by Gail McHugh
CHAPTER 11
Ryder
BLITZED.
That’s my goal tonight.
Sitting at the bar in Ram’s Head Tavern—a local joint in the heart of Annapolis—I throw back a shot of tequila, chasing after a hard buzz before Amber and Brock show up.
It’s been a little over a month since I’ve tasted Amber’s sweet lips, felt her soft body in my arms, and heard her lusty little whimper. But Christ if it hasn’t felt like a fucking lifetime’s passed.
“You ready for another?” Lee shouts from behind the bar, his voice pitching over the live band cranking out psychedelic soul music. “It looks like you can use a few more.”
“Just put the whole bottle aside for me.” I twirl an unlit cigarette in my hand, wanting to beat the fucking piss out of the dickheads who banned smoking in public places.
“Done.” Lee reaches for a Sharpie and an unopened bottle of Patrón and scribbles my name on it. Shaking his head, he sets the bottle and another shot in front of me. “It’s all yours, man. But seriously, you need to get the hell out of whatever funk you’re in. Where’s the Ryder I know?”
I glare at Lee, wishing he would shut the fuck up. If he doesn’t, he’s joining the infamous ram’s head mounted above the fireplace.
“Come on, dude.” Lee rests his elbows on the bar, letting loose a sigh as he pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I know you’re balls deep in this shit with Amber, but it is what it is. Move on to the next, Ashcroft. There’s nothing you can do about it.”
The truth in his words rip through my gut. He is right. There’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. Still, as I kill my fifth shot—the burn sizzling my throat—I know the second that girl walks in the bar, any resolve I have about letting it all go is gonna vaporize. If I’d thought I felt an ounce of anything for her before watching her with Casey—the caring way she handled her—I was wrong. After that, I was done for. I wanted to hold her hostage, never letting her leave my apartment, let alone my life.
I gotta get the girl out of my head, but how the fuck do I let go of someone who I feel was made for me? All these months later, no matter how I’ve tried to fill the void—be it banging chicks I couldn’t give a fuck about or drinking and getting high till I can’t see straight—I’m still trying to figure that one out. Is someone who’ll never be mine worth fighting for? I know what my head tells me:
Fuck. No.
It’s the other part of my body—one that hasn’t been alive in years—that tells me yes.
Yes, she is. Despite my friendship with Brock, Amber’s worth a few rounds in the moral boxing ring.
Before I can think too much about holding her captive in my bed, possibly cuffed to the headboard, I glance toward the entrance. My shoulders tense when I see Amber, Brock, and Madeline waiting to get in.
Close to shitfaced, my body reacts, becoming alert as they navigate through the crush of patrons, heading right for me. My gaze locks on Amber’s, and the fiery halo of yellow painting her eyes is almost too much for me to bear. Those angelic irises send me into my own personal purgatory, their heat breathing something words can’t explain into the darkest parts of my fucked-up head.
It’s showtime.
On cue, Lee drops another shot in front of me, and I chug it back, plastering a smile on my face as the trio approaches.
“You look like you’re feeling pretty good.” Brock claps his hand over my shoulder and pulls out a bar stool for Amber.
Clad in a black miniskirt, tight pink sweater, and black knee-high leather boots, she’s the epitome of every man’s dirtiest fantasy. Like candy to a starved tongue or a centerfold to eyes once blind, she throws most of the male population off their game, me included.
Amber sinks onto the stool next to me, a coy smile spreading her lips as she tips her chin up to Lee. “He sure does.” She swings her eyes my way, her brow drawn up in challenge. “I’ll take a double of what he’s having. I feel like making Ashcroft look like a fool tonight.”
Sweet Jesus. Grinning, I look at Brock. “Is she serious, or is she smoked out?”
Brock tosses his arm over Amber’s shoulder. “She’s smoked out a little something, but bro, the girl can drink. That’s all I’m saying.”
I chuckle, snatch up the bottle of Patrón, and throw another shot of the liquid down my throat as I attempt to kill visuals of her gorgeous legs wrapped around my head.
“You sure about that, Amber?” Lee hops onto the bar and lays a kiss on Madeline’s lips. “Ashcroft’s drinking tequila. Think you can handle it?”
Brock and Madeline bark out a laugh, looking at Lee as if he’s lost his fucking mind. Amber remains quiet, a knowing smile on her lips.
