Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1)

by Gail McHugh

  “I spoke with Cathy this morning,” he continues. “She’s really hoping to see some progress with you.”

  “Ah, the guilt card. Nice touch, Marty.”

  “Amber . . .” He sighs heavily. “This is our ninth session. You’ve barely spoken about what happened. I need you to elaborate a little more. Your foster parents want me to help you. I can’t do that without your participation.”

  I drop my gaze and stare at my chipped blue nail polish. I try to think about Cathy’s heartfelt talks about how therapy’s the key to me releasing the demons possessing my life. Her pleading face flashes in my head, causing my stomach to curl over in guilt. I don’t want to let Cathy down. She and Mark have been so good to me, trying everything in their power to help me get better. Still, in an instant, everything goes to shit in my brain, anger playing a wicked game of Russian roulette with the ghosts of my past.

  I pull in a deep breath and drag my gaze back to him. “Can I talk about something else instead?”

  He nods and rests his ankle over the knee of his navy dress pants. “We can discuss whatever’s on your mind.”

  “I cheated on my boyfriend,” I admit, waiting for the judgmental of course you did, you’re a whore look. He stays neutral. I continue. “It happened over a month ago, but it’s been bothering me ever since.”

  “Why does it bother you?” he asks, scribbling some shit onto his notepad.

  “Not sure, Marty. Maybe it’s because I have a conscience?” I roll my eyes. “Maybe it’s because my father used to bang his groupies? Maybe it’s because it’s a Tuesday? Whatever the case, cheating’s not cool. I rank it right up there with attempted murder.”

  “Attempted murder?” His dark brows slash hell-bound. “That’s a heavy comparison, wouldn’t you agree?”

  I shrug. “Not really.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you’re playing with someone’s mental state. Your actions can ruin their life, murdering their trust in anything real. Your indiscretions might as well be a hand wrapped around their throats, squeezing the air from their lungs. You can kill someone’s faith in what love is supposed to be.” I shrug again, feeling no different from Charles Manson for what I did to Brock. “Murder. Just a tamer definition of the word.”

  He looks me over, drumming his fingers against his notepad. “You mentioned your father participating in extramarital activities. Do you think your take on cheating has something to do with that?”

  I retreat into my past, trying to figure out the answer to his question. Against both of their parents’ wishes, my parents eloped when they found out my mother was pregnant with me. She’d just turned seventeen. I think my dad was twenty-one. Both sides of my family wrote them off after that. I’ve never met any of them, only heard stories about how cruel and distant they were after my parents left Arizona. My father landed a gig as a lead guitarist and followed the band out to Washington State, where they played at local bars. From what I remember, things were good for a while.

  A bittersweet day spent in the park dots my memory as Marty waits for me to answer.

  A picnic under a tree.

  Smiles.

  The bright sun and our laughter.

  Youth and naïveté at its finest.

  Such is life. It slowly sneaks up, fucking you from behind when you least expect it.

  Add in a hungry kid who needed clothing, a broken-down car, not-so-steady work, and a wife struggling with depression—voilà, my father started getting high. He also began sleeping with any groupie who paid him a rat’s worth of attention since my mother wasn’t. Or couldn’t. Either way, after Mom found out he’d knocked up one of the chicks, she started jabbing needles of heroin into her arm right alongside the love of her life.

  I sigh, wondering where my half brother is at this very moment. If we look alike. If his life is as messed up as mine.

  “It’s possible,” I answer, trying to unfuse my past from my head. “She got tripped up after he did that to her. I hated seeing her sad. It made me sad and apparently it’s stuck somewhere in my brain. But it was her fault. She was young and trusted him too much. She should’ve known better. Supposedly my father was a player from the start. But she had her ways of getting back at him. He just didn’t know about them.”

  Marty taps his pen against his cheek. “Do you think your father’s infidelity has anything to do with why you don’t trust?”

