Amber to Ashes

by Gail McHugh

  Hazed out or not, I know that voice. I’m pretty sure I’d recognize it in a crowded stadium.

  Ryder . . .

  CHAPTER 7

  Amber

  I’M CONVINCED THE powers above get off on shit like this. Sitting on their golden thrones—goblet of aged wine in hand—it’s their daily dose of laughter. A proper fuck you to humanity. And in this very moment, the bigwigs in the clouds are enjoying my little situation.

  I take a deep, steadying breath and climb from the bed, my heart kicking furiously as I slip into my skirt and bra. I snag my blouse from the floor, fully aware I can’t sport it in its current state of shred. I sigh and glance around the room, my eyes landing on Brock’s football jersey draped over a leather ottoman at the foot of the bed.

  I shrug. There’s no better time than the present.

  I slip the Hercules-sized black-and-yellow jersey over my head and glimpse myself in the dresser mirror, blinking in disgust at what’s staring back at me. Not only do I look like a just-fucked mess—hair a rat’s nest of knots and makeup sledding down my face—I look like a damn bumblebee on crack.

  “What’s up, dude?” an unidentified voice says from the living room.

  Curiosity piqued, I decide I’m completely cool with looking like a crack-smoking, just-fucked bumblebee. I also decide I’m one hundred percent baked. Under normal circumstances, considering what happened between me and Ryder today, and what just occurred between me and Brock, there’d be no way in hell I’d leave the bedroom. I’ve deemed what I’m about to do “weed muscles.”

  Along with Brock answering the unidentified voice, I hear the front door snap shut, my attention focused on trying to make it down the hall without losing my nerve. As I round the corner to the living room, it’s not my nerve I lose.

  No. That’d be too easy, and besides, the bigwigs are seriously out to get me tonight.

  Instead, I lose my footing, tripping over a barbell. Right about the same time I register a fiery pain blast through my pinky toe—which I’m sure was just broken—my palms hit the maple floors, closely followed by my knees. I land with a thud—doggie-style—in front of Brock, Ryder, and Mystery Man.

  “What the fuck?”

  Though I’m currently staring at a tiny dust ball, there’s no mistaking that was Ryder.

  “Ber!” Brock bellows, thumping across the living room. He kneels beside me, throws my arm over his shoulder, his face weary as he helps me to my feet. “Holy shit. Are you all right?”

  Holding Brock’s shoulder, I hop over to the couch, aiming for crass. “Other than the fact that I’m completely mortified and not sure if my toe’s still connected to my foot, yeah, I’m just dandy.”

  Brock frowns and helps me onto the couch, resting my legs over his thighs as he inspects my foot.

  “I’ll get our clumsy girl here some ice,” Ryder pipes up, mirth clear in his deep chuckle. He turns toward the kitchen, but not before adding, “You sure do love tripping and falling over things, Moretti, huh?”

  I lift my heavy, embarrassed eyes to Ryder’s, my breath catching at the sight of him. Lazy grin properly in place, leaning against the archway of the kitchen, he too has that just-fucked look going on. But, boy, does he wear it better than I do.

  His black hair has no organization to it. It’s spiked up messily in every direction, as though some chick was gripping it while in the throes of her pleasure. I contain the urge to bite my lip, watching the way his muscles flex and flow beneath a snug-fitting plain gray T-shirt as he crosses his tattooed arms. He might be a good twenty feet from me, but I can’t help but catch his eyes, their clear—almost translucent—blue gleaming as he pitches me a wink.

  Completely enthralled or not, again I aim for crass. “Well, Ryder, I’m sure Brock didn’t purposely stick the barbell in my path so I’d trip over it. Only assholes who are . . . hmm, what’s the word I’m searching for?” Eyes locked on his, I tap my chin. “Oh, that’s right. Only assholes who are insecure in their delivery would do such a thing. They also usually overcompensate by claiming that they own huge . . . buildings.” I smirk, sending him a wink right back. “So with that, I’d say I don’t love tripping and falling over things.”

  Oh God. Did I just say what I think I just said? Maybe I thought it.

  Those gorgeous, translucent baby blues flash in amused surprise, staring at me a second.

  Then another.

  And still another.

  Brock’s chuckle breaks the silence. “Hot fucking damn. She just put you in place.”

