Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (24 page)

I scoff, convinced he’s delusional.

“How can I scare her?” Casey asks with a pout. “They’re just questions, Ry. Mrs. Langley says to ask lots of them.”

“Yeah,
Ry
.” I make a mental note of her nickname for him, knowing I’ll use it in the near future. “Just ignore your brother, Casey. He’s not right in his head.”

Casey giggles and drags me across the living room. My eyes skirt over a multistained Berber carpet hidden beneath an array of roughed-up garage-sale-find-looking furniture. A beat-up plaid couch sits against the far wall. Flanking it, a makeshift end table—made from a blue milk crate and round piece of glass—adds a hint of modern flair to the space.

Riiiggghhhttt . . . That took a ton of imagination.

I sink onto the throwback 1970s couch and take in several posters, every single one highlighting a barely clothed model on a Harley or classic car. I know it’s a bachelor pad, but considering both Lee and Ryder make decent money pushing for Brock, I’m shocked they’re living so far below their means.

“There’s no way you’re related to Martha Stewart,” I quip, unable to keep the comment to myself. “Not even close.”

“Who’s Martha Stewart?” Casey asks, sidling up next to me.

“Someone your brother’s in desperate need of.”

Ryder chuckles and moves into his kitchen that, on its best day, could hold three people crammed shoulder to shoulder. He snags an apple from the counter and makes his way back over to us. After handing it to Casey, Ryder turns his blue eyes on me, a crooked grin breaking out across his face. “Nope. No relation. Now, are you ready for our date with SpongeBob?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I answer, matching his idiotic grin.

He plops down next to me and flips the television to what I assume is the appropriate station. A whacked-out sailor pelts out a tune, and Casey squeaks in excitement, my presence old news as she hones in on a sponge with eyes and his sidekick starfish.

Ryder nudges my arm.

My breath catches the second my gaze connects with his.

“So, ya plan on telling me why you felt the need to slap me again?” A curious smile crosses his lips, his voice a whisper. “Or are you gonna make me hold you down in a compromising position to get the info from you?”

I stare into his eyes, hating the way my body responds to his slightest touch. Especially when I’m supposed to be mad. It’s the universe’s way of laughing at me. “You like talking shit to Hailey about my life,
Ry
?”

His brows pull together. “What do you mean?”

“I ran into her today, and she knows everything about what happened to me. Very few people know the full story, and now Hailey’s one of them.” I pause, trying to gauge his reaction. His face is peppered in confusion. “Was I a topic of conversation after you finished bagging her? Huh, Ry? Did it piss you off that much that I picked Brock instead of you?”

He stays quiet for a moment, confirming what I already knew. The dick told her. I rise—ready to bounce the hell out of here—but he catches my elbow and pulls me down onto his lap.

Casey jerks her head in our direction, nervousness all over her face.

“We’re just playing, Casey.” Ryder winds his arms around my waist. “Right, Amber?”

“Yep.” I give her a reassuring smile. “We’re about to deflate your brother’s football. He’ll
never
be able to use it again.”

Tough guy clamps his knees together, and Casey shrugs, the
sponge once again snagging her attention as I try to jack my arms out of the bear hug Ryder has them in.

“Let me up,” I whisper heatedly. With my back pressed to his bare chest, I can’t see his face, but I hear him chuckle. “You’re an asshole. Seriously. I know you know this too.”

He touches his lips to my ear, his voice a low sexual taunt. “Come on, momma. Do you honestly think I said something to Hailey? You know me better than that.”

“
Do
I?” I attempt to wiggle from his hold. I’d have better luck trying to pry myself away from a hungry anaconda. “I’m not so sure anymore. You’re the only one . . .
playing
with her—”

“
Was
playing with her,” he corrects, all but tossing me back onto the couch.

My eyes go wide, Madeline’s claim officially confirmed as my mouth falls open.

“If you try to get up again, you’ll leave me no choice
but
to hold you down in a compromising position.” He leans in, his nose inches from mine. “But I won’t bring you any form of pleasure when I do. No. Instead, I’ll tickle the
fuck
out of you,” he whispers, grinning. “I have a killer memory. You’re
going
to hear me out. Understood?”

