Amber to Ashes

by Gail McHugh

  Frozen, I stare at him, my brain knocking around his admission.

  Dead the second Dom pulled his gun on me . . .

  Dead the second . . .

  Dead . . .

  Christ. No matter what I did or said to get us the hell outta there without anyone getting hurt—the two assholes included—was all in vain. Brock knew he was taking the fuckers out the minute this nightmare began. I suck in a disturbed breath, aware this night will haunt me down to my bones, every sick detail played out in slow motion, terrorizing the rest of my life.

  Brock fires the engine, his eyes vacant of the nervousness, fear, and regret feasting on each cell in my body. “Get in, Ryder.”

  Jaw clenched and head fucked sideways, I hop in, my spirit beaten to shreds as I spark up a cigarette.

  Brock kicks the van into drive, gunning it down the dark, graveled driveway. He cuts a hard right out of the property, a blaze of dust surrounding the vehicle as guilt returns, wrapping its lethal fingers around my neck.

  Brock glances at me, his tone remaining calm. “I had to drop them. There was no way in hell—”

  “Fuck!” I punch the dashboard, my knuckles splitting on impact. Sanity officially cracked wide open, I punch the dash again, blood seeping down my wrist as I try to catch a full breath. “Are you fucking nuts? We killed two people!”

  “Am I nuts?” he growls, navigating the back roads of bumble-fuck nowhere. “No, my brother. You’re nuts. You need to wake up. If you thought for one goddamn second Dom was letting us walk outta there alive, then I don’t give a shit if you’re a genius on paper. You’re a moron if you thought he wasn’t killing us first.”

  “You don’t know if—”

  “If what?” He slams on the brakes, the van screeching to a stop. “If Dom was gonna spare our lives? Gonna invite us over for a bar-b-que next weekend? You know what? Maybe it is me who’s nuts. Maybe I confused him shoving his gun in my face with him wanting to ask me to be the godfather of his newborn.”

  Silence reigns, nothing but our heavy breathing shrouding the space as Brock sinks a nervous hand through his hair. “Goddamnit, Ryder, think about what you’re saying,” he whispers, the first sign of morality swamping his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, think about how it went down. You know we weren’t getting outta there without him putting a bullet in our skulls. If I hadn’t done it, done deal—right about now—he’d be dumping our bodies into a shallow grave somewhere on his property. It’d be our families grieving, not his. It’d be my girlfriend, not his wife, losing her goddamn mind when we never came back. Fuck no. Amber’s been through too much shit. And did you honestly think I was gonna let him threaten her life the way he did? You think I’d be able to sleep, knowing the psycho knew what she looked like? I didn’t wanna kill him. Jesus Christ, I wasn’t born a murderer, bro, but I had to fucking do it. I had to because if I didn’t—whether you wanna admit it or not—Dom knew he was taking us out the second I opened my mouth to him.”

  He hauls in a slow breath and punches the gas, the van speeding down the road as he stares straight ahead. “Again, I’ll never apologize for what I did. For what I had to do to keep you, me, and Amber alive. If I had to, I’d do it again.” Another breath as he swings his attention to me, a flash of fear jumping across his face. “I just pray my judge and jury remember what happened tonight when my time’s up.”

  The remainder of the ride is spent in silence as I mull over what happened in the warehouse. I take a drag from my cigarette, feeling sick that I actually agree with Brock’s actions. He’s right. We were never walking outta there alive, and even if by some miracle we had gotten away without killing them, the fucker did threaten Amber’s life. Does this make me as warped as Brock? As shut down and cold as he’s become? I flick my cigarette out the window, unsure of any of the twisted emotions speeding through my head except for one thing . . .

  The evilness of the night has forever stained who we are, stripping us bare of anything resembling a normal future.

  The worst part?

  The petrifying feeling that our time is almost up . . .

  CHAPTER 17

  Amber

  “YOU LOOK LIKE a sex kitten,” Madeline appraises from the minibar as she prepares me a shot of tequila. “Amber Moretti in a black strapless leather dress is one badass vision. You’re gonna make every dude and dudette in the casino wanna get it on with you.” She shimmies her sequined skirt down her thighs, beaming as she ungracefully wobbles into the bathroom. “Guy and girly parts all over the Borgata will be on high alert.”

