, scratching a tired hand over his face. “Glad to see the two of you’ve made up. Ber, tuck the baby here into bed, and I’ll warm up the bottle before we turn in, cool?”

“Stop being a dick, Brock,” Amber huffs, seizing my hand in hers. She shakes her head and drags me past him, our glares glued to each other as Amber flings open a closet, yanking a spare pillow and blanket down from a shelf. “Seriously. Contrary to what you think, it’s not one of your finer attributes.”

“Chill, baby girl.” He chuckles, making his way over to the couch as Amber sets up my temporary sleeping quarters. “Ashcroft knew this arrangement would come with its share of emotional shit. Now he just has to figure out how to maneuver his way through the mental maze. Isn’t that right, bud?”

Keeping Amber’s sanity in mind, I grit my teeth, somehow managing to conjure up an unaffected smile. “Yeah, I guess we all do, isn’t
that
right, bud?”

His glare intensifies, his eyes narrowed on mine before he turns, heading back into the bedroom. “I’m giving you ten minutes with him, Ber,” he calls over his shoulder, clearly aggravated. “After that, I expect you to come to bed.”

He slams the door, the power behind it knocking an oil painting clear off the wall. I glance at Amber, the confusion dripping from her face causing my stomach to roil with anger.

“He’s just . . .” Amber starts, her words trailing as she stares at me. “I don’t know. He’s just . . . a mess right now, Ryder. He took a big step allowing us to do this.”

I touch her jaw, knowing if she were mine there’d never be any confusion on my part. No questions asked: I’d never share her with another man, the thought sickening me down to my bones. Still, I
keep my thoughts to myself, placing a soft kiss on her forehead before slipping onto the couch. She goes to sit next to me, but I gently grab her wrist, preventing her from doing so, my chin jutted toward the bedroom.

“Go inside, peach,” I whisper, fighting the animalistic urge to kick open the door, and beat the man I’ve called a friend for so many years into a coma for putting Amber through this. “He needs you. I’m cool. I promise.”

She can tell I’m lying, trying to keep her emotions guarded. I see it in her eyes, the shadow of uncertainty in them. She nods hesitantly, then turns and disappears into the bedroom, the door softly clicking shut behind her as I cross my arms behind my head, wondering if any of us will ever be the same after tonight.

More important, as the minutes creep by, ticking into silent hours, I can’t help but feel like we’re all standing in the path of a dangerous storm. A storm I’m positive is gonna take one of us out—if not all of us—leaving the bloodied remnants of our hearts spread over a field of nothing but pain, hurt, and regret.

CHAPTER 20

Brock

“
B
REATHE, MOTHERFUCKER,” I
murmur to myself, my teeth gritted as I attempt to keep my cool. “You did this, asshole. Not them.” Sitting in my Hummer, watching Amber and Ryder say their good-byes, I inhale a calculated breath, trying to keep myself bolted to my seat as the girl I love—the girl I’d die for—places a soft, lingering kiss on my best friend’s lips.

Fuck. What’ve I done?

The mind can change what the heart
thought
it wanted—both unrelenting in their battle of wills—and right now, my mind’s winning the war as visions of making Ryder disappear swallow my thoughts.

Witnessing Amber show anything resembling feelings for another man is killing me, my soul shredding to pieces, as Ryder pulls her into his arms, his mouth devouring hers the same way mine does when I want her, when I crave her the most. I know letting them be together was my doing—my need to give and receive pleasure to and from Amber clogging whatever rational sense I had before last night—but I’m starting to think it was nothing short of the second-worst decision I’ve ever made, not making it home in time to get Brandon off the bus holding the number one spot on my list of regrets.

Sure, I played it cool while watching them together last night, but hell if I didn’t want to stop the whole thing from happening the moment Amber said she needed us.

Bipolar? Maybe.

Psychotic? Killer possibility.

But after having had almost a month to
really
think about sharing her with Ryder before she finally gave in to my request, I’d decided I wouldn’t be able to watch any dude—best friend or not—touch my girl. I just never got around to telling Amber I’d changed my mind. Besides my having to lie low after outing Dom, Amber seemed so goddamn steadfast on
not
letting Ryder and I take her together, I figured the subject was dead. Still, the second Ryder opened his fucking mouth about what went down at the warehouse, and Amber’s gut-wrenching reaction to it, I felt I had no other choice but to allow that shit to happen. To sum up my birthday weekend: I unwillingly, yet willingly, let my buddy fuck the girl I’d give my last breath for, the girl I’ve already killed for and would kill a million times for over again.

Happy fucking birthday to me . . .

Either way, this shit’s gonna haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life, every ounce of me loathing my on-the-fly decision. Like a delusional, self-centered asshole, my thoughts were skewed when I convinced myself that I wanted to share Amber. More so, screwed when I thought she’d be able to separate the physical act of being with Ryder from the emotional.

As I continue to watch Ryder shove his tongue down her throat, I’m starting to realize my girl isn’t separating shit from shit.