  OhmyGod. I did say it. Weed muscles. That’s what it was.

  “Dude,” Mystery Man says as he slips into an armchair, “is the Ryder Ashcroft short on words? I think we need to call the media. This shit needs to be broadcast nation-fucking-wide.”

  I’ve decided I want to cuddle with Mystery Man.

  Ryder looks at Mystery Man then swings his eyes back to me. “Amber, this is Limp-dick Lee Mitchel. Limp-dick Lee, this is the clumsy but oh-so-sexy, can-throw-a-slap-better-than-any-girl-who’s-ever-slapped-me Amber Moretti.”

  I feel my face flush purple. Yes, purple. Not red.

  “We’ve met.” Lee nods.

  I don’t remember meeting him. “I don’t remember meeting you.”

  Is there an echo in here?

  “I’m your roommate’s boyfriend,” Lee points out.

  Roommate? I have a roommate? Blank, I smile as if I know what he’s talking about.

  “Oh, and Lee,” Ryder says, cupping his balls beneath a pair of Hugos, “that whole media comment? Yeah, bro, why don’t you come over here and suck my nuts.”

  Lee cringes. “Nah, I’m good, dude.”

  “I thought so, pansy.” Ryder turns to me, a small smile tilting his lips as his eyes slither over every inch of my listless body. “Amber.”

  “Ryder,” I answer, waiting for him to continue.

  “Kudos, momma. You just managed to do what no girl’s ever been able to do to me.”

  “And that would be?” I question.

  “Like Limp-dick Lee said, you rendered me completely speechless.” He slides a hand through his hair, kicking me yet another wink. “So on that note, I’m gonna be a good boy and go get that ice for your pretty little toes.”

  Both Brock and Lee bark out a laugh as Ryder disappears into the kitchen.

  Brock rubs his hand over my shin, down the side of my ankle, and rests my heel in his palm. “You do have pretty toes,” he whispers.

  I raise a playful brow. “You don’t have some kind of weird foot fetish, do you?”

  “Nah, you would’ve found that out earlier.” He brushes his fingers up my thigh, his eyes hungry. “But shit if I won’t pick one up if that’s what you want. I’m not beyond sucking any part of your body.”

  “What the hell is this?” Lee questions, breaking my heated thoughts away from Brock. He points at the television.

  “That would be a seventy-inch plasma, dumbass,” Brock answers.

  “Dude, I’m talking about the show.” Lee adjusts his Dodgers baseball cap, a crooked smile on his face. “It’s a bunch of freaks getting down to music my grandparents fornicated to.”

  I shake my head and giggle, taking in Mystery Man—now turned Lee Mitchel. With tight curls of honey-butter-golden hair, a handful of freckles lining his nose, light brown eyes hidden behind square black-rimmed lenses, and a tall, lengthy frame, he’s cute in a sophisticated, nerdy kind of way.

  “You’ve never seen Happy Days?” I make sure I sound surprised. “Did you grow up under a rock?”

  “Hell no, I’ve never seen it, and I’m happy all day that I haven’t.” He jumps to his feet, his arms spread out as he swishes his hips from side to side. “And no rock here. This dude grew up in SoCal, surfing some of the wildest waves available to man.”

  “Yup,” Ryder says, strolli
ng back into the room. He tosses a Ziploc bag filled with ice to Brock and deposits himself onto the coffee table. “Pansy boy frolicked along the sunny beach, under a sky of rainbows, hand in hand with his hippie parents, Jack and Jill.” He smirks and leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “But he constructed sand castles, not . . . colossal buildings.”

  Though I roll my eyes, Ryder’s words stir a wild flurry of pleasure through me. Still, I’m feeling all kinds of weird. Considering Brock’s next to me—fully aware of our earlier car encounter—I’m floored that Ryder’s tossing around our “joke” so freely.

  “That’s right, Ashcroft.” Lee sinks back into his chair, beaming. “Other than my parents’ names being Jody and Allen, you’re correct. I frolicked and surfed my way through a kick-ass childhood. Leprechauns, sand castles, the whole nine.”

  “Leprechauns?” Brock asks, his face washed in amusement. “And you claim you’ve never done any hard-core drugs. Interesting.”

