Fire in an Amber Sky
Burning Through Gravity 3
Addison Moore
Contents
Copyright
Books by Addison Moore
Prologue
1. Spontaneous Combustion
2. Lincoln
3. Bed of Stars
4. Lincoln
5. The Lion and the Wolf
6. Lincoln
7. Kiss the Night
8. Lincoln
9. A Force of Nature
10. Lincoln
11. Fire the Flare
12. Lincoln
13. Galaxy of Deception
14. Lincoln
15. A World Away
16. Lincoln
17. Air of Contention
18. Lincoln
19. Darkest Night, Brightest Dawn
20. Lincoln
A Note from the Author
Books by Addison Moore
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Edited by Paige Maroney Smith
Cover Design: Gaffey Media
Copyright © 2015 by Addison Moore
http://addisonmoorewrites.blogspot.com/
This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.
All Rights Reserved.
This ebook is for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase any additional copies for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Copyright © 2015 by Addison Moore
Books by Addison Moore
Romance
Burning Through Gravity (Burning Through Gravity 1)
A Thousand Starry Nights (Burning Through Gravity 2)
Fire in an Amber Sky (Burning Through Gravity 3)
3:AM Kisses (3:AM Kisses 1)
Winter Kisses (3:AM Kisses 2)
Sugar Kisses (3:AM Kisses 3)
Whiskey Kisses (3:AM Kisses 4)
Rock Candy Kisses (3:AM Kisses 5)
Velvet Kisses (3:AM Kisses 6)
Wild Kisses (3:AM Kisses 7)
Beautiful Oblivion (Beautiful Oblivion 1)
Beautiful Illusions (Beautiful Oblivion 2)
Beautiful Elixir (Beautiful Oblivion 3)
The Solitude of Passion
Someone to Love (Someone to Love 1)
Someone Like You (Someone to Love 2)
Someone For Me (Someone to Love 3)
Celestra Forever After (Celestra Forever After 1)
The Dragon and the Rose (Celestra Forever After 2)
The Serpentine Butterfly (Celestra Forever After 3) Soon!
Perfect Love (A Celestra Novella)
Young Adult Romance
Ethereal (Celestra Series Book 1)
Tremble (Celestra Series Book 2)
Burn (Celestra Series Book 3)
Wicked (Celestra Series Book 4)
Vex (Celestra Series Book 5)
Expel (Celestra Series Book 6)
Toxic Part One (Celestra Series Book 7)
Toxic Part Two (Celestra Series Book 7.5)
Elysian (Celestra Series Book 8)
Ephemeral (The Countenance Trilogy 1)
Evanescent (The Countenance Trilogy 2)
Entropy (The Countenance Trilogy 3)
Ethereal Knights (Celestra Knights)
Season of the Witch (A Celestra Companion)
Prologue
Macy
Sometimes in life we fear a dark season that may never arrive, the underpinnings of those grave days set on some unknowable horizon. I had feared a lot of things that in the end proved futile—my father leaving—my mother forgetting who I was in the midst of her new family. I feared strangers in parking lots and late night walks to the car. But as it turned out, there was something very real and sinister that I should have feared. It wasn’t something vague and far away. The monster was right here in the nucleus of my life—two of them actually. After excising the bastards, I shed the old me like a threadbare coat, splintering into two versions of myself in the process. Life seemed as though it was through with me, but I was nowhere near through with it. I picked myself up by the proverbial bootstraps and started a new chapter, one that landed me in the presence of an Adonis who is as brilliant as he is cocky, as dangerous as he is comely. And now, here I am, alone with him in his office—his eyes roasting with lust for me.
Lincoln Lionheart devours the distance between us with ferocity.
“Okay, Sin, I am curious. Do the curtains match the carpet?” All traces of a smile dissipate, making him that much more alarmingly handsome. “Turn around, face-first on the desk—pick up your skirt. Let’s end this mystery.”
A breath hitches in my throat as a fire of embarrassment rides from my quivering thighs to the top of my scalp, but I most certainly obey.
I may have spent a majority of my life in fear of dissolving shadows, but now more than ever, I’m no longer afraid, no longer the passenger watching life swirl by from between my frightened fingers. I’ve taken the reins. I’m not just along for the ride; I’m driving this runaway train.
I’m sure this gorgeous man, who has taken to barking out orders, has never feared a thing in his silver-spooned life. But now I’m here, bent on reclaiming myself, bent on revenge.
Unbeknownst to him, he does have something to fear. Lincoln Lionheart will learn to most certainly fear me.