  “I don’t trust because they were in love and he wound up killing her.” The words are uttered slow and harsh. He knows the answer to his ridiculous question. “That’s why I don’t trust.”

  Can’t trust.

  Refuse to trust.

  If falling in love can turn into a bullet in your skull, what’s the point of giving your heart away? Yet how do you stop your heart from reacting to what it needs?

  You can’t.

  The organ has a mind of its own, disregarding what might be unhealthy for you. Once it’s been jolted by that spark, awakened by that all-consuming flame, it plays the dirtiest game of all. With each curious beat of wanting to touch, taste, and feel love, the heart routes all logical thoughts from your brain, siphoning them out of that sucker like a thief, spitting them back out onto a highway piled high with nothing but bloody wreckage.

  Causing mass destruction to our mental well-being since the beginning of time, our hearts are public enemy numero uno.

  “I think you need to tap deeper into the morning he killed her, Amber.” Marty ducks his head, his cantaloupe-sized bald spot aimed in my direction as he flips through some pages of his notepad. He lifts his eyes, the look in them cynical. “The writing therapy is good, but you need to elaborate so we can come up with a solid plan for your recovery.”

  “What’s there to elaborate on? My parents were drug addicts, and my father was a psycho who decided to check himself and my mother out right in front of me. Do I want your help? Possibly. But nothing you can say or do can truly help me. Only I can help myself. You overanalyzing my feelings and slight bipolar tendencies can’t change anything. My parents will remain dead, and I’ll continue to suffer from PTSD. I’ve found ways to cope with it. I’m simply coming here because I actually like Cathy and Mark, and it makes them feel better knowing I’m keeping up with my therapy visits.” I lift my shoulder in an unaffected shrug, though I’m anything but. “I’m not ready to talk about that day with anyone yet. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be. Just write my script for my feel-better pills, and for now, let me continue to write in my journal.”

  I watch my hired mental help shake his head in what appears to be defeat as his timer goes off, relieving me from having to elaborate.

  Score.

  I hop to my feet, sling my black leather satchel over my shoulder, and head for the door.

  “Amber,” he calls as my hand connects with the knob, “we’re eventually going to make progress.”

  I release a puff of air. “See ya next week, Marty.”

  I exit his stuffy office, my attention landing on the most yet least complicated part of my life. A part I’m falling for, but sure I’m going to hurt. A part I’m trying to understand, but fear I never will. Lips parted in a sexy smile, and deep green eyes pinned on mine, the reason I’m starting to wake up in the morning, starting to breathe with relief, rises from a chair in the waiting room.

  I instantly feel calm, the tension in my shoulders deflating like a balloon.

  “So?” Brock grabs my hand, swallowing it in his own. “How’d it go?”

  “How do you think it went?” We step out into the crisp air that only October on the East Coast can bring. The smell of fall entices my nose, a network of bright yellow, deep red, and fiery orange leaves fascinating my vision as I climb into Brock’s Hummer. “How did your wait go?”

  Brock lets free a heavy sigh. “Amber.”

  “Brock.” A smart-ass smirk
lifts the corner of my mouth. A tug on the door, a shake of his head, and a dimpled smile later and he’s seated next to me. That smile does me in, my heart thump-thump-thumping the way it did the first time I saw him. A second after that, my lips are pressed against his cheek, my hands buried in his wavy, dirty-blond hair as he backs out of the parking lot.

  “Get your seat belt on.” The smooth, deep timbre in his voice causes my thighs to tighten. Despite my best flirty pout, he narrows his eyes as he attempts to navigate the cobblestoned streets of downtown Annapolis. Despite his best efforts, I can tell I’ve turned him on.

  “You’re hard as a rock,” I tease, settling back into my seat. “Admit it. I get you every time.”

  He tosses me a shit-eating grin. “The only thing I’ll admit is that I’m gonna enjoy sexually torturing you once I get you back to my place if you don’t get your belt on.”

  “Demanding,” I purr, pulling the stupid belt over my waist. “And kinky. I like.”