“Baby?” Madeline curls her fingers around the collar of his work polo, pulling him in for another kiss. “Brock’s not kidding. Didn’t you know Amber’s a fish out of water, existing only to inhale tequila?”
“Why, no. No, I didn’t, babe.” Lee slides off the bar and reaches for my bottle of Patrón, holding it up as though asking if it’s okay.
I nod, looking forward to the outcome. I’ve witnessed Amber high, but I’ve yet to experience her drunk. After setting a Heineken in front of Brock and preparing Madeline her usual Cosmopolitan, Lee pours Amber two shots. A second passes, and she downs them both sailor-style. With an I dare you to underestimate me look in her eyes, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, not a shred of distaste hampering her features.
“Damn.” Lee laughs. “Maybe we do have some competition here tonight. This should be interesting.”
Madeline knots her arms around Amber’s stomach from behind. “Told ya. My girl’s got this.”
“You bet your ass I do.” Amber beams, motioning to Lee for another. “Just give up now, buddy. I may be smaller than you, but you don’t stand a chance.”
“You really think you can outdrink me, peach?” I ask with an amused grin. “Before you answer, I want you to think about what you’re saying. I’m a pro at many, many things, but I take drinking seriously. It’s an art form. Kind of like huge buildings, it takes time to master the level I’m at.”
“You and your building. Blah, blah, blah. I have no doubt in my ability to crush you,” Amber replies, her face all kinds of cute with confidence.
“Ah, well, I must warn you, Moretti, my boys can attest to how intimate me and Lady Tequila can get. I make love to the bitch. That says something, since that’s a rarity for me.”
“Very true.” Brock nods with a smirk. “Still, I’ve got a Ben Franklin on my girl taking you down.”
Amber pecks Brock’s cheek, and I instantly feel tension spark the length of my spine. Yup. I’m gonna need the whole fucking bottle to get through tonight.
“Again, Ry, prepare yourself for total annihilation.” Amber nudges my ribs. “I’m about to embarrass your manhood right out of this bar. Wa-wa-wa.”
“Those are some badass fighting words,” Mike Reynolds—a seedy motherfucker Brock and I do business with—snickers from behind us.
Mike sidles up next to Amber, extending his hand. Amber takes it, and I clench my jaw, wanting to break the fucking bottle over his skull.
“Who’s the sweet piece of ass challenging you, Ashcroft?” Mike licks his lips, his gaze sweeping up and down Amber’s body. “I gotta know.”
My jaw clenches again, this time coming close to cracking my teeth.
“Excuse me?” Amber drops Mike’s hand. “Who the hell do you think you are, calling me a piece of ass when you don’t even know me?”
“The sweet piece of ass is my girl.” Brock stares Mike down, his eyes lit up like coals. “Amber, this is Mike, and you, my sweet piece of ass, aren’t allowed to look in his direction when he’s anywhere in the vicinity.”
“Amen to that,” Madeline huffs in disgust.
Mike shoots Madeline a look, a snee
r working across his deep wrinkles as she gives him the finger. I’m positive Brock’s keeping his composure for Amber’s sake, but he won’t take long to lose his cool with the dick if Mike gets out of line. High school dropout, divorced three times before the age of forty, and spawn spread out from one end of the country to the next, Mike’s a walking septic tank. Human shit at its finest. Between slipping Ecstasy into chicks’ drinks to get them into bed, to cutting clients’ bags of coke with baby powder—which makes Brock look bad since he’s the douche’s supplier—to smacking around his most recent old lady, he’s straight-up poison to the air.
Mike smirks, his yellow train-wreck teeth on display. “Come on, Cunningham. That was a little harsh, don’t ya think, kid?”
Amber snorts and downs her third shot.
“I thought I was being pretty fucking nice,” Brock deadpans, his voice eerily monotone.
Though Mike’s oblivious to it, cocaine hindering any common sense the mutant has left, Brock’s composure is wavering. Fast.
Brock takes a pull from his beer and jerks his head toward the back entrance. “Let’s go take a walk, Mike. I wanna discuss a couple of things with you.”
Mike glares at Brock then swings his attention back to Amber, the corner of his mouth pulled up. “Well, it was nice meeting you—Amber, was it?”
“Lee, can I get another?” Amber asks, ignoring Mike. “This sweet piece of ass isn’t nearly as tanked as she needs to be.”
