Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (28 page)

A second before Kevin and his sidekick break up the fight—if that’s what I can call it—dickwad’s barely holding on, so this is more like observing a hungry bear mauling a helpless kitten—Mike gets lucky and somehow connects a lame fist with Brock’s mouth. Lame or not, it splits Brock’s bottom lip, blood dribbling from it as Kevin grabs Brock by his shoulders and hauls him away from the piece of trash who’s now a puddle of bloodied flesh. Moaning, groaning, and most likely regretting stepping foot into the bar, Mike attempts to move from his fetal position, but fails miserably as his body gives out.

Ah, an asshole with a big mouth and the captain of the football team fighting for his girl always makes for a memorable Friday night.

I need another drink . . .
now
.

CHAPTER 12

Amber

W
HAT AM I
doing?

I push off Ryder as Brock approaches, everything inside me mourning the absence of Ryder’s warmth. Blood dotting his bottom lip, and breathing heavily, Brock wraps a strong arm around my waist, pulling me into him. I nuzzle against his chest, a tangle of emotions twisting through my skull as I war with the filth I’ve become.

The filth I’ll continue to decay into if I don’t check myself.

The minute I became aware of my feelings for Ryder should’ve been the minute I stopped having them. From that second forward, I was conscious they were wrong, unhealthy. I’m not sure how many seconds have passed since that realization hit me. I just know there’ve been too many to count.

The man I’ve confessed my love to—the one who’s shown me nothing but kindness—wasn’t the only man invading my heart as he defended my filthy honor. Right down to my hollow bones, the diseased marrow in between, I disgust myself. Cheating, especially the mental kind—because when we desire something we shouldn’t, the ravenous hunger for it consumes each fantasy playing through our immoral brains—can rot a relationship, sending its skeleton to the graveyard of “what should have been.”

While Brock dug into the prick who’d disgraced me with his merciless tongue, my eyes might’ve been trained on my boyfriend, but my mind and all its sickening thoughts couldn’t unfasten itself from his friend. Body betraying each unsteady breath I took, I watched Brock, yet my soul ached for Ryder.

As those panicky minutes unfurled, I felt safe in Ryder’s arms, his presence soothing the nervousness cording my muscles. Like the whore I was bred to become—the whore I
am—
I let him touch me. Sure, some might consider the act innocent, juvenile at best. Hands on hips will
never
go down in history as being taboo. Well, not in my book.

But the unspoken emotion behind the caress was present, heavy, suffocating.

The deliverer and recipient just didn’t . . . care.

I’ve come to one terrifying conclusion: I’m no better than my father was. I’m dark, weak, broken, and bruised. The only difference is I’m the rightful owner of a pussy, and I’m not aiming a gun at someone I love.

At least not yet.

The band’s sharp drums reverberate through my ears as my attention crashes back to the commotion around us. I suck in a shaky breath, watching a bouncer drag my offender to his sloppy feet. A raw groan spills from the asshole’s mangled mouth as he attempts to stand, his hand darting to his ribs. Another groan greases the air, this one feral as he cranks his free hand through his dark, unkempt shoulder-length hair.

His face is a fractured mess of swollenness, blood-tinged saliva swinging from his bottom lip before he sloshes it to the floor in a pissed-off hurl. Before I can blink, his demeanor changes. As though unaffected by the damage, he buffers out a malevolent laugh, something akin to hysteria sparking in his eyes as he catches me staring. Glare darkening with revenge, he sends me a smirk, his teeth curling over his cracked lip before he spits in my direction.

My stomach knots, needles pricking their lethal sting along my suddenly frigid skin.

The bouncer—who’d have most NFL linebackers huddled in fear—swings a beefy arm over the man’s shoulder and, with waning patience, escorts him out of the bar. I sigh in relief, my nerves settling some. The crowd thins and scatters, leaving me an open view of Ryder, who’s perched on a stool. Though he’s talking to Lee and Madeline, his blue eyes are zeroed in on mine, their lost, lonely gaze causing my heart to pang in response as I try to take a breath.

No, no, no
,
I furiously chant to myself. I tilt my head back and look into Brock’s eyes, guilt sinking its fangs into my gut. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“What are you talking about?” He lifts his hand to wipe the blood off his lip.

I grab his wrist, halting the motion. He stares at me, confusion thick in his mossy irises. I press onto my tiptoes and brush my lips against his, my tongue collecting his blood in a deep kiss. Salty copper—like a penny rescued from the warm waters of the ocean, the viscous taste lingers in my mouth, further fueling my guilt. I kiss him harder, feeling nauseated for what I did, for what I caused, for what . . . I’m doing.