  “Safe,” he counters, “and kinky. You can’t deny I satisfy your wild side. It’s a given.”

  A snort escapes my throat. “Wow. And as overconfident as ever.”

  His mouth lifts into a cocky smile, but it vanishes. “You didn’t talk to the therapist, did you?”

  I bite my lip, knowing where he’s headed. “I talked, just not about what he wanted me to.” I look down at my pink hoodie, toying with the hem. “I’m not ready to yet.”

  “You need to talk to him, Amber.”

  “Please don’t start with me.” I lean my head against the window. “You’re talking in that ‘fatherly’ tone, and it makes me feel like you’re putting me under a microscope.”

  He rests his hand on the back of my neck, caressing my hair. “I’m not trying to start with you, Ber. I love that you write in a journal. I find it beyond sexy, and have many times told you that you can write your thoughts out across my naked body if it helps you, but you need to open up to him. It’ll only help you that much more. I wanna see you happy.”

  I bring my eyes back to his, a coy smile on my face. “I may just take you up on that offer one day, but seriously, I’m happy, Brock.”

  “You’re surface happy.” He glances at me, his voice soft. “Don’t think I can’t see through you. I love you, and I want every bit of you happy. Not just the outside.”

  My heart twists, stutters, then stops.

  Twists.

  Stutters.

  Stops.

  Palms sweaty, I register our vehicle coming to a standstill at a red light. I stare at Brock, and he searches my face, his eyes glazed over in a look I’ve never seen. I’ve seen them high, seen them filled with longing. I’ve even seen anger ignite them, but I’ve never witnessed them in their current state. They’re different, deep, a pool of emotions collecting beneath their surface.

  “What did you just say?” My voice comes out weak, thin.

  “I love you, Ber,” he whispers, his eyes still on mine.

  He leans over the center console and cups my cheeks, his touch immediately sending fire crawling through my body. I suck in a deep breath, watching his gaze flitter across my face. It amazes me how something so simple can create a buzzing overload of sensation that wraps me tight, holding me prisoner in its warmth.

  “I don’t know how you did it, but you did,” he says into my ear, his voice soft, sincere. “I know telling you this in the middle of rush hour traffic isn’t cool or romantic, but I love you. I love you something fierce, and it scares the fuck out of me, but I couldn’t keep it in any longer. I don’t expect you to say it back, or even feel the same way about me, but I wasn’t about to let another day go by without letting you know that I love you, Amber Moretti.”

  He presses his lips to mine, causing my stomach to sink and desire to pool between my legs. His words fade into the air, drop back down, and scatter along my skin, sinking into my once-empty heart. The kiss is as intense and mind-blowing as ever, his need for me evident in each slow, deliciously persistent lick. A car horn fires off, and Brock gives the aggravated driver the finger, but he doesn’t stop kissing me. No. Instead he kisses me harder, deeper, pouring everything he’s got into this one kiss.

  Into this moment.

  My body responds, wanting nothing more than to climb into his lap and take him right here. Mind in overdrive and confusion knotting my gut, I slowly pull back. Breathing as heavily as Brock, the absence of his lips leaves my core aching with need. His stare ushers a trail of chills over my flesh as I try to wrap my head around his declaration.

  Do I tell him that I think I’m falling in love with him but am trying my hardest not to? That the mere thought of it makes me ill, wanting to possibly break things off with him, my fear of everything that love represents deadening my cells? Do I explain that at nineteen I’m not even sure if what I’m experiencing is love? Close to paralyzed, I go with what I think I need to say before revealing any of this.

  The lie I need to wash myself clean of.

  I hold my breath and release it, praying I don’t destroy the heart of the only man who’s ever felt a shred of anything for me.

  “A few weeks ago—” I start, immediately second-guessing myself, my motives.

  Who gains a thing by me confessing what happened between me and Ryder? More important, who loses something? I can kill a relationship that’s barely had time to flourish into something solid, something good. I can abolish a friendship that’s lasted years, bulldozing it into something resembling war.

