Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (26 page)

And just like that, our moral compasses spring due north, Brock the center of its attention—
our
attention. We slowly break the kiss, our breathing choppy from the loss.

Gaze locked on Ryder’s, I shake my head as I fight back tears. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” I whisper nervously, shame, remorse, regret, and embarrassment sinking their razor-sharp fangs into my heart. I step back, but Ryder snags my elbow, gently pulling me into his chest. “No, Ryder.”

“Don’t ‘no’ me, Amber,” he says, his soft voice bordering disciplinary as he sweeps a wayward piece of hair away from my cheek.

I stare into his eyes, their light blue intensity shocking my system, disrupting every mortified thought.

“No one’s guiltier than the other here. We got caught up in everything. That’s it. Don’t get all fucked up on me.” A lazy grin surfaces on his lips as he moves another piece of hair off my shoulder. “You’re already fucked up enough. I know my kiss has those panties needing a thorough washin’, but I don’t need your last bit of sanity hanging on my conscience. It was the moment—that’s all. You hear me?”

“Ryder,” Casey croaks from behind us.

We both spin, the hairs on my neck awakening with fear that she might’ve witnessed what happened between us.

Ryder’s face sparks with anxiety, but he masks it with a cool smile. “You ready, kiddo?” He crouches down next to her, touching his knuckles to her temple. “I just need to grab my keys, okay?”

She shakes her head, a frown dragging across her lips. “No. I don’t feel good anymore. My tummy hurts, and I’m getting tired.” She tangles her arms around his neck, resting her pale cheek against his shoulder. “I threw up in the bathroom. Can we just go tomorrow, please?”

I push my hands through my hair, my stomach bottoming out. While I was seducing her brother into kissing me, she was in the bathroom, puking. On nervous legs I move across the kitchen and kneel next to her, seconds away from losing my own lunch. Inwardly praying for her forgiveness, I place my hand on her back. She gives me a weak smile, her dusty blue eyes glassing over with unchecked tears.

“Yeah. Of course we can, Case,” Ryder says, his voice grave as he lifts her into his arms. She wraps her tiny legs around his waist, her cheek still cushioned against his shoulder as he carries her down the hallway and into a bedroom. Deafening silence swirls around me as I slump onto the couch and squeeze my eyes shut, every ounce of my being convinced I’m the devil’s spawn.

Seconds?

Minutes?

Hours?

Feeling detached from my body, I’m not sure how much time passes before Ryder emerges from the bedroom, quietly latching the door.

I stumble to my feet, guilt taking root in my stomach. “Is she okay?”

He nods, his face stressed all over again. “Yeah. She’s all right. I should’ve known better than to expect her to go anywhere after her treatment.”

“It’s all my fault,” I blurt, moving toward the front door. “If I didn’t come by—”

“My sister would’ve never gotten to meet you.” He pulls my hand off the knob.

I shake my head, sure I’m the last person she needed to be introduced to. “She wouldn’t have thrown up.”

“She still needed to take her meds,” he counters softly. “Has nothing to do with you.”

“You would’ve been in the bathroom when she got sick, Ryder.”

“Not necessarily.”

My brows knit together. “How so?”

“She gets embarrassed by it, and doesn’t usually call for help. Most days none of us even knows she got sick. Again, nothing to do with you.” He rests his forearm on the doorjamb, and with his mouth pulled into a grin, his gaze dares me to continue. “She seriously likes you, Amber. She talked about you until she fell asleep. Believe it or not, she’s not a very trusting child, so that says a lot.”

“Really?” A small smile forms across my lips.

“Yeah, really. She’s digging you.” He looks at me through his thick, dark lashes, his expression turning soft. “Nothing that’s happened here today’s your fault. None. Of. It.”

I manage to pry my eyes from his. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“That’s quite possible,” he says slowly. “But only because you’re making me feel guilty would I attempt this.”

Bringing my gaze back to his, I fall silent.

He chuckles, the full hearty sound resonating through the room. “You know I’m only kidding, peach. If you didn’t drop by, we
still
would’ve played Hedbanz, and she would’ve beaten me like she always does. After she kicked my ass, I
still
would’ve played the coolest-brother-in-the-universe part and taken her to Toys-R-Us.” His attention moves between my lips and eyes.

My body responds the only way it knows how, the only way it has from the second we met. A shudder rolls through me, my skin and thoughts instantly heated.

