Amber to Ashes

by Gail McHugh

  Amber’s shoulders fall, her lips parting. “My God,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry, Ryder. Is she—”

  “They’re not sure.” I already know the question.

  Death. Though plenty think they are, no one’s immune to it. Every breath we take is one step further from our birth . . . one step closer to our ultimate dismissal. The Reaper comes for each of us, and when he shows up, he lacks prejudice. But fuck if he should be allowed to steal the life of an eight-year-old girl who deserves everything under the stars. An eight-year-old girl who’s owned me since the second she stepped into my world.

  The thought of losing her staggers me a second, a lump knotting my throat. “I mean, she’s hanging in there. She’s a fighter. Still, she has her days, and when she does, they’re some of our worst.”

  Amber stays quiet for a few minutes, her expression crusted in sadness. “How are your parents handling it?”

  “My father doesn’t handle shit.” I throw my arm over the back of the booth, wishing the asshole was here so I could beat him into a long coma. Since that’s unlikely, I hope the Reaper’s already paid the dick a visit. “He took off before Casey was born. It’s just me, my sister, my grandmother, and my mother. I do what I can to help them out.”

  A hesitant smile moves across Amber’s lips. “You sound like you’re a great brother and a kick-ass son and grandson.”

  “Yeah. They dig me as much as I do them.”

  “I bet,” she says softly. Her eyes are a pool of sincerity, the understanding behind them only reinforcing what I already knew . . .

  With a killer personality—one I’m sure she has no idea she possesses—and a gorgeous mouth that spits out words like a filthy trucker, Amber was placed on this earth to multiply with me. She’s the kind of girl who’ll make it impossible to not fall hard and fast for, offering no apologies as she slowly turns you into the man you never thought you were capable of being. The kind of girl who’ll let you see her shadows, but will always keep you guessing every time she reveals a new layer of herself, a new path through the maze of her heart. The kind of girl who’ll have you begging on your knees, questioning your sanity, faith, and reason for continuing to live if you were to ever lose her.

  Still, Brock’s like a brother to me, my best friend since we were kids. My head’s fucked, warring a battle I’m sure it’s gonna lose. When I’m around Amber, every line I’m not supposed to cross becomes zigzagged, blurring the direction of my moral compass. She blinds me to what I know is wrong, provoking what I’m sure is inevitable. I’m about to commit the sin of all sins: I’m gonna steal Brock’s girl right out from beneath him without giving it a second thought.

  Dangerous territory at its motherfucking finest.

  “You ready to go?” I ask, trying to dismiss my thoughts.

  “Sure.” Amber scoots out of the booth, stretching her arms above her head. Her back bows as a sleepy yawn leaves her lips. Fuck. What I’d do to wake up holding her. “Do you think you can give me my purse? I need to use the restroom before we leave.”

  “Yeah, sorry.” I hand it to her, realizing how fucking psychotic I must’ve seemed taking it to begin with. “I’ll meet you up front.”

  Amber nods and traipses toward the bathroom, her ass catching the attention of every guy in the diner. Lethal possessiveness hits me, but I kill it fast, knowing I have no right to react. If I did, I’d gladly knock a few skulls around. On a heavy sigh, I swipe my keys from the table and head to the cashier to pay the bill.

  After a few minutes, Amber reemerges, her eyes meeting mine. “You know what?”

  “No. But I heard he’s a pretty cool cat,” I deadpan, shoving my change into my pocket. “Do you know him?”

  She giggles, a smile crossing her face. “I’m happy you held me hostage today.”

  I open the diner door for her and step out into the early evening heat, shocked at her confession. “You are?”

  “Yeah.” She stops and looks up at me, her hand poised over her forehead to block the sun. “Yeah, Ryder, I really am.” Her smile widens. “It’s good to know there’s more to you than an arrogant prick who thinks about sex all day long.”

  I chuckle as she bounds down the stairs and over to my car. “Well, I’m happy I’ve gained your approval, but I can’t say I’ll ever stop constantly thinking about sex.” I unlock the passenger-side door. “At least not while you’re around.”