  Brock stares at me, his eyes patient. “A few weeks ago, what?”

  My pulse thunders, creating a terrifying rhythm of its own, one I’ve never felt. Another car horn sounds, causing me to jump. My breath snags in my throat as I look over my shoulder at the pissed-off commuter. Shaking, I bring my gaze back to Brock’s.

  But this time when my eyes catch his, the endless sincerity in them tells me I’m fooling myself. This man stole a piece of my heart the day we met, and though I have no way to gauge the emotions spurring through me, the overpowering feeling that I can’t imagine taking another breath without him in my life must be love.

  The part that terrifies me the most, making me freeze over, is that my feelings for Ryder border on identical.

  Who’s toxic to whom now?

  Worse . . . how’s that even possible?

  Though the forbidden thought has snuck into my diseased skull, I haven’t had sex with Ryder. Surely I can’t love him. Love’s born of sharing your body with someone, the outer shell harboring the demons hidden beneath your hideous surface.

  Right?

  But if that theory were true, I’d have fallen in love more times than the average first grader can count. Numb, hollow, and broken, I’ve slipped from both seedy and rich beds smelling of meaningless sex without feeling like I was in love. Leaving every emotion tangled in those soiled sheets, I never looked back.

  Is love built from human sentiment alone, the deadly feeling entrapping you in a series of shared moments between two vulnerable souls? Do slices of deep conversations, unspoken words, and stolen glances count? Do those small acts, tiny specks of laughter, unshed tears, and belly-dips grow the foreign feeling, morphing it into what can drive a person insane?

  Not knowing if I’ll ever understand the difference, I take a deep breath, my pulse thudding as I decide that what I feel for Brock merits attention. “I think I love you too, Brock,” I finally whisper, sickened that I’m flying into this relationship on the evil wings of untruth. I’m dirty, the reality of what I am—what I stand for—unsettling me with each passing second.

  Though he remains silent, Brock’s expression is strewn with devastation. I’m clearly nothing but poison to him and Ryder.

  I shake my head, feeling like I’m about to lose my lunch. “I’ve never been in love,” I explain, my voice riddled with confusion. “I . . . I don’t know what it’s suppo
sed to feel like. All I know is that my stomach twists, in a good way, when I think of you, of us. It also twists in a bad way when I think of never being near you again.”

  I place my hand on his jaw, hoping I can get him to understand the inner workings of my mind. He tenses, and I lean over to kiss his cheek, leaving my lips there as I continue.

  “When we have sex, it’s not just sex for me,” I say. “I feel you everywhere. In my thoughts, my heart. I’ve never had that before. You might be fucking me, but you take your time with my body. That makes whatever I’m feeling for you that much stronger.” I slowly pull back, watching the late afternoon sun slant through the window against his face. “I don’t know what these feelings are, but I know they scare me too.”

  Brock pulls to the side of the street, his voice gentle as he slips his fingers through mine. “You wanna know something, baby girl?”

  I nod, my breath hijacked by his mouth on mine.

  “The things you just described are pieces of falling in love.” He glides his tongue across the seam of my lips, coaxing them open.

  Heat paints my cheeks, spreads through my muscles, and colors my heart as he kisses me deep, hard, making sure he steals what little breath I have left along the way.

  “And as tiny as those pieces are, I’ll take whatever I can. Just knowing you feel a fraction of what you said will keep me fighting for you. Fighting for every one of your thoughts.” He kisses my forehead, his touch gentle as he drags his fingertips through my hair. “I want every single memory you own from today on to include me, and nothing will stop me from making sure they do.”

  Without words, I beg him to devour me in every way he knows how, in every way he ever has. He sees the unspoken urgency in my gaze and, remaining silent, he merges into traffic and drives toward his place. The promise of what I want, what I need, hangs on every breath he takes as the realization that I’m in love, that I’ll never look at life the same way again, strips away the last bit of steel encasing my heart.