Spontaneous Combustion
Macy
Two weeks prior…
Like most little girls, I had spent many a night dreaming of my wedding. From the atrociously expensive gown—which back then I envisioned a lot more prom than I did Vera Wang, to the cake—which has evolved from a double decker Oreo concoction prepared by my Aunt Donna and her baby blue Kitchen Aid mixer to a marzipan masterpiece handcrafted by the top pastry chef at Spago. The immaculate details were simply waiting for this season of my life to show up like a groom at the altar, and even now with the gown and the delicate confection within grasp, my big day feels like a mirage shimmering in the desert—veiled in impossibility, forever out of reach. I’m not sure why I feel this way. My mother cuts me off with the words cold feet each time I try to express my feelings on the matter, quickly followed with a raised brow of judgment, the one that secretly infers don’t you fucking blow this. Bradley Lowell’s family comes from money—lots of it. My mother technically comes from money, just not directly enough to leave any financial impact on her checking account. Her stepbrothers own Jinx, a flourishing software company worth billions. My mother likes to joke that we’ve missed a fortune on every side. Both my biological father and stepfather are a breath away from wealth themselves—tobacco heirs on one end and a canned tomato fortune on the other. My mother has spent a lot of time looking through the proverbial window on all that prosperity wondering what it would be like to have it for herself, and that’s exactly why when I announced my engagement to Bradley five months ago, she nearly jumped out of her skin shrieking with alleviation. In her eyes, he was the winning lottery ticket, and I was lucky enough to scratch off the numbers of an official wedding date.
I glare down at the chandelier on my ring finger, soon to be replaced with something bigger and better, as Bradley has guaranteed. He doesn’t want me to see the wedding ring until he slips it on. He promised me something sp
ecial, nothing too showy, but showy enough for everyone to know whose wife I was. When I recited it back verbatim to my mother, her jaw dropped, complete with cartoon dollar signs spinning in her eyes as if those were the very words she waited her entire life to hear.
The big event is just three days away, and when that numeric fact runs through my mind, I can’t help but envision three wooden crosses on a hill. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not getting crucified; I’m getting married—yet, deep down, I wonder if there’s a difference. Nevertheless, the ranch is covered with tents enormous enough to house a circus inside—twelve circuses. Leah will be here, so already we have a clown.
Rows and rows of white ladder-back chairs dot the landscape like dandelions, and I long to pick them—blow them away with my wishes floating to some far away place where they might come true.
Hundreds of guests will be seated in the sweltering California sun—in August, no less. I imagine puddles of flesh dripping to the lawn like candles. The heat doesn’t settle well with me. In fact, I’m not sure why any little detail about this wedding hasn’t settled well with me over the last few weeks. I love Bradley—supremely handsome, intelligent to a fault Bradley. We met at a sorority fundraiser where his PR firm was to donate a generous check to an online start-up a few of the girls had undertaken as a part of their senior project in the business program. Bradley came over, along with a couple of other men, bearing one of those showy behemoth checks the size of a refrigerator you see on game shows. Bradley was clearly the prize, despite the funds he was ready to allocate. His muscular build, his wealthy businessman appeal added to his already striking features. His cap of thick hair and dark hungry eyes—no girl could afford to look away in the event the glass slipper fit. But, lucky for me, his gaze kept drifting to mine, and I’ll never forget the feeling of vindication over the snobs that comprised my sorority. The other girls were much prettier than me with their obvious beauty, much more classic California with their flawless blonde hair and spray tans. They were the Barbie to his Ken, but it was my crimson-haired glory that Bradley couldn’t tear away from. Ever since that night, every now and again, I wonder if I’m with Bradley for the wrong reasons—if I were running some imaginary race, and that by reaching the bridal finish line, I had shown those sorority bitches that I was good enough for someone like him.
There I go again—cold feet. Soon I’ll be Mrs. Bradley Lowell. Mrs. Macy Lowell, and if I happen to have cold feet, Bradley can warm them. My stomach claws at the thought. Bradley has never warmed my feet, or any of my other parts from the neck down. In three days, I will take his name, and he will take my virginity. I almost want to groan at the nineteenth century cliché my life has evolved into. In no way was this a part of my wedding day vision. I hadn’t set out to be a virgin bride, but we had waited for so long—cold feet—and then he proposed, and our chastity snowballed from there. But I don’t mind. It’s romantic. My first time will be forever entwined with our special day.
I stride past the wedding trimmings that are coming quickly into place and admire the banquet table my mother has set beneath the largest, most “circusy” tent of them all. The heat blooms under the vinyl structure like a mushroom cloud of anxiety, and any minute I expect mist to rain down as if this were a sauna.
In the corner sits a round antique table that I restored and painted myself. Restoring old furniture and giving it new life is a passion of mine. This is a three-footed end table that I scraped off the dark, old varnish and gave it a new, sanded, white and teal coat to wear. It has a very Nantucket, rustic farmhouse appeal, and, dare I say, I’m a touch proud to have it in attendance on my big day. Sitting square on top of it is a bejeweled frame that catches my eye—an homage to my biological father that my mother threw together last minute. It has an in memoriam feel to it, even though Mitchard O’Conner is still very much alive to “asshole” another day, as my mother likes to put it. I head over and pick up the frame encrusted with rhinestones. The picture was taken at my high school graduation with me in a black dress and heels and him in a suit. My mother wasn’t about to put up my favorite picture of the two of us—the one where we’re both sweaty and sunburnt from a day in the sun with Mickey Mouse nestled between us. Nope. This was a Lowell extravaganza, and even the faux-obituaries had to have a level of “class.” Each time my mother uses that word I tell her that a Victoria’s Secret angel loses her fluffy pink wings.
