Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1)

by Gail McHugh

  “Why?”

  He glances at me, his brows dipped in confusion. “Why what?”

  “Why, after knowing what I’ve done behind your back—even if it was just kissing—would you ever consider sharing her with me?” I take a breath, feeling like the asshole I’ve become. “I don’t get it.”

  He stays quiet a minute, thoughts moving behind his eyes before saying, “Because you didn’t fuck her when I know you could’ve. Call me nuts, but instead of making me not trust you, that made me trust you more.”

  Trust. Something I’ve tarnished, tainted beyond recognition, but am being rewarded with.

  “So now what?” I ask, unsure what to do, what to say. Hell, I feel psychotic, my head a tangled mess.

  Brock grips the wheel as he stares straight ahead. “Tell me if she’s down with it, then so are you.” He turns to me, his eyes imploring. “Help me give her what she needs. What she . . . wants.”

  A fiend at his worst, this junkie’s eager to get his fix no matter what he has to do. Amber’s my obsession, the sweetest addiction a man like me can have. And right now—even if it goes against what I would or wouldn’t do if she were mine—I nod, praying the deal I’ve struck with the devil doesn’t sink us all.

  • • •

  By the time we pull up to Dom’s farmhouse in Harpers Ferry—a lifeless town in no-man’s-land West Virginia—my mind’s spun in every fucking direction. It’s close to six in the evening, the sun long past its descent, as Brock parks the rental van around the back.

  Though I’ve been through this routine more times than I can count, I can’t help the unease churning my stomach. In this business, it’s impossible not to run across a few freaks here and there. But Dom Lawrence steals the goddamn show. From offing fuckers who’ve stopped buying from him to the whacko’s racist, redneck, neo-Nazi lifestyle, the dude’s head is jacked up, no doubt.

  What the sick fuck doesn’t know is that when pushed, this cat’s head can twist the same way. If not worse.

  I open the glove compartment and grab my trusty thirty-eight Smith & Wesson, checking to make sure every chamber’s loaded. Brock does the same with his nine-millimeter Sig, chuckling as I hop out of the van.

  I shove the gun down the waistband of my jeans. “Why the fuck are you laughing?”

  “It never fails. Every time we come here, you look like you’re walking into your own funeral.” A smirk slides across his face as he plucks a bank bag that’s holding triple what a middle-income family earns in a year from the center console. “I swear to God, you turn into a certified pussy the second we step foot onto this property.”

  “I’m no pussy.” I shoot him a glare, gravel crunching beneath my boots as I round the van. I spark a cigarette, blowing the smoke into the late October air. “Furthest thing from it. Never mind that I actually like my life—and want to live it as long as possible—I just realize how warped Dom is. For whatever reasons, ones I’m positive I’ll never understand, you don’t.”

  “You think I don’t know how crazy the asshole is?” Brock jumps out of the van, his smirk disappearing. “Come on, man. I may not be able to claim the ‘genius’ title like you, but I’m not clueless. I’m plenty aware he’s missing a few nuts and bolts.”

  I shrug, sliding the hood of my sweatshirt over my head. “I have no fucking clue. All I know is he’s not the only supplier on the East Coast.”

  “Ah, but he’s the only one selling me a load for ten grand less than all the rest of the pricks out there.” He slaps my shoulder, his smirk making a comeback. “Cash, my brother. Not that we don’t have enough, but by the time we’re thirty, we’ll be balls deep in it. We take a lot of risks pushing this shit. Might as well make it count.”

  Profit—that’s what it’s all about for Brock. Fuck our lives. As long as he’s getting a deal, everything else—including the oxygen we breathe—is a nuisance to him. But I can’t deny my buddy understands numbers.

  This far north, a kilo will bang your pocket a cool thirty-five thousand. Most of the time, the shit’s recompressed with every kind of cutting agent imaginable, making your loyal fan base unhappy when their high’s not tight. Besides producing pure, uncut coke, Dom sells a kilo to Brock for twenty-five thousand. On the norm, Brock yanks up two a month.

  Never messing with shit amounts like eight balls, Brock goes hard, dumping nothing less than ounces out to his buyers. Knowing he has the best blow available, Brock gets rid of those ounces for a few hundred more than what they’d go for on average.