Finally, Ryder enters his apartment, the asshole looking back at Amber one last time before closing the door behind him. After he disappears, Amber stills, her attention aimed on where he was standing. I sigh, wondering what the fuck’s going through her head. As she slowly turns around, her weary eyes catching mine, I think I know the answer to that question.

My girl’s hurting, torn.

Christ.

Since I’m the one who initiated this fucked-up scenario, how do I end it? With my mind and heart continuing to battle it out, that’s one question I don’t have a single answer for, my hatred for myself growing by the second as Amber slips into the passenger seat.

“You okay?” I ask, knowing she’s not.

She nods, a weak smile slanting her lips as she leans her head against the window. “Yeah. I’m cool.”

“You’re cool?” I parrot, an edge of sarcasm in my tone as I pull onto the road. “You sure as hell don’t seem like you’re
cool
,
baby girl.”

She twists her head in my direction. “What do you want me to say, Brock, huh?”

“I don’t know,” I bite back. “The
truth
, maybe? That you’re an emotional mess right now? That you want more of him because he
thinks
you belong to him?”

She opens her mouth, but quickly snaps it shut, her gaze landing everywhere else but on me as I slam on the brakes. My Hummer screeches to a stop, the tires leaving a thick, inky stain on the street as I grip the wheel.

“I heard what he said to you, Ber,” I whisper, trying to calm the rage scorching my skin. “That you’re his. That you’ve always been his.” Her eyes widen, shock thickening their depths as she lifts them to mine. “I heard
everything
last night.” I pause, acid crawling up my throat as I try to get out the question that can forever change our relationship to move past my lips. “Do you, Ber? Do you belong to . . .
him
?”

Nervousness plagues her features as she leans over the center console, brushing her fingers through my hair. Before I know it, she’s seated in my lap, her arms knotted around my neck, her cheek pressed to mine as she trembles under my hold. I take an unsettling breath and keep it locked in my lungs for as long as I can, her silence scaring the fuck out of me as I await her response. This girl’s colored every
dark corner of my universe, her existence the very reason for mine. Though I’m the monster who caused this chaos, the filthy serpent of her confusion, I don’t know what I’ll do if her answer’s the one I don’t wanna hear, the one that’ll undoubtedly trip me over the edge between semirational and absolutely homicidal if she replaces me with Ryder.

I can’t lose her to him; every inch of me will surely incinerate into ashes if I do.

Amber kisses my shoulder, her sweet breath searing hot through the fabric of my sweatshirt as she whispers, “I think a part of me belongs to the
both
of you after last night.”

At her words, my blood stops running as I try to digest her poisonous confession, try to wrap my head around what I’ve done to us. Still, I have to own her feelings, suck up to the fact that a part of me knew this could happen. Yet as I drag Amber off my lap, shoving her back into her seat, the logical side of my brain splits in half, my pulse gunning through my neck as I put the vehicle into drive, speeding onto the highway in an effort to outrace my guilt for fucking up the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Are you . . .
mad
at me?” she asks, her voice breaking as she tries to thread her fingers through mine. “Seriously, Brock. Are you mad?”

“God help me, but yes, I’m fucking pissed, Amber.” I yank my hand away from hers, aware I’ve further diseased the only girl I’ve ever loved . . . the only girl who’ll ever fully own every piece of me.

Amber stills a moment, her demeanor switching from worried to vexed in under a second. “God has
nothing
to do with this. How
dare
you get mad at me, Brock. You’re the one who wanted this. The one who
begged
me to let us experience the multitude of pleasures this could bring. Not me!”

“Do you
love
him?” I ask, ignoring the truth behind her words, their sting, though one of the most brutal torments I’ve ever endured, not enough to shut me the fuck up. With images of them together
branded in my mind, their undeniable chemistry is a flame I couldn’t put out even if I wanted to. “Is that what’s going on in that head of yours, Ber? Are you in love with him?”

She blinks, another breath-evaporating moment of silence encasing the rapid beating of my heart. “Do I . . .
love
him?”

“Yeah,” I croak out, a fear so dark, so overbearing, knifing through my muscles as I wait, with wired nerves, for her to reply. “That’s what I said, baby girl. Do. You. Love. Him?”

Eyes locked on mine, she shakes her head, her trembling voice so tiny—almost unrecognizable. “I don’t know how to answer that. I honestly don’t.” She touches tentative fingers to mine, the fear I thought I had seconds ago paling in comparison to the storm of dread ripping absolute devastation through me as she pulls her hand away, nervously knotting her fingers together in her lap. “All I know is I liked being with the two of you at the same time. Liked the way it made me feel. It was as if I was the only star existing in your universes, the last sun burning in your skies. The way you both broke me down, mentally and physically, was all you’d promised it’d be and so much more. I said it last night: there’s no way I can adequately express what it did to me.” She sucks in a slow breath, her gaze misting. “With all of that came . . . intense feelings for Ryder. Ones I can’t fully explain or even
begin
to understand.”