  “It can’t be all that difficult,” she says coolly, sliding into the seat. “Can it?”

  Yup. Off her fucking rocker.

  “You have no clue.” I close the door and round the car, her giggle music to my ears as I get in and start the engine. “Not a fucking clue.”

  “Willpower, dude.” She pulls down the visor, whips a small plastic tube from her purse, and coats her puckered lips with strawberry-scented gloss.

  My nostrils flare, my dick reacting to the sweet smell the way any dick would—fully alert and hungry for what it needs, it all but demands a rental spot inside Amber’s warehouse. I’m convinced she’s trying to kill me as she smacks her lips together. It’s either that, or she knows she’s a walking aphrodisiac to the entire male species, using it to her advantage any chance she gets.

  “Willpower’s free,” she continues. “Utilize your willpower, Ryder. Dig deep, really, really deep, and utilize it.”

  I’m about to utilize the backseat if she continues to fuck with me. “What do you think about politics?”

  “Huh?” She tosses the gloss back into her purse. “How did we go from you thinking about sex around the clock to politics?”

  “I’m utilizing my willpower.” I groan, pulling onto the highway. “Humor me.”

  “Okay. Politics.” She nods, drawing up a serious brow as she tries to hide a smile. “What’s your stance on ObamaCare?”

  “Hell no. I don’t talk politics. It gets people too riled up.”

  “Now you have me feeling like I’m nuts, and that’s hard to do. Kudos.”

  I swing her a sideways glance, enjoying the way her forehead’s pinched in confusion. “What’s your major?”

  “Psychology.”

  “No shit. A psychologist?”

  “No shit.” She shrugs. “I figure someone as fucked up as I am can help others who are equally fucked up better than someone who’s never been fucked up at all.”

  “Well, fuck, Moretti, I think that’s a pretty fucking good way at looking at things that are fucked up.”

  “I agree.” She laughs. “What’s your major?”

  “This year I’ll complete my MBA in banking and financing.”

  “Really?” Shock widens her eyes.

  Considering very few spots on my body aren’t inked, and my tongue is pierced, I’m not bothered by her reaction. To be honest, I’m used to it. Most people can’t picture me sporting a suit, let alone handling their retirement funds. “Yup.” A cheesy smile teeters on my mouth. “Your friendly local banker.”

  “Very impressive,” she appraises. “So what’ve you been doing in the meantime for cash? You’re not working at Burger King with a ride like this.”

  Black cherry in color, chrome Bullitt staggered rims, and holding a 427 big block under her hood, other than my mother, sister, and grandmother, I live and breathe for my sixty-eight Mustang Fastback. “My grandfather gave it to me before he died.” I swallow, remembering the only man who served as a father in my life. “I’ve restored it over the last two years.”

  “I’m sorry,” Amber whispers, noticeably uncomfortable. “I keep bringing up sore topics. I completely suck.”

  “Stop.” Instinctively, I raise my hand, my knuckles throbbing to touch her cheek, the nonasshole part of me aching to comfort her. But I drop it to the steering wheel and grin. “He was a cool cat. Almost as cool as me.”

  Amber gives me a small smile. “You two were close. That’s g
ood.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “We were really close.” Damn, I miss that old man.

  Our lives are not our own. They never are. From birth canal to casket, we’re on lease. A contractual agreement with a threatening hand that hovers above our heads from the second we blink our eyes open. A constant scream that reminds us it can fuck us at any moment—

  Ding. Time’s up, asshole.

  “But no, getting back to your question,” I continue, the cherry-flavored scent of my grandfather’s cigars unwinding from my memories, “I’ve never flipped a burger to earn a buck.” I glance in Amber’s direction. “I work as a part-time foreman at one of Baltimore’s largest construction companies,” I say, honestly trying to sound like I’m telling the truth.

  I hate lying to her, but that part of my life isn’t up for discussion. Still, it’s not all a lie. It’s just that sweating my dick off in the summer and feeling my balls turn into icicles during the winter’s not how I earn my living. At least, not a good portion of it.