  Clientele a mixed bag of small street dealers, the highest-paid lawyers money can secure, CEOs of corrupt corporations, and scum-sucking politicians, Brock’s got half the DC/Bay Area sniffing their stress away out of the palm of his equally dirty hand, their need to stay on top running his profit margin close to one hundred and fifty percent.

  America: home of the free, land of the finest waste available on the fucking planet.

  “Now grab your balls and stop being a pussy.” Brock checks his gun again before shoving it and the bag of cash into his jacket. “If you have to, think about your mother, Casey, and your grandmother. All the ways you’ve financially helped them. You’re their goddamn savior.”

  I blow a ring of smoke into Brock’s face, guilt for lying to my mother stabbing my heart. Guilt or not, he’s right. Their well-being’s the only thing that’s fueled me this far. A few more years of this shit, and I’m out, never to compromise my morals for this filthy lifestyle again.

  With that in mind, we make for the warehouse, my hand on my gun as we reach the back door. Entering, the domed metal bay lights nearly blind me before I see Dom.

  Sitting at his desk—in the middle of enjoying a blow job from some blonde knelt before him—Dom jerks his buzzed head up. An aggravated frown hits his face as Blondie whips her attention to me and Brock, putting the brakes on her pleasure-inducing skills.

  I inwardly smile, getting off on fucking up the asshole’s night.

  “I’ll call you later,” the blonde says through an embarrassed whisper.

  “Get your lips back on my cock,” Dom growls, shoving the barrel of his pistol against her temple as she attempts to scramble to her feet.

  I’m about to fucking lose it. I take a ground-eating step forward, but Brock seizes my arm, hauling me back.

  “I never told you to stop.” Fury ignites Dom’s words. “Who the fuck told you to stop? Are you hearing voices, whore? Is that what this is?”

  “No . . . bu-but two guys came in,” Blondie stammers, clearly freaked out. “I thought—”

  Dom’s free hand crashes down on her shoulder, holding her in place as he cocks the gun. “Don’t make me repeat myself,” he half snarls, half chuckles. He lifts his dark eyes to me and Brock. “I’m sure these men don’t feel like seeing your pretty little brains splattered across this warehouse. That would make for such a mess, wouldn’t it?”

  She nods, a whimper caught in her throat as he fists the back of her skull.

  Continuing to hold the gun to her temple, Dom pets her golden locks, a jeering smile splitting his mouth as he commands, “Finish me off or wind up buried somewhere beneath the horse shit stinking up my property. The world couldn’t give a fuck less about finding girls like you.”

  Heeding his warning, Blondie’s head disappears under the desk.

  “How long ya been doin’ business with me, Brock?” Dom’s hollow stare stays on ours as the slurping sound of Blondie sucking him off sneaks into my ears. “Huh? How long?”

  “Sorry, man, I—”

  “Don’t ever come in here without knocking.” Aiming his gun in the air, Dom pops off a shot into the ceiling, tiny fragments of mortar, Sheetrock, and metal falling to the ground as Blondie stifles a petrified cry. Still, the girl keeps at it, her head furiously bobbing up and down. “That is, unless ya feel like a bullet from this here Desert Eagle tearing th
rough your skull will add some excitement to your day. You know the fucking rules. Abide. By. Them.”

  “Go fuck your cousin, you hillbilly, wheat-smoking asshole,” Brock hisses, vengeance lighting his eyes. “Don’t threaten me, dick. I don’t give a fuck who you are. I’d gladly take one of your bullets before ever giving you the satisfaction of letting you think you intimidate me.”

  I rest my hand on my gun, ready, waiting, and itching to show this prick what’s up. Glaring at Brock, Dom slowly rises and yanks up Blondie by her hair, shoving her to the ground as he pulls on his camos. Her knees scrape the cement, her naked body trembling as she scurries into a corner like a scared, helpless animal. My stomach twists at the sickening sight.