I attempt to form a coherent thought, but I can’t. The only thing I can do is pull to the side of the road, guilt for putting her in this position pressing up from my stomach, its toxicity surrounding me in a haze of uncertainty as I stare at her, trying not to lose my shit.

What kind of man does this to his girl, to the only person who welcomes, understands, and accepts every twisted corner of his mind? This asshole does, that’s who, not a single fucking disgusting inch of me deserving of the purity that
was
Amber’s love for me before last night.

“All I’m truly sure of is I want him again,” she says with unshak
able conviction, a fresh round of tears pricking her yellow orbs as she meets my stare head-on. “Need to experience both of your touches at the same time for an array of reasons.” She sniffles and slithers back onto my lap, mercy coloring every crevice of her beautiful face as she presses her lips to mine.

I want to touch her. Christ, I want to touch her so fucking bad but I can’t get my limbs to move, my arms cemented to my side as she slides her lips to my neck, leaving them there. “Please don’t be mad at me for wanting him again, for wanting you
both
again. Like you, I expected this to be something I could handle. An emotion I could switch off the same way I have my entire life when it came to numbing my feelings.” Body molded to mine, she moves her mouth to my ear, her words spoken soft. “But after last night, after experiencing what it felt like to be broken down by two amazing men, I know I
can’t
switch them off. Not fully, at least. Even so, I can curb my feelings for Ryder. I swear I can. I know it may not seem like it, but I love you to the moon and back, Brock. I honestly do. I need you to understand this. More than anything, I need you to
believe
it. ” She seizes my lobe between her teeth and softly bites down, the caressing tempo of her tone a balm to my nerves as she loops her arms around my neck. Fingers tracing figure eights along my nape, she continues, a hint of desperation cloaking her whisper as she squeezes me as though it’s the last time she’ll ever get to. “Please don’t take away this tiny sliver of sanity from me. I promise, from this point on, I’ll tame my emotions for Ryder, keep them in check for the sake of everything you and I are. I just need to feel the way I felt last night at least once more. Just one more time, baby, please.” She rears back, her hands capturing my cheeks as another tear slips down her face. “I need to let it all go, banish every second of hurt, pain, and confusion I’ve carried with me through the years. That’s what being with you and Ryder did for me. It made me forget—even if just for a few blissful hours—that hideous day. The cold look in my father’s eyes,
the sound of the gunshots, their blood splattered all over the sundress my mother bought me the day before. I’d never owned a new dress, Brock. Never. They were always hand-me-downs from one of the neighbor’s kids, or something my mother lifted from the Goodwill because we barely had money to pay the rent, let alone deck out my closet with new clothing. It was so beautiful, the entire thing covered in sparkly polka dots, flowers, and . . .”

She trails off, silence swooping in like a hungry vulture as her gaze turns distant, void. Although she’s sporting a small smile—evidence of a happy memory dancing along the sharp, jagged edge of her worst—the fear hijacking her expression can be spotted a mile away from those who can no longer see, felt from those who haven’t felt in years.

In physical pain—every muscle in my body aching for the torment continuing to rip mayhem through her soul—I swallow, fighting back my own tears from falling, my father’s bullshit spiel about how a
real
man never cries ping-ponging through my brain as I clear my throat instead.

Amber drops her trembling hands to my chest, their nervous rattle in sync with the furious pounding of my heart as she burrows her face in the crook of my neck. Unable not to—my concern regarding her feelings for Ryder temporarily vanishing—I pull her into my embrace, my arms caging her in my hold as the core of who I am soaks up the warmth of her tears burning her hurt across my flesh.

“The loneliness of the room,” she continues, the shakiness of her voice mimicking that of her limbs. “God, it was so quiet and still after they took their final breaths. The controlled panic in the operator’s tone when, after the sun set four hours later, I’d finally picked myself up off the blood-soaked carpet to call the cops. It all just . . . disappeared when you and Ryder shared me. It was as if that horrible day never happened, like it was nothing but a simple nightmare I’d woken up from—a dark tale my mind conjured up to write about
in my journal. I wasn’t the Amber Moretti who was whisked away, kicking and screaming, from the only home she’d ever known. I wasn’t the eight-year-old little girl who knew why heroin addicts wrapped leather belts around their arms better than I understood the math my teacher was trying to explain to me in class. I just—”

“Wait,” I interrupt, her words sinking in. “What do you mean you understood why heroin addicts used leather belts, Ber? Were your parents . . .
junkies
?”

After what seems like forever, she nods. “The worst kind. But I didn’t want you to know that about them.”

“
Why?
” I press, feeling sick to my stomach, images of the night I’d slipped into the serpentine flesh of the devil—all but shoving my bong down her throat—exploding in my head as everything starts to click into place. It all makes sense now, every twisted fucking second of it. Her hesitancy. The anxiety clouding her beautiful eyes. Her overdramatized response to something as innocent as weed. Christ. While my girl was trying to avoid the mistakes of her parents, attempting to do right by her future, my concern was wrapped around being the first asshole to get her lit up.