My arms tighten over the eight-by-ten framed picture of my father despite the fact. My father, the “beautiful bastard” as my mother refers to him, can’t make it Saturday. I crimp my lips as I trace his familiar features, the very ones I share—sharp, high cheeks that hold up our emerald smiling eyes. My mother routinely tells me he was worth the trouble just to bless me with the hair of an Irish goddess, in which I remind her the Irish don’t believe in goddesses, not really—they believe in trolls who also happen to have the same frizzy hair I’ve been cursed with. Nevertheless, he called and said none of them could make it. They were all very sorry. By all, he means his new wife, Luann, and their daughter, my half-sister, Vivian, whom I lovingly yet sincerely call my replacement. Vivian broke her femur yesterday during soccer practice. It’s a spiral fracture, and since she might need surgery, they’ve opted to skip the nuptials. I completely understand. Scratch that. My brain completely understands, especially since they were due to fly in from New Mexico. It’s not like they’re across town. My heart, however, doesn’t seem to get it. The important thing is that Vivian is okay. She’s only eight and sweet as can be. I sent flowers and an oversized teddy bear as soon as I heard. She loved them, and she loves me, but secretly I resent my father, and I’m afraid I always will a little.
Too bad for them, because the entire Morgenstern property has been meticulously transformed into a rustic chic wedding landscape that even Martha Stewart would be proud of. Speaking of Martha Stewart, I spot Mom getting ready to hack off the florist’s hands—at least one of us has to. I ordered peonies for tonight’s rehearsal dinner and received a crate full of carnations instead. I don’t really have anything against nature’s perkiest pompom, but with one look at them you’d think we were met with severed heads by the way my mother bent her neck back and shrieked.
I’m about to go over and intervene when I spot Bradley’s Prius behind the tack house.
He usually parks out front. I bet he’s lurking around, planting a surprise on the property. He’s sweet that way, always bathing me with little gifts, a Tiffany box here, a Cartier box there. He’s been extra attentive in the material goods department as of late, so much so that my mother asked if we’ve been fighting. When I told her no, she clapped her hands with the fervor of a hallelujah—just wait until you have a blowout! For her, baubles are an I’m sorry, not an I love you. So, when we announced the wedding would intersect the summer before my senior year at Lemons University, she assumed the worst again and asked when the baby was due. But, alas, there is no Lowell DNA floating in my belly. Bradley just wants to get our lives underway and doesn’t think waiting for me to graduate is a very big deal. Things seem to have gone off kilter for us this year with his father’s passing. Bradley wants a new family, and he wants it now. He is used to getting things when he wants them. It’s one of the many attributes I find intriguing about him. I’m fine with that, because my body wants off the virgin express that I boarded without meaning to.
A husky woman’s voice emits from behind the tent, and I head in that direction. I recognize that warbling howl, that slight Tennessee twang as belonging to my stepsister, Leah. Leah and Jeb Morgenstern, my stepfather, made a run for the California border after her mother, his wife, left them to teach dance in Paris. Nothing was going to stand in the way of her big toe-shoe dreams, not even the tiny detail of having a devoted husband and a daughter of fourteen. It was right around the time my father left my mother and took off for New Mexico where he’s living out his big dream of opening a bicycle shop and marrying a woman who is closer to my age than his.
A trophy wife and a Schwinn. My father might be an asshole, but he’s an uncomplicated one at that.
Leah’s warm voice bubbles from the south lawn, and I head over, catching her silhouette with that of a man, her arms slung around his neck in a partial embrace.
What’s this? A giddy level of adrenaline bursts through me right down to my French manicured toenails. Leah hasn’t had a man in her life in two years, and don’t think I haven’t noticed those sidelong glances, those heavy come hither eyes she’s been throwing my fiancé when he’s not looking. She too is headed into her senior year of college and is “single, single single,” as she likes to profess, but it’s all an act. She’s been emerald green with envy ever since Bradley popped the question. Leah is of the mindset she should advance first in life, leaving me to plod along in her dust while she blazes the family trail.
Leah has made it her New Year’s resolution to get laid, well and often, so it doesn’t surprise me too much that she’s about to jump someone from the construction crew that’s setting up my three-ringed circus. Leah and I don’t always get along. For the most part of our seven year sisterhood, we’ve spent the majority of it accusing one another of stealing mothers, fathers, friends, sweaters, bras, tampons—you name it, we’ve framed it on one another. But now that we’re at the tail of our stay at Lemons, and we see the light at the end of the sisterly tunnel, we’ve called a truce—at least for the wedding. I’ve even christened her my maid of honor. If that doesn’t cement our familial bond, nothing will.
I lean into their shadows.
“I think postponing this will only lead to heartbreak,” she murmurs, and my antenna goes up. Leah doesn’t murmur. This false tone she’s invoked is clearly set to deceive, and now I’m intrigued as to whom her victim might be. And heartbreak? Leah lives to rip out a beating heart before breakfast. Biting into a fresh aorta as if it were an apple is what keeps her own necrotic sump pump unhappily ticking away. Leah is your traditional mean girl, and when she’s forced to play nice, it’s about as natural as Velveeta.
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