  Brock cushions the bag of ice against my toe. I flinch, more from the chill than the pain.

  “People claim a ton of bullshit,” Ryder asserts, his gaze stuck on mine. “Makes you wonder what’s going through their heads sometimes.”

  My throat—which feels like the Sahara Desert on crack—seizes up. I glance at Brock, thankful he’s occupied with tending to my foot. I lick my lips in an attempt to get some form of moisture to coat my mouth as I stare at Ryder, wondering what’s suddenly crawled up his ass.

  “It’s the truth. I’m high on life,” Lee states with a cheesy smile. “Me, my girl, the sun, and a good wave. It don’t get no better than that, dude.”

  “That’s deep, Lee,” Brock deadpans, gently shifting my legs off his thighs. He rises and rolls his neck. “I think Blue Mountain Greeting Cards just might be your calling. Fuck pushing coke for me. There’s some serious cash to be made in your words.”

  Ryder whips his head in Brock’s direction. “Bro, what the fuck?” He looks at me, then back at Brock. “You told her?”

  “Yeah,” Brock answers, his eyes slightly narrowed. “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why?” Ryder stands and pushes a hand through his hair. “She shouldn’t know about shit.”

  Lee shrugs and plucks his cell from the front pocket of his plaid button-down, punching out a text. “What’s the big deal if she knows, dude? Madeline knows.”

  “Hello.” I wave, catching the trio’s attention. “In case you all didn’t notice, I’m sitting right here. Don’t talk about me like I’m not in the damn room.”

  Silence cloaks the air as everyone stares at each other. I can barely lift my arms—or walk across the room, for that matter—but I’m seriously pissed and have every intention of getting to my feet. I rise, and both Ryder and Brock lunge, hooking their hands under my armpits.

  Pissed or not, I giggle.

  Ryder furrows his brows in confusion.

  “She’s ticklish,” Brock whispers, a slow, sexy smirk lifting his mouth. “Very ticklish. Even without that, she’s extremely responsive to any kind of . . . stimulation. ”

  “Ah, I see.” Ryder’s teeth come down on his bottom lip, an equally sexy smirk jumping across his face as he studies me. “Very nice, and very . . . lucky.”

  Though their eyes are different colors, different spectrums of dark and light, their steady gazes—aimed in my direction—are simmering with the same emotion—one hundred percent pure, unadulterated lust. Overheated and sure my legs have melted into molasses, I pull in a staggering breath. After what seems like an eternity, I regain my bearings, my heartbeat falling to an even plod as I test my toe against the floor, tentatively placing my full weight onto it.

  “Ya good?” Ryder asks.

  “Yeah,” I manage, seriously wishing I had a Twizzler. “I’m cool.”

  With concern edging two beautiful pairs of eyes, they release me, each appearing well aware of what just happened. Something passed between the three of us, an undeniable current charged with want, need, and confusion.

  Touching his knuckles to my cheek, Brock clears his throat. “I have to, uh, go take a piss?” It comes out like a question, almost as if he’s asking me if it’s okay.

  I nod and watch him vanish around the corner, taking a sliver of my sanity with him. Ryder goes to speak, but I move past him and his waves of testosterone, somehow finding my way into the kitchen. The only thing lingering in my mind for more than a minute—other than a sweaty threesome with two of the most mentally intoxicating, soul-dangerous men I’ve ever come across—is liquid.

  I feel like a damn goldfish. Unable to focus on anything for even thirty seconds, I open the fridge, my hand landing on its intended target. A bottle of ice-cold water.

  Score . . .

  I pull it out, twist off the cap, and take a long sip.

  Heaven. I’m in it, and I know it.

  As I turn around, I almost plow into Ryder. I gulp and try to swallow the H2O that’s now lodged in my throat. I tip my head up—way, way up—to look into his eyes. My breath tells me to crap off and catches in my lungs. My heart follows suit, nearly stopping.

  “Why are you here with Brock?” he asks with a smug, self-assured grin. “You like switching gears that fast, huh?”

  “We’re on a date.” My tone conveys the “duh” I don’t say. “And maybe I do like switching gears that fast. Maybe I like it more than the average girl should. But you wanna know what I don’t like?”