He clears his throat, his voice a whisper. “I can’t say I would’ve wound up enjoying a kiss from a certain beautiful someone if she
didn’t
stop by, though. It added . . . flavor to my day. But I’ve already explained to that beautiful someone that the both of us took part in that kiss, so we’re equally guilty. All we can do from this point on is make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

I say nothing as I open the door, and step out into the afternoon sun. The late September heat slides down my skin and attaches to my every pore, disintegrating my breath as I turn, meeting Ryder’s eyes. For a brief moment, I feel what he said can be achieved. As long as we don’t put each other at risk for a slipup, there’s no reason we can’t remain what we are.

Whatever that is, I’m not sure.

However, as I get into my car—heart thundering in my ears and Ryder’s predatory gaze locked on mine—I can’t help but wonder if we’re both delusional. Have we already fallen, toppled over like two defeated chess pieces, into a pit of emotions neither of us can drag ourselves out of?

I drive away not knowing the answer.

CHAPTER 10

Amber

“
T
HE SOUND OF
your clock’s annoying,” I say to my therapist. “
Really
annoying.”

Martin swings his attention to the clock on his desk and jots down the time on his nifty yellow notepad, keeping track of how many dull minutes he has left with me. Each and every “brain picker”—including this one—couldn’t give a shit about my problems. But as long as they’re getting paid, they’ll act like they care for a whopping hour.

Hence the reason I’m in school for psychology. Besides being able to help my screwed-up patients, I swear there won’t be a single fucking clock in my office.

“You’re trying to change the subject, Amber.” Martin’s chocolate-brown eyes assess me. “Are you going to make this a habit every time you come to see me?”

With a jittery knee, I stare over his shoulder at the flower-patterned wallpaper. “Depends on what kind of mood I’m in.”

“Well, in that case, I take that as a yes. That’s what you do every time you’re here.”

I flick my eyes in his direction, hoping the way I’ve narrowed them tells him I’m not impressed. Not even close.

“I spoke with Cathy this morning,” he continues. “She’s really hoping to see some progress with you.”

“Ah, the guilt card. Nice touch, Marty.”

“Amber . . .” He sighs heavily. “This is our ninth session. You’ve barely spoken about what happened. I need you to elaborate a little more. Your foster parents want me to help you. I can’t do that without your participation.”

I drop my gaze and stare at my chipped blue nail polish. I try to think about Cathy’s heartfelt talks about how therapy’s the key to me releasing the demons possessing my life. Her pleading face flashes in my head, causing my stomach to curl over in guilt. I don’t want to let Cathy down. She and Mark have been so good to me, trying everything in their power to help me get better. Still, in an instant, everything goes to shit in my brain, anger playing a wicked game of Russian roulette with the ghosts of my past.

I pull in a deep breath and drag my gaze back to him. “Can I talk about something else instead?”

He nods and rests his ankle over the knee of his navy dress pants. “We can discuss whatever’s on your mind.”

“I cheated on my boyfriend,” I admit, waiting for the judgmental
of course you did, you’re a whore
look. He stays neutral. I continue. “It happened over a month ago, but it’s been bothering me ever since.”

“Why does it bother you?” he asks, scribbling some shit onto his notepad.

“Not sure, Marty. Maybe it’s because I have a
conscience
?” I roll my eyes. “Maybe it’s because my father used to bang his groupies? Maybe it’s because it’s a Tuesday? Whatever the case, cheating’s not cool. I rank it right up there with attempted murder.”

“Attempted
murder
?” His dark brows slash hell-bound. “That’s a heavy comparison, wouldn’t you agree?”

I shrug. “Not really.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re playing with someone’s mental state. Your actions can ruin their life, murdering their trust in anything real. Your indiscretions might as well be a hand wrapped around their throats, squeezing the air from their lungs. You can kill someone’s faith in what love is supposed to be.” I shrug again, feeling no different from Charles Manson for what I did to Brock. “Murder. Just a tamer definition of the word.”

He looks me over, drumming his fingers against his notepad. “You mentioned your father participating in extramarital activities. Do you think your take on cheating has something to do with that?”

I retreat into my past, trying to figure out the answer to his question. Against both of their parents’ wishes, my parents eloped when they found out my mother was pregnant with me. She’d just turned seventeen. I think my dad was twenty-one. Both sides of my family wrote them off after that. I’ve never met any of them, only heard stories about how cruel and distant they were after my parents left Arizona. My father landed a gig as a lead guitarist and followed the band out to Washington State, where they played at local bars. From what I remember, things were good for a while.

