by Gail McHugh
Ryder hooks his finger under my chin, dragging my attention back to his. “Would you stop?”
“No. I won’t stop.” Though my words are a whisper, they come out as harsh as I intend them to. “While we’re at it, let’s talk about you quitting football out of nowhere. Or maybe we should discuss Brock not wanting to have sex with me—no matter how many times I’ve initiated it.” I tap my chin, aggravation bubbling in my chest. “Oh! And let’s not forget that you and Brock snorted so much blow last weekend that I was positive you two were overdosing when I found you both—after three straight days of not sleeping—passed out on Brock’s kitchen floor. Look me in the eye and tell me I’m losing it, Ryder. Tell me—once again—that I’m imagining this . . . this change in you and Brock, and I’ll forget everything.”
“You’re losing it,” he replies without skipping a beat. “So forget whatever twisted shit that pretty head of yours conjured up.”
I may not be in his mind—chained to whatever’s holding him hostage to his thoughts—but I can see his lie took excruciating effort too. Guilt, fear, and anger. It’s all there in his eyes, masking the truth.
“Thanks for being honest, really. You’ve put every doubt I had to rest.” I let out a dry laugh, making sure he knows I’m aware he’s talking nothing but smack. “Your integrity’s something I—and everyone in your life—can always count on. Again, I appreciate it.”
“I’m begging you to chill the fuck out, Amber.” Ryder rushes a hand through his hair, his plea lost on me amid the sewage seeping from his mouth. “Come on, momma. We’re here to have a good time. Just drop it, and relax, okay?”
“And if I don’t relax and drop it, it’ll be my fault everyone’s weekend turned to shit, right?” I snort, digging a hand into my hip. “I’ll be to blame for ruining what should’ve been a good time?”
“Amber,” Madeline interrupts, touching my shoulder. “Let’s go take a walk, all right? We’ll hit up a couple of slot machines. Maybe catch a few hotties in the high-roller room.”
With anger churning my gut, Madeline’s words fly over my head as I narrow my eyes on Ryder. “You guys can talk about sharing me, but can’t tell me what really happened during your last pickup?” I catch him by his silk tie, tugging his face to mine. “Huh, Ry? It’s easier to shoot the shit about how you two plan on fucking me sideways? How you boys are gonna rock my world as you fuck away my pain?” Seething, I yank harder, his nose smashed to mine as a flurry of tears dribbles down my cheeks. “You and Brock are lying con artists, and you know it. All you two have done is hurt me more.”
“Goddamnit, Amber! Kill your thoughts!” Ryder grits out, his threat raising over the hum of the casino. He cups my nape and presses his forehead to mine, our quickened breaths mingling as he brushes his thumbs along my cheeks, swiping away my tears. “Tuck them back where they belong. Everyone—you included—is having a good time this weekend.” Shame trots across his face as he steps back, dropping his voice to a torturous whisper. “We all need it. Ya hearing me, peach? We. Need. It. And what you’re doing is . . . Fuck, Amber, it’s making it worse. Please . . . just . . .” He trails off and rests his lips against my temple, his shoulders slumping as he moves his hands to my hips, gripping them. “Just let it go.”
Heart fraying, I swallow back the wave of emotions flooding my throat. I’m pissed, confused, and hurt. Still, I know I’ve pushed him too far, my explosion nearly causing him to lose his cool.
My instinct to jet sinks through me, embarrassment burning my chest as I spin, searching for an exit. Ignoring Madeline’s calls to stop, I shove through the crowd, my cries lost amid the frenzied atmosphere. With tears blurring my vision, the blistering breath of late November blows its poisoned chill across my skin as I step outside, into the clusterfuck that is Atlantic City.
Drunken partygoers slam into me as a rainbow of lights pop over a gang of prostitutes gathered around a corner streetlamp. With sheer chaos surrounding me, I’m alone and empty, the core of who I am completely hollowed out. Though two amazing men want me—desiring all of my broken pieces, each tortured imperfection—I feel more alone than the day I watched true evilness seep into my father’s pores, blackening his soul before he took his and my mother’s lives.