  Among other things I do that aren’t legal—one I have no intention of ever letting Amber know about—I run a thriving off-campus “homework agency.” Well, that’s the name I’ve given it.

  Cutting to the chase: my IQ borders on genius, and I know how to hammer out quite a few Ben Franklins from a ton of degenerates who don’t give a rat’s ass about studying. For a passing grade, from freshmen to upperclassmen, they’ll pay, no matter the cost. When new meat shows up at my apartment for my services, it’s safe to say the shock on their faces is also something I’ve gotten used to. They never expected Ryder Ashcroft to actually have a brain. Dumb fucks.

  “So you build houses?”

  “I build everything.”

  “Everything?” She lifts a brow. “Like big buildings?”

  “Huge.”

  “How . . . huge?” Her tone’s suddenly sharp with huskiness, the coy look on her face telling me what she really wants to know.

  I grin and almost find myself speechless, but nothing’s about to stop me from stepping onto the ride. “Badass huge.” I flick my gaze to her lips, visions of the tip of my cock sliding between them bulldozing through my head. “All other buildings pale in comparison to its . . . size.”

  “But do you know how to use the building?” She looks me up and down, her eyes landing on my dick before returning to mine.

  I’m about to pull over, yank her from the car, and fuck her on top of the hood, adding exhibitionism to my list of twisted sexual desires.

  “That’s the real question, Ryder. Do you know how to use that building in the way it was built for?”

  “I’ve never had an unhappy visitor, if that tells you anything.” I continue to play the game she started, determined to fuck with her as much as she’s fucking with me. “It’s actually pretty sad, because once they stepped into my building, they never wanted to bother with any of the . . . smaller ones. My building spoiled them, ruining them for all the rest.”

  “You know what they say about boys with huge buildings, right?” Her delivery’s all vixen, her stare eating me alive.

  Sweet Jesus. The girl has me shifting in my seat, my balls screaming for release as I try to pay attention to the road. Dying for a smoke, I reach for the glove compartment and unintentionally graze her leg. She jerks away the silky, olive-toned masterpiece, her expression sliding from heated to nervous in a nanosecond.

  I clear my throat. “I was just trying to get my cigarettes from—”

  “They say boys with huge buildings lack . . . willpower.” She opens the glove compartment, shakes her head, and plucks out the pack, tossing it to me.

  I catch it. “You think I touched you on purpose?”

  Another shake of her head. “It’s a good thing you didn’t major in acting, Ryder.”

  I fish a Zippo from my pocket, spark up a cigarette, and take a deep drag. Blowing out the smoke, a smirk crawls over my mouth. “Let me tell you something, peach,” I say, my voice a raspy whisper. The midday traffic comes to a dead stop. I seize the opportunity and lean over the center console, my eyes pinned on hers. “When I touch you, really . . . fucking . . . touch you, there won’t be a shuddered breath from your pretty little mouth or a goose bump on your entire gorgeous body that won’t know it was done on purpose. You feel what I’m saying?”

  She blinks once, twice, three times. “Arrogant much?”

  “Provoke much?” I toss back, amused by her sudden nervousness.

  “I didn’t provoke anything.” Though her cheeks are rosy red and she’s flexing her fingers around her purse, her expression is dead serious.

  I haven’t smoked a bowl since this morning, so I rule out being high. I also know I didn’t imagine what just happened, so I’m forced to come to the only logical conclusion: Amber’s one hot psychiatric ward escapee, and I’ve fucked with her delusional head. Bad.

  “Are you all right?” Traffic moves, and I shift into first gear, easing onto the exit ramp. “You seem . . . flustered.”

  She lets out a laugh, trying but failing to hide her frustration. “I’m not flustered.”

  “Right.” My smirk’s front and center as I glance at her. “I apologize for misinterpreting your body language.”

  She swipes an anxious hand across her flushed cheek. “Oh my God.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  “What?” she clips. “That’s what who says?”

