Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (3 page)

Brock nods, extending his hand to me. After a beat, I take it, not sure where he’s going with this.

Eyes on mine, he gently circles his thumb over my knuckles. “I’m gonna work my ass off to get you to go out on a date with me. But I’m warning you now, no matter
what
I have to do, I
will
get into your beautiful head, Amber-
Ber
.” He cracks a smile. “More than I already have. You’ll see.”

Before I can blink, he brings my hand to his lips and plants a soft kiss on it. I shiver in the best way possible, his light stubble causing my flesh to pop with goose bumps. He smiles, but without another word, he rises and walks clear across the dining hall and out the doors.

With my pulse knocking around like a Ping-Pong ball, I’m left not only speechless but wondering if Brock Cunningham can do what no one else has ever managed.

Slide past every defense I’ve created.

CHAPTER 2

Amber

“
Y
OU NEED INTRO
to Biology, Miss Moretti,” the woman in the registrar’s office informs me.

“I didn’t think I needed that class,” I say, frustration knotting my chest. “If I have to take it, it’ll put me behind a whole semester.”

“Your academic program calls for it. I’m not sure what else to tell you.” She shoves her glasses up the thin bridge of her nose, eyeing the impatient, growing line of students behind me. “Make an appointment with an academic advisor if need be, but there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

Beyond annoyed, I hitch my satchel over my shoulder and turn, running headlong into the god of arrogance himself.

Ryder Ashcroft.

Though I’m struck stupid by the sharp planes of his face, the hint of stubble dusting his jaw, and the smirk he’s wearing, I roll my eyes toward the heavens and attempt to brush past him. When I do, he moves in tandem with me, blocking my path. A second attempt at an exit on my part, followed by a second blocking on his, and I feel myself starting to fume.

“Seriously, Ryder? What’s your problem?”

“You’re my problem.” His smirk pulls higher. “It’s been a few days since we’ve seen each other. Did ya miss me?”

“No,” I say in all honesty. Can I deny that the last forty-eight hours consisted of me repeatedly hitting the replay button on our kiss, or that I have a gnawing urge to tunnel my fingers through his thick, dark hair? Nope. I can’t deny any of that. But still, I haven’t
missed
him.

“You’re lying,” he says, finally letting me past him.

“And you’re annoying.”

He follows me out of the office and down the crowded hall. “I may be, but you’re gorgeous
and
annoying. That’s one helluva lethal blend.”

I stop and spin on him, my eyes saucers. “
I’m
annoying?”

“Yeah. You fucking drive me crazy.” He shrugs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Nuts out of my mind.”

I blink, completely taken aback. “
I
drive
you
crazy? How is that even possible?”

He grins and steps closer, his chest nearly pressed to mine. I draw in a sharp breath, my pulse thudding as I try to ignore the bolt of energy between us.

“It’s
very
possible, and there you go again with your cute questions.” He reaches for a strand of my hair, leans down, and sniffs it before whispering, “Mm. Raspberry.”

“Wh . . . what?” I stammer. Lost to the sound of blood speeding through my veins, the buzz of the loud conversations throughout the hall goes mute.

“Your shampoo.” He twirls my hair between his fingers, and steps back, his gaze slowly moving over me. “It smells like raspberries. I like it. It’s just a little piece of you that drives me nuts. Never mind your pissed-off pouty lips or badass sexy attitude. I won’t go into what either of those things do to me, but I’m sure ya have an idea. You were sitting in my lap the other day. I’m positive you . . .
felt
what that did to me.”

There’s no doubt my body reacts to him in disturbing yet deli
cious stages. My heart comes close to stopping, arrested by the sound of his deep, raspy voice. Then my breathing picks up from the heated look in his translucent blue eyes. And last, but certainly not least, my head shits visions of animalistic, sheet-clawing fucking as he runs his pierced tongue over his lips.

“Did you say something?” I ask, honestly trying to remember.

“Your shampoo,” he says, somewhat puzzled. “It smells like raspberries.” A smile crinkles his eyes. “I . . . lost ya after that, didn’t I?”

Yes. He. Did.

Somewhere between him mentioning the smell of my hair and some shit about my eyes, I fell into a woodsy-cologned-Ryder-induced fog, my head warped in a matter of seconds. Hating that he knows how much he gets to me, I smile wryly. “Look, I’m sure you have
hordes
of girls who willingly spread-eagle for you on your command, but it’s not happening with me, buddy.”

“It’s Ryder,” he deadpans. “And believe me, we
will
happen.”

“I know your name.” I sigh. “And we
won’t
happen.”

With a chuckle, Ryder trails me as I try to locate the hall that’ll lead me to my bullshit Intro to Biology class.

“Besides,” I go on, shouldering my way through the crush of students, “I’m sure the blonde who
so eagerly
replaced my spot in your lap will slice your balls off—machete-style—once she finds out you’re trying to hook up with me.”

“Blondie
watched
me kiss you, and my balls are still intact, so if that doesn’t tell you she’s a hit-and-run kind of thing, I’m not sure what will.”

I mentally slap myself. He has me slightly irritated and beyond sexually frustrated, and because of that, I failed to remember that mammoth detail.