On autopilot, I walk. I walk until my feet ache, until it feels as though my skin has turned into cement, the bitter cold wind beating against my face with every step. My heart a dumping ground for tainted memories, I think. I think until my skull feels like it’s about to split in half, my head replaying every torturous minute of my life. I think of each second that’s crawled by since my parents died, of the rare amount of good times we shared, the countless bad that gutted us. I think of the damage I’ve done to myself, using who and what I can to mask my pain, forever hiding in the shadows of my reality.
Body prickled numb, I lean against a brick wall of an abandoned storefront and sink to the ground, losing myself to the vengeance of life’s cruelty. Arms curled around my bare shoulders, I rest my head on my knees and—after years of needing to—fall apart, tears dripping from my eyes as I suck in a string of shaky breaths. Praying to a God I’m unsure ever existed in my world, I purge every wicked emotion from my system, releasing my parents to where they’ve always belonged . . . my past.
Still, I’m bound to my present, a prisoner chained to the hurt diseasing Brock and Ryder. I never thought I’d be capable of letting a single person into my life, yet I’ve opened myself up to two men, allowing them to see through all of my disturbing layers. Left feeling so helpless to what’s going on with them is wearing me down, my spirit eroding by the second. They’re embedded in my soul, each man a beautiful thread stitching my once-broken heart back together. Knowing something has them scared not only scares me, it’s cutting me to pieces.
Time creeps by—for how long, I’m unsure—before I feel a hand touch the side of my face. I look up, my weary gaze landing on Ryder. I wipe my eyes and manage a weak smile, but it’s quickly replaced with more tears as he lifts me from the ground, pulling me into the safety net of his warmth. I throw my arms around his neck, holding on to him with what little strength I have left as I sob into his chest, each tear an exorcism of the demons that have forever controlled me. Resting his lips on my forehead, Ryder wraps his suit jacket around me.
“Christ, I never meant to hurt you,” he whispers, his voice cracking as he holds me tighter, not a single inch separating us. “I’d die first before ever trying to hurt you, peach. I’m so sorry.”
I lift my watery gaze to his, my breath snagging as I bear witness to what I never imagined I would . . . tears building behind Ryder’s eyes. Fighting them back, he looks away, his face contorted with the anguish of a man who’s done something unperceivably wrong. I touch his jaw, my need to console him overwhelming.
He stares beyond my eyes—straight into the hollow of my soul—the pain emanating off him shattering my last bit of resistance to him, to the idea of . . . us. Unable to convey with words my heartbreak over his silent torture, I do what feels right, what has felt like second nature from the moment we met.
I kiss him.
I kiss him until I’m warm, the heat from his gentle touch melting the cold from my muscles. I kiss him until the quickened notes of our breath drown out the sound of my crying, his hands gripping my waist as he slowly sweeps his tongue over mine. I kiss him with everything I am, my concern for him imploding as I taste the bitterness in his need to tell me what’s kidnapped who he used to be.
“Please,” I beg as he deepens the kiss, his strokes becoming possessive, urgent. A soft moan claws up my throat, my body confused by the lethal blend of hunger and hurt. “Please tell me what’s wrong. I need to know what happened. I love Brock more than anything, and I . . .” I break the kiss, watching in agony as a lone tear slips down his face.
My breath catches again, my tears falling in a torrent of thick sheets. This beautiful, selfless, ca
ring man’s exposing his opened wounds to me, setting his vulnerabilities on the operating table of my heart for me to repair.
“I care more for you than I know I should,” I whisper, aware I’m crossing a dangerous line as I press up on my tiptoes, layering my mouth over his. I kiss him soft and slow, my need for the truth growing. “I have from the second you stole that first kiss from me. Your smile, your laugh. The way you love and take care of your family. All of it, Ryder. You’re a magnet I know will never stop pulling me to you. Even when you’re not near me, I can feel you. Hear your voice. See your face in my dreams.” I move my lips to his jaw, my hiccupped cries misting the air around us. “The feelings I have for you scare me. You scare me. But even if I wanted to stop them, I couldn’t because I don’t want to. I’m tired of fighting what feels . . . right. You feel right to me, Ryder, and I need you in my life. Couldn’t imagine it without you.” I pull back and gaze into his eyes, hoping my confession will break down his defenses. “Please let me help you. Let me fix what’s happened to you and Brock.”