A bittersweet day spent in the park dots my memory as Marty waits for me to answer.

A picnic under a tree.

Smiles.

The bright sun and our laughter.

Youth and naïveté at its finest.

Such is life. It slowly sneaks up, fucking you from behind when you least expect it.

Add in a hungry kid who needed clothing, a broken-down car, not-so-steady work, and a wife struggling with depression—voilà, my father started getting high. He also began sleeping with any groupie
who paid him a rat’s worth of attention since my mother wasn’t. Or couldn’t. Either way, after Mom found out he’d knocked up one of the chicks, she started jabbing needles of heroin into her arm right alongside the love of her life.

I sigh, wondering where my half brother is at this very moment. If we look alike. If his life is as messed up as mine.

“It’s possible,” I answer, trying to unfuse my past from my head. “She got tripped up after he did that to her. I hated seeing her sad. It made me sad and apparently it’s stuck somewhere in my brain. But it was her fault. She was young and trusted him too much. She should’ve known better. Supposedly my father was a player from the start. But she had her ways of getting back at him. He just didn’t know about them.”

Marty taps his pen against his cheek. “Do you think your father’s infidelity has anything to do with why
you
don’t trust?”

“I don’t
trust
because they were in love and he wound up
killing
her.” The words are uttered slow and harsh. He knows the answer to his ridiculous question. “
That’s
why I don’t trust.”

Can’t trust.

Refuse to trust.

If falling in love can turn into a bullet in your skull, what’s the point of giving your heart away? Yet how do you stop your heart from reacting to what it needs?

You can’t.

The organ has a mind of its own, disregarding what might be unhealthy for you. Once it’s been jolted by that spark, awakened by that all-consuming flame, it plays the dirtiest game of all. With each curious beat of wanting to touch, taste, and feel love, the heart routes all logical thoughts from your brain, siphoning them out of that sucker like a thief, spitting them back out onto a highway piled high with nothing but bloody wreckage.

Causing mass destruction to our mental well-being since the beginning of time, our hearts are public enemy numero uno.

“I think you need to tap deeper into the morning he killed her, Amber.” Marty ducks his head, his cantaloupe-sized bald spot aimed in my direction as he flips through some pages of his notepad. He lifts his eyes, the look in them cynical. “The writing therapy is good, but you need to elaborate so we can come up with a solid plan for your recovery.”

“What’s there to elaborate on? My parents were drug addicts, and my father was a psycho who decided to check himself and my mother out right in front of me. Do I want your help? Possibly. But nothing you can say or do can truly help me. Only
I
can help myself. You overanalyzing my feelings and slight bipolar tendencies can’t change anything. My parents will remain dead, and I’ll continue to suffer from PTSD. I’ve found ways to cope with it. I’m simply coming here because I actually like Cathy and Mark, and it makes them feel better knowing I’m keeping up with my therapy visits.” I lift my shoulder in an unaffected shrug, though I’m anything but. “I’m not ready to talk about that day with anyone yet. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be. Just write my script for my feel-better pills, and for now, let me continue to write in my journal.”

I watch my hired mental help shake his head in what appears to be defeat as his timer goes off, relieving me from having to
elaborate
.

Score.

I hop to my feet, sling my black leather satchel over my shoulder, and head for the door.

“Amber,” he calls as my hand connects with the knob, “we’re eventually going to make progress.”

I release a puff of air. “See ya next week, Marty.”

I exit his stuffy office, my attention landing on the most yet least complicated part of my life. A part I’m falling for, but sure I’m going to hurt. A part I’m trying to understand, but fear I never will. Lips parted in a sexy smile, and deep green eyes pinned on mine, the reason I’m starting to wake up in the morning, starting to breathe with relief, rises from a chair in the waiting room.

I instantly feel calm, the tension in my shoulders deflating like a balloon.

“So?” Brock grabs my hand, swallowing it in his own. “How’d it go?”

“How do you
think it went?” We step out into the crisp air that only October on the East Coast can bring. The smell of fall entices my nose, a network of bright yellow, deep red, and fiery orange leaves fascinating my vision as I climb into Brock’s Hummer. “How did your wait go?”

Brock lets free a heavy sigh. “Amber.”