  Dom scratches his head, his combat boots echoing through the chilled warehouse as he approaches us. An unnerving laugh rips from his chest as he lifts his gun to the center of Brock’s forehead. Unblinking, Brock smirks, his teeth curling over his lips as I pull out my Smith & Wesson and pin it to Dom’s cheek. Finger steady, I cock it and suck in a slow breath, preparing myself for what’s to come.

  My first kill.

  Before I can swallow the last remnants of morality I have left, I feel the icy barrel of a shotgun against the back of my skull. The chilling sound of it being cocked causes goose bumps to jump across my skin, sweat instantly forming on the back of my neck. Heart pounding, I slide my gun to Dom’s temple, visions of my grieving mother, sister, and grandmother jamming my thoughts as I accept my fate.

  “Well, looky what we got here,” Dom says. “Looks like the only fucker not dying tonight is Bobby.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.” Bobby jabs the shotgun harder against my head.

  Dom flicks his lifeless gaze over my shoulder, a small grin glued to his face. “It’s a shame too, because I was excited about sawing through Cindy’s cunt before the wife and kids got back from my in-laws’. No comparison, she fucks better than my old lady ever has.”

  The blonde—who now has a name and remains curled up into a tight ball—whimpers again, tears plopping down her cheeks as she stares at us from the corner.

  Brock brings his gun to his temple and cocks it. “I’d rather put a bullet in my own head than let you get off on killing me. Go ahead. I dare you to test just how warped this college boy really is.” Eyes locked on Dom’s, Brock juts his chin in my direction. “But keep in mind my dick will be as hard as they come knowing my buddy here blew your head to fucking pieces. Just a little something for you to ponder while you’re trying to make a decision. In the meantime, I guess I’ll be seeing ya in hell.”

  Time’s suspended above me, fragments of memories popping in and out of my mind as I wait for the dick to say something.

  My father’s last drunken words before walking out of our lives. The confusion of what we’d done to make him leave taking over . . .

  The day my mother placed Casey’s tiny body in my arms. The fear running through me when we found out she had cancer . . .

  The cherry scent of my grandfather’s cigars as he spoke of his many years in the Marines. The proud look in his eyes when I became the man my father never could . . .

  My grandmother’s petrified face when her lover of fifty years took his last breath. Her beautiful smiles when I helped my mother and Casey get through the emotional shit girls endure . . .

  The second mine and Amber’s eyes met, down to this very moment of knowing I’ll never be anything more to her . . .

  I swallow. I’m not ready to leave behind the women who make up every good and bad memory I have. Staring into the cold, calculating eyes of the Grim Reaper himself, I’m not sure how many minutes creep by before Dom clears his throat, breaking the silence.

  But as sure as I’m holding a gun to the head of an evil asshole, I’m positive about one thing . . . This memory isn’t mine to make.

  The decision to kill a man lies solely in a loaded gun in the hand of a man I’m certain has Satan’s blood coursing through his veins.

  “I always knew I liked you, Cunningham.” Dom taps the barrel of his gun against Brock’s cheek. “So because of that, I’m willing to let ya walk out of here with your head intact. But this here deal hinges on two things: Ryder lowers his weapon, and you buy the load you came here for.”

  “Fuck you, cocksucker,” I spit, my free hand joining the other as I grip the pistol tighter. “You can bet your mother’s saggy tits we’re yanking up the blow we came here to get, but you’re crazier than I’d ever thought if ya think for one fucking second I’m dropping my gun first.” My eyes shift between Brock and Dom.

  Brock nods, telling me all I need to know. Unless the sick fuck listens to what I say, I get to paint the goddamn walls with his blood.

  “If you wanna walk outta here with your head intact,” I continue, “you and your pussy friend are gonna play by my rules.”

  Dom tilts his head. “So now we’re playing a game?”

  “Yeah, motherfucker,” I snarl, inching closer. Bobby moves with me, making sure his shotgun doesn’t lose contact with my skull. “We’re playing a game that, I assure you, I’ll win. I haven’t got a thing to live for, so the idea of dying tonight has me lit the fuck up. This shit’s the most exciting thing to happen to me since I found out how to rub one off.”

  “Don’t ya go listening to him, Dom,” Bobby urges. “They disrespected ya. Ya can’t let them get away with that. If ya do, it’ll show you have vul-vulner-vulnerabilities.”