  “The women who’ve experienced the fine architecture of my huge . . . building.”

  Her mouth drops right the fuck open. Considering I’m as hard as they come, can barely focus on the road, and she started the torment that’s driving us both crazy, I have no intention of stopping. She’s making it too easy, and payback’s my bitch.

  “Actually, they pant or scream it,” I say. “That usually depends on what I’m doing to them, though. I’m a pussy kind of guy. I can lick it from the second the sun rises to the second it sets. So if I’m indulging in that, that’s usually when they’re panting.”

  I pitch her a wink as she presses her lips into a hard line, her eyes bugging out of her head.

  I flick my cigarette out the window. “Now, if I’m in the middle of fucking, it’s not until I get them to the very edge, slow down just enough to make them feel like they’re about to lose it, and then really hammer the message home so that they begin screaming out for both me and the good Lord above.” I stop the car in front of the student dorms, a slow smile curling my mouth as I kill the engine. “Again, it all depends on what my hands, tongue, and building are doing that determines how they sound.”

  Amber stares at me, her knee furiously ticking up and down while I wait for her to acknowledge the picture I’ve painted for her. Nothing. She’s mute, her eyes boring into mine.

  I feel compelled to say something, so I go with the first thing that pops into my mind. “What color panties are you wearing?”

  “Pink,” she answers through a shaky whisper, her breathing sporadic.

  “Matching bra?”

  She nods, her teeth attacking her bottom lip.

  Jesus. I have no clue where I’m going with this, but I’m not about to stop. “Have you thought about our kiss?”

  Another nod.

  “The way I tasted?”

  “Yes,” she breathes.

  “How many times?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.” My hand goes to the nape of her neck, and I gently guide her beautiful face within inches of mine. “How many times have you thought about it?”

  “Why are you doing this to me, Ryder?”

  “You started it, and not for nothing, I couldn’t stop if I wanted.” My rough breathing mirrors hers, my self-control slipping with each silent minute passing by. “Now answer the fucking question, Amber. How many times have you thought about it?”

 
She trembles, confusion and want glazing her eyes. “I . . . I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

  “Then kiss me,” I whisper gruffly, unwilling to take it from her this time. I’ve already pulled the asshole card. I can’t do it again. Besides, I want it to come from her. Need it. “If you haven’t stopped thinking about it, then kiss me like you know you want to.”

  “Go to hell,” she half hisses, half moans as I fist her hair.

  My lips graze her soft cheek, my head dizzy from her sweet raspberry scent.

  “You’re not even thinking about Brock.”

  I pull back a fraction, my gaze digging into hers. “Are you? ’Cause that’s not what I’m getting here. Nah, I’m not getting that at all.”

  She swallows. “What do you want me to say, Ryder? You want me to tell you that I want you? That I’ve pictured fucking you?”

  I manage a smirk. “Yeah, we can start with that.”

  “Fine! I’ve pictured fucking you a million different ways. I’ve pictured what it’d be like to ride your cock until neither of us could take it anymore. Pictured what it’d feel like to suck on it until my cheeks hurt.” Her eyes narrow. “But you wanna know something else?”

  I’m positive I’ve never been this fucking hard, and I want her to kiss me now more than I did before, but I’m not sure I want to know what she’s about to say.

  “I think you’re spitting game,” she continues, not waiting for my response, “and I’m sick enough that I kind of like it. I like being dirty. Real dirty. But not dirty enough to screw over your friend, because I actually like him. He has something to offer me, and you don’t. You’re nowhere close to relationship material.” Rebellion’s bold in her tone, but her eyes kill the delivery by showing a flash of remorse.

  Fuck not pulling the asshole card. It’s officially pulled.

  I crash my lips to Amber’s, and our tongues collide, exploding into a kiss charged with lust and anger. She moans, pulls her knees onto the seat, and all but crawls over the console. Furiously matching my strokes, her body hums as she sinks her fingers into my hair, gripping it tighter than I am hers.