  I inwardly giggle at her attempt at walking with poise in six-inch stilettos. “You need practice in those things.”

  “Ugh! Tell me about it.” She hands me the shot and looks down at my four-month anniversary gift from Brock: a pair of fuck me now seven-inch animal-print Louboutins.

  “You make walking in them look like second nature. It’s like they’re a freaking extension of your body.” She frowns as she messes with her fiery red strands of hair. “Me? I’d be better off sporting circus stilts.”

  I smile, chucking my lip gloss into my beaded clutch. “Stop. Like I said, with a little practice, you’ll be able to walk in them like a model with your pretty brown eyes closed.”

  “I highly doubt that. But thanks for the encouragement.” She grins, bumping her hip against mine. “You look amazing, really, but we gotta jet. Lee texted me twenty minutes ago, threatening to auction us off to the highest bidder if we weren’t downstairs at the craps table within ten minutes. Considering he’s down a grand, I’m treating his threat with the utmost seriousness.”

  I toss the shot down my throat, shoot one last glance at my reflection, and head out of the bathroom, my nerves a mess as I grab my room’s key card. Though I’m excited we’re in Atlantic City celebrating Brock’s twenty-third birthday, and my man spared no expense for the Piatto suite, I can’t help but worry what the next forty-eight hours are going to bring.

  The last month with both Brock and Ryder has been the closest thing to what I imagine living in a psychiatric ward would be like. Absolute mayhem. Between their sudden bursts of anger, secretiveness, drinking until they pass out, and even going as far as getting lit up last weekend on their own supply of blow, I feel like I’m losing my mind. Add all of that to Brock skipping out on sex with me, and I’m sure it won’t be long before one of us ends up in a straitjacket. Brock’s denied it, but since their last pickup, they’ve turned into two completely different men, each one acting out in ways that petrify me.

  Though I may be reaching, my best guess is they’re vexed I decided against being with them. The night Brock brought it up, my world was rocked, its very foundation sinking into a state of Brock and Ryder euphoria. The mere idea has taken over my life, visions of each man bringing my body to new heights—to its glorious limits—dominating my every breath, dream, and fantasy, reducing me to nothing but a sloppy, masturbating mess.

  Masturbating mess or not, after considering the repercussions, my conscience won’t allow me to go along with it. I have a feeling the whole thing will backfire on us, leaving me the reason these two men—whom I equally hold close to my soul for different reasons—will lose a friendship. More than that, I’ll wind up being the culprit of two broken, unrepairable hearts. I wouldn’t be able to breathe knowing I hurt either man. Although I bounced between what I long for and what I already have, the decision was somewhat simple.

  For the first time in my life, I put my sexual addiction to the side, choosing our sanity instead.

  Still, though I’m pretty sure their abrupt change in demeanor is because of me, I’ve been unable to ignore the unwelcomed voice in my head telling me I have nothing to do with it at all. It’s whispering that something happened while they were in West Virginia. Something dark, a monster born from an evilness I couldn’t even begin to understand. It’s screaming it’s the reason Brock has woken up most nig
hts since they returned in cold sweats, his body riddled with the shakes. Its sinister cries keep telling me it’s the motive behind Ryder’s decision to quit football, his love of the sport ending overnight.

  Either way, no matter how many times I’ve questioned them, I’m left with the same answer: I’m overreacting to something that doesn’t exist.

  On a sigh, I follow Madeline to the elevator. Sweat threatens my makeup as the doors part on the casino’s main floor. The air—rife with the smell of stale cigarettes and sweet cigars, along with the hum of slot machines—awakens my senses. A thick layer of excitement bubbles in my stomach, my attention sweeping the span of the casino as Madeline hooks her arm in mine and drags me toward the craps tables.

  Overwhelmed, my eyes take in a concoction of strategically placed numbers, stacks of colorful chips, and tumbling dice, ultimately landing on Ryder and Brock. I smile, my pulse whipping my blood into overdrive at the dual beautiful sights before me. In a crowded space, filled with the heavy buzz of commotion, they still manage to command a room, the eyes of women spread out all over the casino appraising them with heated interest. Decked out in tailored suits, they motion me over, both chuckling at the confused look on my face as I approach the table.