“You can’t help us,” he murmurs, torment capturing his words. “No one can. What happened, what we did . . .” He sucks in a slow breath, his body shaking as he drops his forehead to mine. “We’re burning in hell for it.”
Fear bolts through me, its menacing strike threatening my sanity. I knew something happened, felt it down to the marrow in my bones, smelled the presence of evil rotting the air. But the sinister whisper tormenting my eardrums is telling me what they did is worse than anything I could imagine. Still, I push through, unwilling to accept that I can’t somehow help them get through this—even if it’s something that serves as my undoing.
I sniffle, my whisper barely audible. “You can’t just keep lying to me. You and Brock. It’s not right.”
“Our lies are protecting you.” His hands fall to my waist, his grip ironclad. “Don’t you see that?”
“I do. But I have no idea what you’re protecting me from,” I answer through a cry, his words petrifying me. These men are all I have, two of the very few people who matter a rat’s ass to me. As scared as I’m becoming, my safety’s an afterthought, their well-being trumping mine. “Please don’t close me out. If either of you care for me at all, then you’ll tell me what happened.” I pause, knowing what I’m about to say is the truth, my heart breaking to pieces at the mere thought. “You might be trying to protect me. I get and adore the both of you for that, but I’d rather be alone—not ever knowing what really happened—than be with you or Brock under false pretenses. It’ll kill me. It’s already killing me, Ryder.” I tangle my fingers through his dark, wavy hair, unsure if tonight will be the last time I lay eyes on either of their beautiful faces. “Please don’t make me walk away from either of you because of this. I don’t want to. You have no idea how much I don’t want to, but I will if it comes down to it.”
Forehead still pressed to mine, he stares at me for the longest minute of my life, surrender eventually painting his face as he nods. “No fucking way in hell I’m letting you walk away from me, peach. You can give it a decent go, but I’m telling ya now, it ain’t happening. If you know me at all, then you know I’m one big, fat persistent prick.” He moves his lips to mine, a spark of possession flashing in his eyes as I tremble under his touch. “I know you’re not mine to claim. Hell, you might not ever be. This I know all too well. But the little bits of you I’ve got—the beautiful, painful, amazing, Twizzler-loving, crazy pieces of yourself you’ve shared with me—mean way too much to my goddamn sanity to give up.” He palms my cheeks, apprehension floating across his face for a brief moment before he brushes his lips against my ear. “I need you a hundred times more than I need my next breath, a thousand times more than I need my next heartbeat, and a million times more than I need to wake up to the sun hanging in the sky.”
He kisses me soft, slow, his words strumming the hollow ache in my soul as he gathers me in his arms. “I’m sorry I caused you any pain the last few weeks. Again, it was done to protect you. I need you to know this. I speak on behalf of Brock when I say that. But no more lies. No more bullshit. Though I have to be honest, if it didn’t mean losing you, I’d never think about telling ya what happened. Ever. It’d never cross my mind. But like I said, I ain’t losing you over this. I’ve already lost too much against what . . .” He pauses, his expression becoming distant as he shakes his head. “What we did has already stolen too much from us. I’ll be damned if I let it take you away from me.”
My tears slow as I rear back, staring into the weary blue sea of his eyes. Pain, fear, and confusion are all present, the deadly trio trying to suck the last vestiges of who Ryder used to be out from beneath him. My heart trips, skids, and crashes into a brick wall spray-painted with his and Brock’s anguish, my mental state bruised from the collision. But worse: my mind’s left wondering if any of us will ever be the same after tonight.
It doesn’t take long before I need to feel Ryder again, my body aching for his touch. Seeking his warmth, I twine my arms around his neck, holding on to him with everything in me. Pressed to his chest, both calmness and my own fear surround me, the soft beat of his heart a safety harness to mine.
After a second, Ryder releases me from his hold, his hand swallowing mine as he leads me in the direction of the hotel. Pulse thundering, it’s only just now I realize I’ve won the battle. I’m about to become a part of their truth, the rightful owner of a piece of their nightmare. It’s also just now I realize I’m walking into what I’m positive is going to be the hardest conversation of my life.