“And was that . . .
jealousy
in your tone?” he adds,
his
tone beyond wiseass.

I stop outside of the classroom, turn around, and find Ryder with his hand cupped behind his ear.

“Mm, yes. Yes. It’s jealousy.” He closes his eyes, thick, dark lashes and all, and lets out a deep, slow, tantalizing groan.

I come close to swallowing my tongue as I envision that groan snarled against my ear while he thoroughly fucks me from behind.

He opens his eyes, pinning them to my lips. “And such a
sweet
,
sweet
sound it is, coming from that pretty mouth of yours.”

“It’s
not
jealousy,” I insist. And it’s not. It’s . . . it’s . . . Shit, I don’t know what the hell it is, but I know it’s not jealousy. My fingers go stark white as I clutch the leather strap of my satchel. “You
wish
it were jealousy.”

He snags his bottom lip between his teeth and shakes his head as he slowly walks backward into the throng. “It’s jealousy,” he calls out. “But I’m okay with you not wanting to admit it. It only adds to your cuteness, so it’s all good.”

I roll my eyes, a mental
ugh!
shooting through my head.

“And you never answered my question,” he adds.

“What question?” With my hand poised over the doorknob, I pull my brows together. I know the last five minutes spent with him has me feeling like I just stumbled out of a psychiatric ward, but I don’t remember him asking me anything that I haven’t answered.

“What’s the name that belongs to the gorgeous face?”

I dig a hand into my hip. “You didn’t ask me that.”

“But . . . I just did.” He sends me a panty-dropping smile, continuing his backward pursuit down the hall. “Did I not?” He scratches at his jaw, mock confusion pinching his forehead. “I mean, I could
very
well be wrong about my assumption, it’s been a long day, but I swear to the good Lord above that I asked ya.”

This dude honestly finds himself entertaining. I guess some perverse part of me does too.

“Brock didn’t tell you my name?” I find that hard to believe. Guys talk, and considering they’re
best
buds
, I have no doubt I was mentioned. “I’m sure you asked him what it was.”

“Ah, very, very true. And had I
seen
or
spoken
with him since the other day, I would’ve, but I haven’t.
Hence
the motivation behind me asking you.”

I blow out a breath, knowing this is a losing battle. “Amber.”

He halts, a slow smile curling his mouth. “Mm, it all makes perfect sense now.”

“What does?”

“The reason your parents named you Amber.”

I stare at him, having no clue what he means.

“The color of your eyes, beautiful girl.” He pitches me a wink, a genuine smile hinting at his lips. “And try not to take some of the shit I say too personally. It’s just . . . who I am.” His smile falls away, a sinfully delicious smirk replacing it as a group of students brush past him. “But have no fear, sweets, you’ll eventually get used to, and quite possibly fall in love with, all of my fucked-up personalities.
Every
.
Single
.
One
.
Of
.
Them
. If I have to annoy you every goddamn day, which, if I were you, I wouldn’t doubt my ability in doing just that, I will. Believe me, I will. By the time I’m done with you, I guarantee I’m gonna be the first thing that pops into that pretty head of yours when ya wake up in the morning, and the last image floating through it before you close those hypnotizing eyes at night.” A shrug, this one following the reappearance of his smile. “Just giving ya the appropriate fair warning you deserve.”

He turns around and, with a wave from over his shoulder, vanishes around a corner.

As I walk into the classroom, my breath hijacked by his statement, it occurs to me that Ryder Ashcroft—with all the annoying, sexually frustrating traits he doesn’t want me to take too personally—just may be correct about one thing. Maybe my parents did name me Amber because of my eyes.

Still, how can you ask your dead loved ones questions?

That’s right . . . you can’t.

CHAPTER 3

Amber

I
TRY NOT TO
choke on the balmy August air as I step out of my car. It’s the kind of heat that’s dense, a thick, wet towel suffocating my body. In less than a second, I’m soaked in sweat, drenched from head to toe. Over the past week, though I’ve secured a waitressing job, and classes are going relatively well, with each passing day, I’ve nourished my growing hatred for Maryland by feeding on my ache for Washington. I miss living there. Even if that’s where my crippling past began, it was never humid, and the air wasn’t rife with the smell of crabs.

I swipe a palm across my sticky neck, and with memories of a stolen childhood corroding my irreparable mind, I slam my car door shut and make my way across the student parking lot. Eager to get into the air-conditioned building, I haul ass and take the stairs two at a time, knocking into exhausted shoulders and lazy arms carrying books. Though I hand out the appropriate apologies, I’m shot evil glares by gangs of students who seem to be just as pissed off at the rising mercury as I am.

I swing open the doors and my skin jumps awake, frosty air coating every inch of my body like a lover’s kiss, as I head toward the library. By the time I walk into the quiet, two-story space, I’ve cooled down and am ready to get some much-needed studying done.

After setting my belongings on a table, I head for an aisle and trail my fingers along wrinkled leather spines lining old-world-style mahogany shelves. My eyes devour rows of books, my nose pulling in their familiar scent which, no matter where my barbed-wire thoughts are, has always managed calm my spirit, bringing it some sense of normalcy amid the ghost playing hopscotch with my past. Even if just a little bit.