“Brock.”
A smart-ass smirk lifts the corner of my mouth. A tug on the door, a shake of his head, and a dimpled smile later and he’s seated next to me. That smile does me in, my heart thump-thump-thumping the way it did the first time I saw him. A second after that, my lips are pressed against his cheek, my hands buried in his wavy, dirty-blond hair as he backs out of the parking lot.

“Get your seat belt on.” The smooth, deep timbre in his voice causes my thighs to tighten. Despite my best flirty pout, he narrows his eyes as he attempts to navigate the cobblestoned streets of downtown Annapolis. Despite
his
best efforts, I can tell I’ve turned him on.

“You’re hard as a rock,” I tease, settling back into my seat. “Admit it. I get you every time.”

He tosses me a shit-eating grin. “The only thing I’ll admit is that I’m gonna enjoy sexually torturing you once I get you back to my place if you
don’t
get your belt on.”

“Demanding,” I purr, pulling the stupid belt over my waist. “And kinky. I like.”

“Safe,” he counters, “
and
kinky. You can’t deny I satisfy your wild side. It’s a given.”

A snort escapes my throat. “Wow.
And
as overconfident as ever.”

His mouth lifts into a cocky smile, but it vanishes. “You didn’t
talk
to the therapist, did you?”

I bite my lip, knowing where he’s headed. “I talked, just not about
what he wanted me to.” I look down at my pink hoodie, toying with the hem. “I’m not ready to yet.”

“You need to talk to him, Amber.”

“Please don’t start with me.” I lean my head against the window. “You’re talking in that ‘fatherly’ tone, and it makes me feel like you’re putting me under a microscope.”

He rests his hand on the back of my neck, caressing my hair. “I’m not trying to start with you, Ber. I love that you write in a journal. I find it beyond sexy, and have many times told you that you can write your thoughts out across my naked body if it helps you, but you need to open up to him. It’ll only help you that much more. I wanna see you happy.”

I bring my eyes back to his, a coy smile on my face. “I may just take you up on that offer one day, but seriously, I’m happy, Brock.”

“You’re
surface
happy.” He glances at me, his voice soft. “Don’t think I can’t see through you. I love you, and I want every bit of you happy. Not just the outside.”

My heart twists, stutters, then stops.

Twists.

Stutters.

Stops.

Palms sweaty, I register our vehicle coming to a standstill at a red light. I stare at Brock, and he searches my face, his eyes glazed over in a look I’ve never seen. I’ve seen them high, seen them filled with longing. I’ve even seen anger ignite them, but I’ve never witnessed them in their current state. They’re different, deep, a pool of emotions collecting beneath their surface.

“What did you just say?” My voice comes out weak, thin.

“I love you, Ber,” he whispers, his eyes still on mine.

He leans over the center console and cups my cheeks, his touch immediately sending fire crawling through my body. I suck in a deep breath, watching his gaze flitter across my face. It amazes me how
something so simple can create a buzzing overload of sensation that wraps me tight, holding me prisoner in its warmth.

“I don’t know how you did it, but you did,” he says into my ear, his voice soft, sincere. “I know telling you this in the middle of rush hour traffic isn’t cool or romantic, but I love you. I love you something fierce, and it scares the fuck out of me, but I couldn’t keep it in any longer. I don’t expect you to say it back, or even feel the same way about me, but I wasn’t about to let another day go by without letting you know that I love you, Amber Moretti.”

He presses his lips to mine, causing my stomach to sink and desire to pool between my legs. His words fade into the air, drop back down, and scatter along my skin, sinking into my once-empty heart. The kiss is as intense and mind-blowing as ever, his need for me evident in each slow, deliciously persistent lick. A car horn fires off, and Brock gives the aggravated driver the finger, but he doesn’t stop kissing me. No. Instead he kisses me harder, deeper, pouring everything he’s got into this one kiss.

Into this moment.

My body responds, wanting nothing more than to climb into his lap and take him right here. Mind in overdrive and confusion knotting my gut, I slowly pull back. Breathing as heavily as Brock, the absence of his lips leaves my core aching with need. His stare ushers a trail of chills over my flesh as I try to wrap my head around his declaration.

Do I tell him that I
think
I’m falling in love with him but am trying my hardest not to? That the mere thought of it makes me ill, wanting to possibly break things off with him, my fear of everything that love represents deadening my cells? Do I explain that at nineteen I’m not even sure if what I’m
experiencing
is
love? Close to paralyzed, I go with what I think I need to say before revealing any of this.