I take a second to regain my bearings. Once fully composed, I lift my hand and smash my palm against his forehead, moving him to a safe “unheated” distance.

It’s
his
eyes that are wide now.

“You have two minutes to talk your way out of this. You’ve already killed what little high I had left, and you seriously
don’t want to see me pissed off.”

He lifts an incredulous brow. “I
haven’t
witnessed this yet? Impossible.”

“Not even close.”

“Mm. Interesting and quite . . . tempting.” A lazy grin hits his face as he cups his chin, wicked thoughts swirling behind those baby blues.

I glance at the digital clock on the DVD player. “You now have a minute and forty-five seconds, Ashcroft. I’d use the time wisely if I were you.” I cock my head to the side. “I’m happy my situation with Hailey’s brought you your daily dose of entertainment. It’s good to know my past can amuse
someone
.”

He stares at me and rests his elbow on the arm of the couch, his expression melting into regret. “I didn’t tell Hailey anything, Amber. She overheard me and Brock talking about it.”

“What?”
My heart thumps with anger. I’m about to swing solo, getting rid of Brock faster than an unwelcome Jehovah’s Witness. “You guys talked about me
in front
of her?”

“You’re not listening. She
overheard
us.”

With my patience wearing thin—but aware there’s a child in the room—I dig my nails into my palms, trying to keep my cool. “You have one minute to elaborate before I
seriously
lose it. If you don’t, I
will
crush your football.”

Ryder blinks, the look on his face showing that he knows I’m not kidding. “He stopped by a few weeks ago and told me your foster parents are coming to visit you again in a few months. Since shit went south the last time they came in, he wants to do something special for you and them when they’re here. Something special without involving his parents. One thing led to another, and yeah, we got into the shit that’s happened with you.” He drags a hand through his hair. “I thought Hailey was asleep, but she wasn’t. We both warned her not to say anything, but apparently she did.”

I shake my head, wishing Brock would’ve at least told me the skank found out. Not that that could’ve prepared me—I’m not sure anything could aid in that department—but it wouldn’t have felt like such a crippling invasion.

Ryder slips a finger under my chin, bringing my eyes to his. “You okay?”

I jerk my head away. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“You’re not bulletproof, peach. Stop trying to act like you are.”

“I’m not
trying
to act like anything,” I scoff, uncomfortable with the direction he’s taking the conversation. I want to unzip my skin and peel it from my body.

He studies me for a moment, his gaze sweeping over my face. “Pain—in the form of grieving—is healthy, Amber.”

“Oh my God, are you
seriously
going there? You’re cute and all, but even a dude like you can lose his swoon factor. Fast.”

“I possess swoon factor?” A small grin graces his lips as he leans closer. “Is that a girl term?”

I swallow, my head fuzzy from his close proximity, the dizzying smell of his musky cologne and the gray specks in his eyes unfurling my sanity as I back away. “Yeah. It’s a girl thing, and again, if you go there, it can lose its potency.”

He flicks his attention to my lips, a soft chuckle tumbling from his mouth. “Mm. Well, you, Amber Moretti, make me wanna risk losing my swoon factor.” He sobers, his eyes finding mine. “And if you remember
anything
I ever tell you—no matter what—make sure it’s what I’m about to say. A kick-ass old man let me in on it before he died.” He pauses and taps my nose, his breath soft against my cheeks as he inches closer. “Our past is what shapes us, the scars it leaves behind mold us, and what we do with the shit that’s left over is what defines us. Don’t let your parents’ conflicts define who you are, peach. You’re better than that. You deserve more than you’re willing to let yourself experience. More than what you think you’re . . . worth.”

His words, the sincerity behind them, and the way he said them—like he couldn’t grab his next breath if he didn’t—rain over me, a mist of warmth flooding my heart. Shock stills my tongue, tiny fragments of how to respond jumbled in my head as I stare into his eyes.

As though he knows he’s left me speechless, Ryder rises and looks down at me, understanding coloring his features before he strolls into the kitchen. “You girls ready for the world’s greatest peanut butter and
Fluff sandwiches?” he calls from over his shoulder. “They’ll only cost you a game of Hedbanz.”

“I am!” Casey hops to her feet. “Amber, do you like Hedbanz?”