Brock takes my face between his hands, his eyes searching mine. “What’s bothering that head of yours?”

“You fought him for me. You’re hurt because I
told
you to do it.” I touch my lips to his, every cell aware that I’m unworthy of his love, his trust. “If I would’ve just kept my mouth shut, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He pulls me closer, the fusion of his sweat and aftershave rushing up my nostrils. “You honestly think I
wasn’t
gonna take him out if you didn’t say something?” I attempt to respond, but his finger covers my lips, silencing me. “Wrong, baby girl. He was already on his way down, but after he said that shit to you, he wasn’t walking out of this
motherfucking place without experiencing what six days a week of hard-core training could do to his face.”

He kisses me, and I close my eyes, wrapping my arms around his neck. I feel a smirk curl his lips as he slides them to my ear and whispers, “You made me hard when you poured that drink over his head. You’re aware of this, right?”

A soft laugh tumbles from my mouth as I kiss his nose. “No. But I can’t say I’m shocked.”

“Well, you did, and I’m fucking positive I have blue balls because of it.” He grabs his crotch, his smirk stretching into a wide smile. “Yup. Blue as berries.”

“Such a naughty, naughty boy.” I slip my fingers through his sweaty hair. “Very naughty.”

He nips my lip. “Well, since you’re feeling shitty about what happened, this naughty boy’s willing to accept your apology in the form of you fixing my . . .
problem
in whatever way you deem necessary. Fair?”

“Fair,” I purr. Brock’s well aware of my sexual dependency issue, and he uses it to both of our advantages, fucking the numbness right out of my mind as he fucks his own social-pressured thoughts and family bullshit right out of his body.

“You two gonna do the dirty right here?” Madeline dangles a shot of tequila in my face. She digs a palm into her waist, her fiery red strands of hair falling over her shoulder as she tilts her head. “Or can you wait until
after
we’re finished partying?”

“That’s a tough one.” Brock swipes the shot from her and tosses it down his throat. “Actually, it’s worse than tough. It’s like asking a kid not to peek at his Christmas presents.”

“That shot was for
Amber
.” Madeline frowns, snatching the glass from him. “You best plan on refilling her, Cunningham.”

“Yeah.” I lift my chin in playful defiance. “You
better
refill
me.”

Brock’s hand swallows mine, and he leads me toward the bar. “Ah,
you have no idea how many times I’m filling you after we bounce outta here.”

“Sounds hostile,” Ryder deadpans, twirling an empty bottle of Sam Adams on the bar. He cranks back a shot of whatever’s in front of him, the dimple on his cheek deepening as he studies me. “Just make sure you don’t hurt her while you’re at it. That is, unless she’s into pain. Then, by all means, light it the fuck up.”

I narrow my eyes at Ryder, and mirth flashes in his as he twirls his stupid bottle. He loves dissecting the mechanics of my brain.

Ugh! I’m about to take that bottle and show him the copious number of ways I’d use it to inflict pain. On his ass in particular.

“Still,” Ryder continues, swinging his attention to Brock, “you might piss off Amy. You know how she gets, bro. That’s one jealous gal. The worst you’ve ever dealt with, and you’ve dealt with your share of them. She wants
all
of you to herself. Definitely not the
sharing
type.”

I glance at Brock, my heart pulling. “Who’s
Amy
?”

“She’s . . .” Hesitation smothers his face. “Well, she’s kind of . . .”

My heart pulls again, the viciousness in it making it difficult to breathe.

“He’s never told you about Amy?” Shock tinges Lee’s voice. “Wow. Not cool, dude.”

“No.” My response comes out weak, anxiety clumping thick in my throat. “He’s never told me about her. Who
is
she?”

I’m sure I’ve lost it. Who the hell am I to question anyone or anything Brock may or may not be doing behind my back? Not only did I kiss Ryder after being warned not to do it again, but I’ve mentally banged Ryder right in front of him.

“No way. I don’t believe that shit.” Lee lines up five shot glasses and pours a red concoction into each, topping them off with a squirt of whipped cream. He slides me one, amusement creasing his forehead. “Brock’s never let you in on his number one
fan
?”

Madeline giggles, Brock chuckles, and Ryder quirks a wiseass brow. I sigh in frustration, the need to slap an answer out of someone coating my stomach. I flip my attention between each of them.

Nothing. They’re mute.

No longer giving a shit if I should question who or what Brock’s doing behind my back, I throw my shot down my throat, wipe a frustrated hand across my mouth, and slam the glass on the bar. “No! He’s never told me about her. But somebody here better. Who. The.
Fuck
. Is. She?”