I take a breath, knowing my new normal has already killed off my old.
CHAPTER 18
Amber
“HIS CELL WENT to voice mail,” Ryder says as we approach my suite. “Lee and Madeline said they haven’t heard from him either, so I’m banking on him being here.”
Hands shaking, I slide my key card into the door and step into the dark entryway, my ears clogged with the suffocating sound of a chick’s heavy panting. I still, my heart rate going nuts as her husky moans fill the weed-laden air.
The weed-laden air I can’t seem to inhale enough of in my current state of I’m about to kill a bitch.
Ryder catches my elbow, attempting to lead me out of the suite, but I yank it back, rage fueling me as I follow the sound of snarls and flesh slapping against flesh. Barely able to see in the darkness, and prepared to happily spend the night in jail for de-dicking Brock, I pursue a path of his clothing into the living area, where I find him passed out on the couch, undeniably alone. Sure I’ve thrown up in my mouth, I suck in what I’m positive is the largest breath of relief possible. He’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs, an empty bottle of whiskey at his side, the light hum of his snoring a sure sign he’s tanked.
Ryder chuckles as he points across the suite to the gigantuous plasma television. I turn around, taking in the offender: a panty-dampening porn showcasing two chicks getting it on with an extremely well-endowed dude. Though my nerves are still revved up, I can’t help but laugh, my heart rate settling some as I flip on a lamp.
Eyes flying open, Brock jerks awake, the speed with which he darts up to reach for his gun on the end table killing my “tanked” theory.
“Are you goddamn nuts, Ber?” He shoots to standing, uncocking the weapon. “I could’ve killed you.”
I plop onto the couch and, with no sign of stopping, continue to giggle. God, it feels divine. Ryder sinks into an armchair and clicks off the television, laughter bursting from his chest as we release the stress that’s built up over the last hour.
Brock sets his gun on the end table, confused. “Is there a reason either of you find this shit funny? It wouldn’t be so comical if her brains were splattered all over the fucking couch right now, would it? I bet neither of you would laugh then.”
Ryder and I glance at Brock, then back at each other, our thoughts on the same wavelength. Brock’s statement isn�
�t possible, the empty bottle of whiskey proving to be a hindrance to his intelligence.
Silence, then—yet again—Ryder and I bust out laughing, our bodies rocking like two ships caught in the angry undertow of a tidal wave.
Mouth dropped open and hands dug into his hips, Brock stares at us with widened, defeated eyes.
“I have to agree with ya, bro,” Ryder admits, his point made with difficulty as he chuckles, if at all possible, even harder. “She wouldn’t be laughing at shit if her brains were part of the décor right now. Dying will usually do that. You know? Prevent someone’s ability to do . . . well, anything.” He reaches for a joint perched on a stack of magazines and fishes a lighter from his pants pocket. “And if she could do anything, even if it was something as minuscule as licking her pretty lips”—he sparks up said joint, takes a long pull from it, and coughs before passing it to me—“then I can safely say, with all certainty, I’d turn into a pussy real fast. Though I’m sure she’d remain sexy as all fuck—scoring the lead role of The Walking Dead’s hottest zombie—that shit would be way too much to handle—even for someone who’s a self-proclaimed crazed, masochistic, kink-loving psycho, such as myself.” With a wink aimed in my direction, a smile deepens his dimples, his likeminded playful dementedness strumming my nerves to a complete rest as he mocks a cringe. “No offense, peach, but I think I’d pass on tapping that.”
“None taken,” I toss back over a giggle, instant gratification swelling through my muscles as I inhale a second, then third hit from the joint. I hand the smoking stick of happiness back to Ryder, a coy smile flirting with my lips. “There’s something understandably undesirable about a cold—excuse my French—pussy. I get it, really.”
“You’re both nuts,” Brock says with an aggravated sigh, stomping toward the bathroom.
A slam of a door and the mood in the room shifts, all pretense of joy gone as the reality of what’s to come pokes its menacing head into the moment. It was fun while it lasted . . .