“I do.” I smile and traipse into the kitchen, curiosity thick with every step. I sidle up next to Ryder, jerking my hip against his. “But how come I have a feeling they’re not the kind I think they are?”

“
Duh
”—Ryder pulls a jar of Fluff from the cabinet—“of course they’re not. I’m a shit-ton cooler than that.” Like a true connoisseur, he whips together several peanut butter and Fluff sandwiches, piles them on a plate, and plucks a gallon of milk from the refrigerator. Grinning, he juts his chin toward the living room floor. “Go sit, and prepare to get that pretty little ass thoroughly kicked. I’m king at this game.”

I snort. “I learn fast, and I’m
extremely
competitive. I have no doubt I’m about to embarrass you in front of your sister.”

“You think?” He swipes a stack of paper cups from the counter and hands them to me, his
I’m an asshole
smirk encompassing his face. “Those are some serious fightin’ words. You sure you wanna go there?”

“I’m already there,” I clip, making my way back into the living room.

“Oh, it’s on.”

As I get comfortable on the carpet, Casey goes into a detailed explanation about how Hedbanz is played. Considering it includes actual headbands—with little picture cards attached to them that only the other players can see—I can’t help but laugh. I figured it would take several shots of tequila and some homegrown vipe to get Ryder to sport anything so girly. Clearly his love for his little sister has no limits. He may not know it, but that alone catapults his swoon factor off the charts.

Splayed out on his stomach, headband with a picture of a bicycle clipped to it in its proper place, Ryder asks, “Can you . . .
ride
any part of me?”

“Yes,” Casey and I answer in unison.

The nympho side of my brain cartwheels over thoughts they shouldn’t touch in the midst of a child’s game. Ryder sends me a wink, and I’m sure I know where he’s going to take every single question.

“Do I make noises?” Casey inquires, her expression bright with curiosity.

Ryder tickles her ribs. “Yup. You snore like a man.”

She giggles and looks at me.

“Oh, yes.” I take in the colorful parrot on her head. “You’re definitely something that makes noise.” She nods, and I glance at Ryder, ready to twirl his head like a baton. “Am I something you would enjoy . . .
licking
?”

Ryder clears his throat, nearly choking on a sip of milk. I lean back and rest my palms on the carpet, laughing as I watch his pupils turn the size of teacups.

“No,” Casey answers with a frown.

“I’d beg to differ,” Ryder retorts, a smirk curling his mouth. “I would lick that
all
 . . .
day
 . . .
long
.”

My crossed legs clench of their own accord, my ears humming from the predatory tone in his voice as he continues to stare at me. At this point, I’m not sure whose head I’ve twirled more.

Casey nudges him, her nose pinched in disgust. “Eeewww, Ryder. That would taste nasty.”

He smacks his lips together, his gaze undressing me. “
Nothing
about that would taste nasty, Case. To tell ya the truth, kid, I’d lick every bit—”

“We’re getting off track here!” I blurt, my voice cracking like an angry bolt of lightning. Heated, I swipe my hands through my hair, fully aware I’ve one hundred percent screwed myself. “It’s your turn, Ryder. Play. Nice.”

Grinning, Ryder crams a piece of his sandwich into his mouth. “Mm. Play nice . . . play nice. Let’s see.” The look in his eyes tells me
he’s about to play anything
but
nice. “So I’m something you can
ride
, correct?”

“Yes,” Casey answers with a nod, finishing up the last bite of her sandwich.

With his attention locked on my face, dragging his teeth across his bottom lip, Ryder rolls onto his side. “Am I something you’d ride
hard
, fast, and reckless, then easily walk away from the next morning? Or would you experience . . .
sickening
 . . .
mind-numbing
 . . .
unable
-to-stop-yourself-from-coming-back-for-more insanity by riding me soft and slow, relishing my building for
everything
it’s worth on a daily basis?”

“Huh?” Casey asks, appearing completely confused.

I swallow, the effort close to impossible as I come to the realization that both Ryder and I have two very twisted character traits in common.

The first: We’re grown adults who are
most
likely messing with the psyche of an eight-year-old child—I’m sure a professional could back up that observation. I’m also pretty sure they’d find that here and now, neither of us would be disturbed by this assessment.