Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1)
Page 49
If I die before I wake . . .
As my surroundings fade to black, my eyes drifting closed as the warmth of my blood pools around my head, comforting me in some sick way, the only thing I can think of is my two boys. If my two shooting stars—though one brighter than the other in my sky—are going to be okay without me, able to make amends without their weakness blocking their way.
I pray the Lord my soul to take . . .
Look out for Part Two in the Torn Hearts series
From the Storm
Coming soon…
A Round of Applause, Otherwise Known as
My Acknowledgments
FIRST AND FOREMOST I’d like to thank God. Though I’m not what most would consider an insanely religious woman, I’m aware a force more powerful than myself swept me under his care, making sure I stayed (somewhat) sane the last few years. There’s no question I’ve been blessed, and for this, religious or not, I’m eternally grateful to whoever, whatever, was responsible for making my success—both outwardly and mentally—possible.
To my rug rats, Joseph, Matthew, and Ava. I love you kids more than you’ll ever know, more than my fluffy words could ever express. Not until you have your own children will you come close to understanding how deeply my unconditional love for you all runs. Mommy apologizes for so many things I’ve missed, so many precious moments of your lives I can never get back. Not that anything I write here can replace our lost time, but please know this has all been done so your futures are easier, the weight on your shoulders lighter.
To my better half, my kickass husband, Joe. Aka “Big Daddy.” You’ve always been, and will forever remain, my rock. You might feel that staying home the last couple of years to watch our children turned you into less of a man, a Mr. Mom, as you call yourself. But this, my love, isn’t true. Not even close. In the eyes of both the kids and I, you’re not only our savior, but the strongest man to have ever walked the earth. While I chased after a dream, you held our family together, became the concrete keeping our unit from crumbling apart. From the teenage wild boy I fell in love with nearly twenty years ago to the incredible, supportive husband and father you’ve turned into, you’re all man, baby. A man whom no one in this family could go on without having by their side. Your dad would be proud of you, Joe. Nothing but love, babe. Nothing but love.
To my kid sister, Patricia. Aka “Titty.” Thank you for the daily texts and phone calls filled with encouragement. When I thought I couldn’t go on writing Amber to Ashes—scared to absolute death while revisiting the ghosts of my past with each resurrected dirty memory, my fear exploding as I faced the ones continuing to haunt my present with each tortured page I got through—your words centered me, the truth behind them a balm to my nerves. Coming from someone who’s trudged through so much shit in her young lifetime, a beautiful soul who had her closest friends turn their judgmental backs on her before they could see how sparkling clean she came out on the other side of her battle, your words meant the world to me. It’s not me who’s amazing, not me who anyone should be proud of. It’s you, my little “Sing Noel” star. Never forget that, kiddo. GNSDILY, forever.
To the second strongest man to have ever walked the earth. My brother, Sal. Just watching you achieve so many things, climb so many mountains, kept me in a constant state of awe. You’re a kind and caring person, my brother. Never let anyone tell you different. I think Mommy is finally proud of us all.
To Lisa Pantano-Kane, Cara Arthur, and Angie McKeon. There was no limit to the amount time and help you each lent in the creation of Amber to Ashes. Hours spent on the phone talking plot, days spent emailing scenes back and forth, right down to catching me when I was falling; you gals were my anchor, your no-nonsense attitudes my lifeboat when I was drowning. Thank you for always keeping it real. All my love and gratitude.
Tina Reber, Gretchen de la O, and my mate from across the pond, Julie Watson. You ladies know me through and through, every tortured cell in my body never once going unnoticed by any of you gems—my wingless angels. Still, you each accepted, and continue to accept me, for what I’ve turned into . . . a woman whose skin was being scratched by the devil’s razor-sharp fingernails, a woman who currently is never allowing that other diseased mind back into her soul ever again. You’ve each witnessed me at my very best and have carried me through my absolute worst, your unyielding concern for where I was mentally, physically, and spiritually, depthless. While I was in Atlantic City, gambling against the angry winds of time, miles upon miles separating us, each of you helped me roll those winning dice, aided me in flipping over a set of rockets. Just know that with every still-slightly wrangled piece of who I am, I’ll be forever grateful for what each of you walked me through. All, all, all my love. Thank you. XO.
To those of you who’d pop up in my Facebook messenger window (you know who you are), checking to see if I was okay. Thank you. Your constant, streaming words of encouragement kept me driving forward.
To my editor, Jhanteigh Kupihea, for putting up with my fits, quick change of mind, and daily mood swings for the past year and a half. I wish I had your patience, your grace, when handling a person such as myself. Maybe that’s why I’m the writer and you’re the editor? I heard our breed is a . . . special kind to deal with. After it was all said and done, you made my words soar, and for this, I thank you a gazillion times over.
To my beast of an agent, Jane Dystel, from Dystel & Goderich Literary Management. From the second I’d heard your thick New York accent, way back when I’d just dipped the tip of my toe into the raging waters of this industry, I knew we’d make a good match. How could we not? I might have you by a few feet, but we’re both strikingly good-looking women who are as tough—if not tougher—as nails. Thank you for taking a chance on me, the past two years spent under your wing was everything I imagined it would be . . . a spectacular burst of knowledge surrounding this “writing world.” Thank you for dealing with the psychotic nutter I tend to turn into roughly twice a month for one reason or another. Even when I’m well aware that I’m in the midst of being overly dramatic concerning something petty, just as Jhanteigh does you handle me with practiced grace. No wonder you two meet up for lunch every so often. I’m betting you’re both trying to talk the other out of not kicking me upside the head. Cut and dry: Thank you for teaching me the ins and outs to all of this whilst still keeping me in check.
To my cover artist, Regina Wamba, from Mae I Design and Photography. You pulled it off again, love. As I’d said with the first set of Collide and Pulse ever created: I’ll never write a book without your stamp of originality on it. All my love.
To Ashley Farrow Padgett for helping come up with ATA’s name during a giveaway of mine. It hooked me right away and fits the story beautifully. Thank you.
To any and all blogs participating in spreading the word about Amber to Ashes (whether a favorable mention or not), thank you for always helping us authors. Without your cheerleading and unwavering support, our jobs would be a tad bit harder. You all amaze me. Nothing but love.
To anyone else I may have forgotten to mention. These things are hard to write, no joke .
Last but certainly so very important: my readers. Thank you for waiting for me to bang out another tale. It’s been a long ride. Considering Amber to Ashes is 90 percent true-life pieces of myself, made up of fragments of my past and present (the other 10 percent thrown in to make you wonder what it is I’ve really gone through ), it was a doozy to write. Standing in the mirror, really seeing who you’ve become, is a scary thing. Having to face your rights and wrongs, your good and bad, is even scarier. If I’ve learned one thing from getting through the first part of Amber to Ashes is to forgive the ghosts of your past. Sure, they’re going to pop their ugly heads into the life you currently lead, but never allow them to force you into becoming scared to death of your future.
It’s yours, not theirs.
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About the Author
Photograph Regina Wamba, MaelDesign
Gail McHugh is the author of the New York Times bestsellers Collide and Pulse. She is the mother of three beautiful children and has been married to her husband for fifteen years.
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ALSO BY GAIL McHUGH
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Gail McHugh
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First Atria Paperback edition June 2015
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Cover design by Regina Wamba
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
ISBN 978-1-4767-6601-0
ISBN 978-1-4767-6604-1 (ebook)
Contents
* * *
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Acknowledgments
About the Author