Amber to Ashes

by Gail McHugh

  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 deadne
ss—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.

  Madeline kills her shot, her pebble of a nose scrunching up. “It means he’s hot, spicy, muy caliente. Like Jagger, he’s got swagger. Makes the ladies drool. Sets panties aflame. Gets them tingling in all the right places. That kind of crap.”

  Ding . . . ding . . . ding . . . We have a winner!

  Yeppers. I’m officially toasted.

  She blows Lee a kiss. “But it’s nothing like the swoonworthiness my man’s got. He beats them all.”

  “That’s my girl.” Smiling, Lee throws a dish towel over his shoulder. “She knows where the real sweetness is.”

  Brock snorts. “If Ashcroft or Lee’s got an ounce of swagger, then I’m drowning in it.”

  Ryder flips Brock the finger, a wicked smirk shuffling across his face. “Bro, you’re the cat who’s got a ghost wanting to multiply with you. At least my following has—I don’t know—a pulse.”

  Brock rises, and with a smirk rivaling Ryder’s, he tangles his hand in mine, gently dragging me to my feet. “This fine specimen owns a pulse,” he points out, his tone thick with reverence as he pulls me into his muscled chest. Laying his fingers against the curve of my neck, he nibbles and sucks my lips, his tongue swiping their seam in soft, slow strokes. “And right now, her beautiful pulse is quickening.”

  I part my lips and fall in step with his rhythm, my body aching for his touch, his drugging warmth. He licks into my mouth, his familiar taste a reprieve to my system, his increased breathing nourishment to my soul. Whistling catcalls and hoots of encouragement reach my ears, but the blood roaring through my veins buries the sound, cocooning me in a tomb of desire. My heart clatters—its strength shaking my rib cage—and the world around me vanishes as my fingers sneak into the silky caramel strands of his hair. He bites my lip, his free hand gripping my waist with complete ownership.

  “And still faster,” he whispers roughly, cushioning my back against the bar as his erection prickles the flat of my midriff. “And . . . still . . . fucking . . . faster.” He trails his lips down my jaw, resting them on the hollow of my neck. “To be honest, it’s beating so fucking fast it’s scaring me.”

  “Then maybe you should stop.” Ryder’s voice electrocutes the air, a conduit of hostility stabbing my ears. “I mean, if you’re afraid for her health, why fucking continue?”

  Brock slowly pulls back, an entertained yet lethal sneer etching his mouth. “Yeah, bro. Maybe I should stop.”

  Boos, heavy sighs, and laughter from the crowd ignite the bar as Ryder and Brock stare each other down, their eyes alight with venom, possession hardening their jaws.

  Adrenaline girds my spine as Ryder’s gaze slithers over me. Though he attempts to mask his pain with a chuckle, the hurt on his beautiful face is palpable, his jealousy stripping the air from my lungs. Guilt crashes an angry wave of nausea through my gut. I take an unsteady breath, confusion tripping over the mess of emotions piled high in the dark corners of my mind.

  “Lee?” Ryder calls. His gaze holds mine, the steadiness in it wrapping phantom fingers around my throat.

  “What’s up, buddy?”

  “I need another shot. Now.”

  “I think you need a few.” Brock steps toward Ryder.

  My heart stills, the organ stuttering to a deadly plod. But when Brock claps a hand over Ryder’s shoulder, a breath of relief rushes from my lips.

  A genuine smile dusts Brock’s mouth. “I think we all could use a few. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ryder rolls his neck and pulls his gaze from mine. “Sure. Why the fuck not?”

  “Come do a couple of shots with us, Ber,” Brock says, jerking his head toward me.

  Both men sink onto bar stools next to each other, their demeanors eerily calm as Lee lines up six shot glasses. Hesitation flitters through me, and I gnaw on my thumbnail, my breathing increasing as debate hinders my muscles from reacting to Brock’s demand. A stone’s throw from the two men who’ve had my heart and mind warring since the day we met, I’m frozen, Super-Glued to my spot.

  Urgency widens Madeline’s eyes, snapping me from my internal battle. My steps are tentative, cement weighing each one down as I bridge the distance, approaching them. A nervous smile teeters on Madeline’s lips, and she rests a calming hand on my back. But my heart pounds anew as Brock slides his arm around my waist, positioning me between him and Ryder.

  On shaky legs, my gaze shoots between what I’m positive are heaven’s visual gift to humanity. Chiseled, masculine pieces of art for all to indulge in, they’re gods in their own right, making it impossible for both sexes not to wish they could snag a taste. One minute my senses are drowning in the cool, icy blue gleam shadowing Ryder’s eyes, the next they’re hijacked by the sincere love squatting heavy across Brock’s face.

  Little does the world know that each of these men—each of these simple yet complicated gifts—harbor so much more than their looks.

  They’re soft, yet hard.

  Sweet, yet bitter.

  Perfect, yet perfectly imperfect.

  Each is an inescapable mixture of everything that’s captured fragments of my dreams, nightmares, thoughts, and soul. They’ve become my reason for going on.

  “Hey, sweets,” Brock croons, dragging his fingers up my spine.

  Goose bumps flare my skin, the deliciousness of
his touch curling through my weakened muscles. “Hey.” I sound breathless, a whisper of uncertainty stealing my voice. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I’ve never been meek with a guy. In love or not, confused or not, I care for both of these men. Their well-being is the first thing that springs into my head the second I crack open my eyes. I know I have to tread with caution—shit’s already ugly—but I’m not about to let their alpha tension bruise the rest of our night, let alone their friendship.

  I’ve had many guilts in my life. I refuse to add the demise of a long-term friendship to my list.

  Deciding to take control—and knowing I’m the only one who can fix this mess—I swing my hip against each of them, hoping to lighten the mood. “Lee, these boys are lightweights at best. Double me up to four shots. It’s time to school them on how drinking’s really supposed to go down.”

  Steadfast, Lee obeys my request, plopping two additional shot glasses in front of me.

  “Mm, you love pushing it, don’t ya?” Ryder chuckles, a grin softening his face.

  “Ah, she knows nothing else,” Brock agrees.

  “What’s wrong, fellas?” I fling my arms around their necks and yank, cushioning their jaws against my ample C cups. “Are ya feeling . . . threatened?” I tease, a wiseass smirk plastered across my lips. “’Cause I’m smelling fear, and it reeks like shit.”

  A giggle bursts from Madeline as Lee pours liquid bliss into each glass. “She’s about to take you both down. Saddle up, my brothers, and watch how it’s done.”

  Before either can respond, I untangle my arms from their necks and down my quartet of shots. The leftover sting in my throat, spliced with waves of nausea, convinces me I’ve gone too far.