  God, it feels so good to hear them laugh again. Depleted of their usual wittiness and jovial spirits, the past month demolished my existence as a whole, every agonizing second killing off a section of my heart.

  Brock curls his arms around my waist and pulls me into his chest. “You know I dig you in leather, right?” He grips me tighter and slides his lips to my neck, his erection tickling my stomach as he nibbles my flesh. “It does things to me no man should have to bear in public.”

  Madeline smiles, an I told you so look aimed at me as Lee gathers her in his arms.

  “Hmm.” I tug on Brock’s tie, my brow playfully drawn up. “Although it’s been a while—ahem—I do recall you having a healthy fetish for me in this material. Is this going to pose a problem for your gambling prowess, birthday boy?”

  “My birthday isn’t until tomorrow, wiseass. Don’t make me older than I am.” He kisses my lips, the tantalizing swirl of his tongue tasting of whiskey. “And no. It won’t pose a problem. Once I get you back to the room, I’m destroying your dress. I dig you in leather, but I love you out of it. Especially when it’s on the floor, next to your naked body, while your legs bug out around my head.” He releases me from his hold, his grin turning the best kind of sinister. “But, as usual, I’ll require that the heels stay on.”

  Heat liquefies my muscles at the thought of fucking him. It feels as though an eternity has passed since he last nourished my body with what it requires. For some, a month without sex is a piece of cake. For me, it’s akin to drinking rat poison, each deadly swallow bringing me closer to my coffin.

  “You sure did paint her a vivid picture, bro,” Ryder points out, his gaze passing between mine and Brock’s. “She no longer looks like a hot, confused mess. Well done.” He tosses back what remains of his shot, sets down his empty glass, and motions over a passing waitress. “Very well done.”

  Bloodred lips spread into an eager smile, and making sure the sway of her hips holds Ryder’s attention, the waitress nods and skirts toward us. “Ryder,” she drawls, her voice thick with sex as she brushes up against him, shoving her double Ds in his face. Batting what I’m positive are fake lashes, she taps his nose. “What can I do for you, cutie?”

  “What can’t you do for me, Leslie?” He toys with a strand of her dyed blonde hair, his eyes jumping from her rack to her lips. “That’s the real question.”

  Her giggle makes me want to hurl. “Well, I did give you my number earlier, and you know what time I get off, so I’d say it’s up to you to find out exactly what I can or can’t do for you.”

  He chuckles and leans into her ear, whispering some shit I can’t hear over the din of the casino.

  Another giggle, this one on the heels of a playful gasp. I roll my eyes, positive I’m seconds from losing my dinner. She taps his nose again, squeaking out in nauseating delight as Ryder slaps her ass. Relieving me of the vomit-inducing scene, she slips around a corner, craning her neck in his direction until she’s completely out of sight.

  Ryder unfastens his attention from the waitress, bringing it back to me and Brock. “What was I saying? I got a little . . . sidetracked.”

  “You gotta be as shit-faced as I am.” Brock polishes off his whiskey, then swings his arm over my shoulder. “How the hell that wrinkled piece of leather does a thing for you is beyond my understanding.”

  “Sorry, dude, but I’m with Brock,” Lee says, cringing. “She looked old enough to be your mother.”

  Points scored for Lee and Brock.

  “I’m not sure which one of you assholes is more smoked out.” Ryder sparks up a cigarette, taking a cool, long pull from it as a lazy smirk strokes his mouth. “I might be hammered a little something, but I know a fine-looking piece of ass when I see it. Besides, she’s thirty-four. That’s not old. That’s experienced.”

  Chuckling, both Lee and Brock shake their heads.

  Unaffected by their taunting, Ryder blows a ring of smoke into Brock’s face. “Now, again, what was I saying?”

  “Brock’s picture of Amber in leather,” Madeline answers, wiggling her brows.

  “Ah, that’s right.” Grinning, Ryder looks at Brock. “Well done on the picture you painted for our girl here. Amber Moretti in leather. How the fuck could you go wrong?”