The air rockets with their amusement, their laughter drilling through my ears. Pissed, I rise, seriously ready to get the hell out of here.

“She’s a ghost who haunts this here tavern, peach.” Ryder grabs my wrist, preventing me from leaving. “Now sit back down and ch-ch-chill.”

“What?”
I drag my gaze to Brock. “She’s a . . . ghost? You pricks put me through that for a ghost?”

Shrugging, a guilty grin tramples Brock’s face. “She indeed is, and we indeed did.” He slugs back his shot, his grin melting into a pout. “But, babe, pity me. She’s a psycho.”

Madeline tips her glass in Brock’s direction. “She only gets that way with you. Sure, her obsession’s become a little off the charts, but her intentions are good, mainly fueled by her desire to get it on with you. But at least she actually
likes
you, Cunningham. That’s more than Ryder can say. She all-out hates him.”

“She doesn’t
hate
me. She just can’t handle the . . .
swoon
factor I possess.” He kicks me a wink. “Yes. That’s what it is. My swoonworthiness intimidates her. She couldn’t handle me if she tried. Ghost or not, my shit would bang her up. Bad.”

I sigh, regretting that I ever gassed up his head with that bit of information. “So let me get this straight.” I reclaim my seat, trying to understand this comical yet somewhat disturbing story. “Amy’s a psycho ghost who haunts the bar and wants Brock?”

Lee uncaps a few bottles of beer for a crowd of customers whose drunken attentions are hanging all over our conversation. “She doesn’t just
want
him. She wants to give birth to his ghost kiddies.”

Laughter erupts from all directions. I can’t help but smile as I watch Brock shake his head in embarrassment.

“From grabbing his junk when he’s taking a piss to making her frustration well known when he leaves by smashing everything from pictures to glasses, she wants the dude more than a pie-eating prick-goblin wants a kinky slut-waffle,” Lee adds.

Hoots of laughter gurgle the air, oiling every surface.

Embarrassment long gone, Brock bows his head, superiority taking over his expression as he nods at me. God, my man’s so damn cute, each inch of him a morsel of deliciousness. Square jaw, edible full lips, and eyes that can cut through steel. It’s no wonder Amy—in all her deadness—wants him.

“It’s rumored the place was a brothel in the late seventeen hundreds,” Lee goes on, a smile stretching the freckles sprinkling his nose. “Our fine young Amy entertained the Johns. But sadly, she was murdered in this very building while in the midst of . . . performing. A new owner took over in the fifties, and during a renovation, they found her skeleton mangled between those walls.” Lee throws a thumb over his shoulder at the bricks surrounding an ancient fireplace. “Brock’s not the only customer she bothers, but he’s
definitely
her favorite.”

“And Amy hates Ryder?” I ask, eerily enthralled. “I mean, how do you know she hates him? Does she . . . abuse him?”

“She doesn’t
hate
me,” Ryder reiterates, stabbing a finger in my direction. “She does, however,
abuse
me. Mm. Hell yeah, she does. But I’m cool with her pulling my hair. I dig the kink.”

“She pulls your hair?” I giggle, motioning to Lee for another shot. “Oh, then it’s definitely hate.”

“It’s not hate, peach.” Ryder’s gaze stays heavy on mine as he rests his forearms on the glossy mahogany bar. “I told ya, it’s my swoon factor.”

I roll my eyes, positive I’ve inflated his head to the point of explosion.

Madeline scoffs. “How do you know it’s your swoon factor? She just really might
hate
you.”

A lazy grin curls his mouth. I hold my breath, knowing he’s about to further mutilate the mechanics of my brain.

“Some pretty little thing
told
me it’s my swoon factor. I didn’t believe her at first, but after I really thought about it, I couldn’t help but agree. My informer’s extremely intuitive when it comes to the male anatomy.” Ryder flicks his eyes to my lips as he swipes his tongue along his. “Especially their . . .
mouths
.”

Mechanics screwed beyond repair, my heart catapults from my chest, taking with it what little oxygen my lungs are harboring. I try to force myself to swallow. It doesn’t work. Ryder lets loose a light chuckle, pleased with my reaction.

“Here ya go,” Lee says, producing my much-needed shot.

I nearly yank it from him, and before I can say thanks, I empty it, my throat welcoming the sizzling sensation.

“I give up,” Brock booms over the music. “I know I’m a business major, but what the fuck is swoon factor?”

My buzz is thicker than molasses, but I’m aware it’s not the alcohol dizzying me. Between Brock and Ryder’s testosterone lighting up my girly parts, I’m sure there’s not a command I wouldn’t obey, a wish I wouldn’t grant, or an immoral act I wouldn’t participate in with either of them.