  “Mm. I’m not sure.” He crosses his arms and rubs at his jaw, his grin broadening as he stares at me for several aching seconds. “You’ve already pulled one of these ‘wanna knows’ earlier today, and I can’t say I enjoyed the outcome.”

  “Not my problem,” I assert with a scowl. “You’re gonna hear it whether or not you like it.”

  “Well, I guess I have no choice, do I?” He inches closer, his voice dropping a notch as I step back. “But I have to admit, your feistiness is turning me the fuck on, so by all means, please continue.”

  Heart kicking, I clench the bottle of water tighter. “Looks like you so conveniently left out your main source of income. I may be high, but my memory’s machete-sharp.” Well, maybe not machete. Apparently I have a roommate. “You never mentioned that you deal for Brock. I don’t like being lied to.”

  “I had no intention of ever mentioning it to you. I’m not proud that I do it, so it’s not on the list of things I let people in on. And you wanna know what I don’t like, Amber?”

  “I really don’t care what you don’t like,” I say, somewhat afraid of what he’s going to hit me with.

  “Sucks because you’re gonna hear it whether you like it or not.” He smirks, rebellion oozing from his pores. “I don’t like being kissed and left hanging, so it looks like we’re even, peach.”

  “God! You have no clue how much you piss me off,” I whisper, sure I’m about to lose my shit and smack him again.

  “Ah, quite the contrary. I’m very aware of how much I get under that pretty skin of yours. You’re the one who has no idea what you do to me.” He inches closer still, his brow drawn up as I take another step back. “Or maybe ya do know. Maybe it’s you who gets off on torturing me. Yeah, that’s what it is. You enjoy this shit.”

  “You’re seriously out of your mind,” I say under my breath, not a speck of me convinced otherwise. “Did you know that someone told Brock what went down today?”

  “Of course I do, momma. He called me after you . . . fled.” His voice is soft as he brings a callused hand up to cup my cheek. Callused or not, my flesh beneath it melts into liquid satin. “Did you know he called me?”

  I’m breathing faster. I can sense it. I shake my head because, well, that’s the only thing my body feels like doing.

  “Are ya having fun on your . . . date?” he asks, removing his hand from my cheek.

  I feel annoyingly bereft but
still manage to narrow my eyes. “I was before you interrupted us.”

  A shadow passes across his face before a devious smile settles on his full, pouty lips. “Well, then I think my timing was . . . perfect.”

  I’m momentarily stunned right out of my high. I look into his captivating eyes, trying to read him. “You think so?”

  “I know so.” Arrogance reigns over his features as he steps closer. I all but stumble back, my spine connecting with the cold stainless steel refrigerator. Undeterred, he positions his hands above my head, caging me in like an animal. “I also know that you should be at my place, not here.”

  I bite my lip and stare at him, my fogged-out brain warped in every sense of the word. “Maybe I’d be at your place if you hadn’t decided that kissing me twice without my permission was a brilliant idea.”

  “Ah, how quickly you so conveniently forget that you kissed me the last time our lips touched.” A slow smile touches his mouth as he taps his finger against the tip of my nose.

  My nostrils flare, his smell of cigarettes and musky cologne nearly stopping my heart.

  “But I’m a nice guy, so I’ll let you off the hook for that one. But going back to my less-than-stellar lack of judgment, maybe I already know the two times I initiated kissing you was a stupid idea. Maybe I’ve lost sleep over it. Maybe it’ll eat at me until the day I . . . die.” He dips his head, positioning his face right in front of mine.

  I swallow, unable to ignore the feel of his sweet, heated breath tickling every muscle in my weakened body as he rests his lips against my ear and whispers, “But even if I’ve fucked any chance of being with you, I can’t say either kiss is something I’ll soon forget. I’d kill to experience them over . . . and over . . . and over again.” With his hands still pressed to the refrigerator, he pulls his head back slightly, his eyes moving across my face. He smiles again, and it nearly stops my heart a second time. “Our lips fit perfectly together, and I’m pretty fucking sure you know it. Felt it. Want to feel it again as much as I do. I see it in the way you’re looking at me. Those gorgeous eyes hide nothing. Neither does your body. The way your breathing’s picking up. The way you’re shaking just enough to let me know you want another taste of what I have to . . . offer. But you wanna know something about me, peach?”