  “You can’t.” Brock cups my cheeks, his gaze roving over my face before he kisses me as though it’s the last time he’ll ever get to. I sink, realizing this is how he’s kissed me since he got back from West Virginia. We may not have had sex, but we’ve kissed—a lot—and when we have, there’s been underlying torment attached to each one.

  My pulse takes off, shards of unease slicing my heart. As I fall in step with his sensual rhythm, it hits me that the voice inside my head’s not a voice, nor me overreacting—but instead—my intuition firing off warning shots.

  Something happened to my man while he was down there.

  “I love you,” Brock whispers, something parallel to paranoia surfacing across his expression. “You’ll never understand how much I cherish you, baby girl. I’d do anything for you. Anything.”

  Soul aching in question, I clutch his lapels, everything in me needing to understand what’s happening to him.

  “I’ll be right back.” He tosses a hand through his hair, a smile on his face. “I have to hit the ATM. I got killed on the blackjack tables before you girls came down.”

  “I’ll take a walk with you,” I blurt, aware his smile’s an act, hiding something I fear he’ll never tell me about. “I could use the exercise anyway. Dinner did me in. I’m positive I look like a pregnant elephant. God knows I feel like one.”

  “You’re crazy. But you’re a beautiful psycho, so it’s all good.” Brock drops a kiss onto my forehead and checks his Rolex. “Just hang here. I have a few phone calls to make, so I might be a while. Besides, Ryder’s gonna teach ya how to play craps. Isn’t that right, Ashcroft?”

  Ryder tips his empty glass in my direction. “Yup. I’m about to turn her pro.”

  Brock shoves a wad of cash in my cleavage, and stares at me a beat, desolation returning to his eyes before he turns and walks away. I pull the cash from my cleavage and watch him bleed into the throng, my heart sinking as I thumb through the knot of hundred-dollar bills. There’s at least two grand in my possession. He might have a few calls to make, but he’s not hitting the ATM.

  Another lie, this one managing to confuse and worry me further.

  The second Brock’s out of view, Ryder rests his hand on my nape, guiding my face to within inches of his. The spiced scent of his cologne, combined with the warmth of his touch, curls a live wire of adrenaline around my limbs.

  “Yo
u’re the most goddamn beautiful thing ever created,” he croons, his words spoken soft against my cheek. “I might be a little hemmed up, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see straight. I’m positive I’ll never come across anything as breathtaking as you.” He wets his lips, the sight of his delicious barbell causing my body’s temperature to jump. “Cats like me don’t usually use the word ‘breathtaking,’ but hell if the good Lord above wasn’t on his game the day he made you. In leather or not, you, Amber Moretti, are an angel to tainted eyes.”

  “Thank you,” I murmur, sure I’ve squeezed my clutch into the shape of a pancake. I inhale a shaky breath, trying to replenish the oxygen his declaration yanked from my lungs.

  “You’re very welcome.” He steps back and nails his gaze to mine. “Also, we’re here to have a good time. If I have to beat a real smile outta ya, I will. I’m not beyond getting . . . physical if the occasion calls for it. You think you’re an expert at hiding your thoughts, but it’s not your forte, peach. You suck at it.”

  “I’m fine.” The lie slips from my mouth with excruciating effort. “Besides, shouldn’t you be worrying about what your waitress friend is or isn’t going to do to you after her shift, and not what’s bothering me?”

  “Asking me not to worry about you is like asking me not to take my next breath, Amber.” He tilts his head, genuine concern darkening the turquoise in his eyes. “I’m also starting to think ya get off on making me call you out on your bullshit. You’re far from fine. I’m not an asshole, Moretti. You haven’t been fine for a few weeks.”

  “You win, Mr. Genius. I’m not fine. But how am I supposed to be when you and Brock aren’t? Something happened when you guys went on your last pickup, and no one’s saying shit to me about it. I know I’m not supposed to ask questions, yada, yada, yada, but I’m not an asshole, Ashcroft.” I sigh as I look away, a plethora of nerves attacking my system as I shove the knot of cash into my clutch. “Something’s wrong. I can sense it.”