“I see.” Mike drags his thumb across his chin, his words a slow taunt. “I guess I’ll catch ya some other time.” Mike goes to turn around but halts, his neck craned in Amber’s direction. “If Cunningham ever stops doing it for you, hit me up. I’m easy to find. A babe such as yourself needs a man, not a little boy.”
I lunge at the asshole, but Brock beats me to it.
Right hand wrapped around Mike’s throat, Brock throws a fast left elbow, the powerful blow connecting with Mike’s jaw, shattering it to pieces. Mike’s shit-brown eyes go wide, his whimpered groan an orgasm to my ears. Dazed, the dick blinks once, twice, then slithers to the wooden floors with a glorious thud, down for the motherfucking count.
“Brock!” Amber wails, shooting to her feet. She curls frantic fingers around his shoulders, her face arranged into a mess of panic and fear.
Brock knots the pussy’s greasy hair in his fingers, dragging his body off the floor.
“Brock, don’t!” Amber begs, her fingers white-knuckling his biceps. “You already knocked him out. That’s enough, baby, please.”
Ignoring Amber, Brock stares into Mike’s semiconscious eyes. “You think you’re a tough guy, you fucking waste of life? Huh, cocksucker? You like talking smack to my girl?”
Mike manages a grin and clams at Brock, the bloody string of saliva slipping down Brock’s chin. “Fuck off, asshole.” The words tumble out garbled, the strained effort comical considering his jaw’s hanging off his face. “You’re lucky I didn’t rape her dirty cunt on the bar in front of you.”
Seething, my fists clench and unclench at my sides as the need for his blood hurdles through my chest. But Brock and I never roll like that. Pussies take down assholes like Mike by teaming up. Not us. Unless one of us is in bad shape, really bad shape, it’s an unwritten rule that neither of us steals the show from the other. The most amusing part about this whole thing is that the scumbag had a decent chance of walking out of here somewhat coherent. “Had” being the operative word.
My pal’s about to fuck him up the ass.
Hands still gripped in Mike’s hair, Brock casts a glance Amber’s way, seemingly asking permission to continue. Such a gentleman.
Whiskey-colored eyes narrowed into slits—all traces of pity gone—Amber snatches Madeline’s Cosmopolitan and pours it over Mike’s head. Laughter explodes from a group of onlookers, most of them familiar with who Brock is. A buddy of ours, Kevin, who happens to be the lead bouncer, watches from afar. All six foot nine of him nods, telling me everything’s cool.
Let the evening’s entertainment commence, folks. Enjoy the motherfucking ride.
A smile splits Amber’s glossy lips as the hot-pink liquid slides down Mike’s face, onto his brown leather jacket, and soaks through his jeans. She takes a calculated step forward, looks him in the eyes, and spits onto his cheek. “Beat his ass to the ground, Cunningham.”
Permission granted, Brock unleashes a string of blows against Mike’s head and ribs, each one fucking up the cocksucker worse than its predecessor. Roars and drunken howls ignite the stagnant air, their amped-up pitches drowning out the band jamming away in the back corner.
I grab Amber’s waist, pulling her a safe distance away from the growing frenzy. She doesn’t resist but instead presses her back to my chest as I relax against the bar. She’s tense—I feel it running through her muscles—but with Brock in our view, she plays the good-girlfriend role, allowing him to do his thing.
Though my attention should be on Brock and the plague-ridden asshole infecting the human race, it’s not. Fuck, I can’t help it. As lethal as I am to her, Amber’s no less poisonous to me. She knots me up, twisting my emotions sideways. She drums up every inch of my head, testing my sanity and making me question everything I believe. Her soft, curvy frame, cushioned against mine, hijacks each of my senses.
My hands go to her hips, my fingers gripping her. I feel her jolt, but after a second, she relaxes back into me, a silent whisper from her body giving me permission. I touch my nose to her hair, the act so subtle she doesn’t even realize I’m doing it, and inhale the sweet raspberry scent tangled in her long, ebony waves.
Silk. Goddamn fucking silk.
I envision her golden, catlike eyes staring up at me and those silken strands of heaven tickling my abs as her tongue maps its way farther south. My heart kicks against my ribs, speeding blood straight to my cock. I contain a groan, and my eyes flip into the back of my skull as I bite my lip, wishing I was biting hers. I clear my throat, pretty fucking sure I’m the plague-ridden asshole infecting the human race, not the douche taking the beating from Brock. I drag my attention back to my friend, knowing I’m right.
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
WHAT 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.