  “Go back to school, you fucking re-re-retard,” I quip, wondering how the imbecile knows how to handle a gun. “You mean it’ll show he’s vulnerable, numb-nuts.”

  “Fuck you, Ryder,” Bobby all but cries, sliding the barrel of the shotgun to the center of my spine. “The second one of these here slugs slices through yer’ bones, you’ll never walk again. I’m about to turn ya into a pa-par-paramedic. How ya like them there apples?”

  “Jesus Christ, it’s a paraplegic!” I’m positive I’m already in hell. I narrow my eyes at Dom, pissed that he’s going to allow the stupidest man on the face of the planet to take my life. If I’m dying tonight, it needs to happen right the fuck now. This is an embarrassment to my ego. “I’m getting annoyed, and when I get annoyed, bad shit happens. When bad shit happens, no one’s happy. When no one’s happy . . . well, that’s not good. Actually, it’s pretty fucking bad.” I smirk. This shit’s comical. Yup, I’ve lost my goddamn mind. “If you don’t tell your boy to drop his gun, everyone—including the naked whore—is getting their beauty sleep in the morgue tonight.” I swing my eyes to Blondie and kick her a wink. “You ready to die, sweetcheeks?”

  Full neon pink lips trembling, she lets out a cry, her body convulsing with a severe case of the shakes as I bring my attention back to Dom. “Despite what they say, brunettes have more fun, and they fuck a whole lot better. Besides, I’ve always wanted to add a bitch to my list of kills.”

  Dom stares at me for several agonizing seconds, his mouth pressed into a hard line. “What are your terms?”

  “Ah, they’re quite simple,” I answer. “First, Einstein’s gonna remove the barrel of his shotgun from my spine. The pressure it’s putting on my back isn’t good for a young buck like me. What can I say? I’m conscious of scoliosis and shit like that.” I hear Brock chuckle. Like mine, the bastard’s mental state’s in the middle of snapping. “Then”—I crane my head toward a row of monstrous shelving units—“Einstein’s gonna kick his shotgun over to those metal racks. After that, the rest is technicalities. You’re gonna follow your buddy’s lead and make sure your nifty little Desert Eagle also reaches those metal racks.”

  Dom looks at Brock then back at me, skepticism brimming in his eyes. “Ya think I’m an asshole? How do I know you’re not just gonna kill us both?”

  “Why, I give you my scout’s honor, of course.” I shrug, a lopsided grin tugging my mouth. “And—only because you asked—I do happen to
think you’re an asshole. You’ve ruined a perfectly good Friday night for me and my friend. I’m feeling a tad bit . . . hostile because of this.” I sigh, feigning disinterest in life or death. “I’m getting bored, and my arm’s startin’ to hurt from holding it in this position. You have ten seconds or . . . well, need I further explain?”

  Other than Blondie’s soft cries, silence cloaks the warehouse, suffocating my thoughts. Once again, time stops, holding me prisoner in its wicked grip. Dangling my future in front of me, Mother Time is in control. She’s the relentless cunt making the ultimate decision.

  Vision tunneled on Dom’s expressionless face and sweat sluicing from my pores like filthy buckets of water, I take what could be my last breath.

  Dom jerks his head toward Bobby. “Do what the kid said.”

  “Are ya shittin’ me?” The words tumble from Bobby in an exasperated rush. “Ya gotta think about—”

  “Don’t question me!” Dom’s eyes narrow into slits, fury reddening his usually pale complexion. “Just do it!”

  Relief spirals through me, my pulse pounding out of control as Bobby drops the shotgun. Christ. The sound of it hitting the cement hardens my cock. A second ticks by and he kicks it, the sight of it sliding under the rack a goddamn visual orgasm.

  Gun remaining pinned to Dom’s head, I nod my approval. “Well done, gentleman. If my hands weren’t occupied, I’d give ya’s a fucking round of applause. Considering Zipperhead thought the correct term for a paraplegic was ‘paramedic,’ I wasn’t sure he’d understand the logistics of kicking something.” I smirk, needing to make the dick pay a little more. “Now tell him to go stand in the corner—his back facing us—until I’m ready for him to load up our van.”