I locate a revised edition of John Milton’s
Paradise L
ost
and flip through the pages. Landing on the battle between the faithful angels and Satan’s forces, I read over the words, instantly taken and somewhat disturbed by what’s unfolding on the pages. Engrossed, I feel a hand brush my hair away from my neck, and I jump, my breath leaving me in a hard rush.

“Shh,” Brock says, holding a finger over his lips. “You’re in a library, Miss Moretti.” He pauses, seduction rolling off him in electrifying currents as he rests a hand on the shelf just above my shoulder. “Though I love the way you sounded when you . . . gasped.”

“I didn’t gasp,” I answer quietly with an abashed smile.

“You gasped, but I’m not complaining.”

I swallow, unable to ignore the air instantly charged with chemistry. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think
jocks
frequented libraries.”

“Ah, you’re incorrect. We frequent them when we know beautiful girls who’d pick Twizzlers over any survival tool while stuck on a deserted island are here.” With a lazy smile, he fishes a pack of Twizzlers from his back pocket. His emerald eyes go dark, almost hunter, as he grazes the pack against my lips. “You look pretty today.”

“So do you,” I breathe, sexually restless. My palms, pressed to the books, go damp, my heart thwacking as he continues to brush the pack in soft, slow strokes along my lips.

He brings his face within inches of mine. “I’ve never been called pretty, but since it’s coming from you, maybe I should take it as a compliment.”

“You should.” Emboldened, I wrap my fingers around his wrist
to aid in his seduction. The heat from his skin billows up my arms, down my back, and between my legs. “Compliments from me are a good thing.”

“I like good,” he says, his eyes locked on my lips.

The plangent clearing of a library monitor’s throat distracts us from each other. Hands digging into her thick hips, she shoots us a classic stink-eye, her scowl twisting her usually pleasant features.

Brock takes an easy step back, his face impassive as he nods in her direction. “Mrs. Anderson. I was just helping Amber find”—he smoothly glances at John Milton’s creation in my hand—“
Paradise Lost
.”

“Mr. Cunningham . . .” She sighs with annoyance, moving a rod of curly hair away from her forehead. “The library is for research and studying.
Nothing
more.”

“We were about to do some
serious
research,” he mutters, ducking his head to conceal a smile.

I don’t conceal shit. I burst out laughing—the deep, can-barely-catch-a-breath kind. God, it feels good. It’s been forever since I laughed like this.

My unacceptable reaction garners me another stink-eye from Mrs. Anderson but also rewards me with a shocked yet impressed look from Brock.

I grab Brock’s hand, dragging him toward my table as I bat apologetic lashes at the less-than-thrilled librarian.
“Pardonnez-nous. Brock est une influence mauvaise, peut-être, mais j’
ai l’intention de le briser de cette. Nous allons aller avant, et faire un peut de recherche véritable. Merci.”

Now she just looks all-out confused. I’d be lying if I said Brock looks any different.

“Did you just speak . . .
French
?” Brock probes as we claim a seat at my table. “And what the hell did you say?”

“Yes, I did.” I smile and pluck a notebook from my satchel. “I said something about you being a bad influence and how I plan on straightening you out. How’d you guess it was French?”

Chuckling, he shakes his head. “I’m familiar with the word
merci
, but that’s where my
jock
brain ends in its understanding of the language.”

I laugh, enjoying his sense of humor.

“But I’ll be honest, my need to see your French-speaking mouth consume Twizzlers has magnified.” He grins one of those killer grins, leans back, and crosses his arms. “It’s definitely sexy.”

“
Sexy
? I never thought of it like that. I always thought it added to my hidden geek factor.”

“Well, start thinking it, because it is, and
nothing
about you screams geek. Even if it did, you’d be one fucking sexy geek.” He swipes the Twizzlers from the table, opens the pack, and hands me one. “Get eating. This
jock’s
dying over here.”

I smile, convinced we’ve officially established an ongoing joke. Taking a small bite, I watch him watching me, carnal satisfaction blooming in his eyes.

“Where’d you learn to speak French?” he asks.

From one of the crazy foster homes I landed in.
If I messed up a lesson, dinner was withheld from me that night.
“I took it in high school,” I say, not ready to open that casket. “How’d you know I was here?”

“I saw you in the parking lot, and I followed you.”

“So you’re
stalking
me?”

“If you wanna get technical, yes.” He cracks a sinful smile. “Are you cool with my dementedness?”

“Can’t say that I am,” I lie, unwilling to admit that part of me is.

“Can’t say that I’m willing to stop,” he clips, his mouth curved wryly. “And keep chewing, Amber-
Ber
. I’m thoroughly enjoying the show.”

Unsure of how to react to him, I smile like an idiot, my deft wit vanishing with every slick comeback he tosses my way. I want to kick him in his teeth for beating me at my own game, making me work harder at what usually comes naturally to my warped ego . . .
manipulating a conversation. But, God, I can’t kick him. Aside from his teeth being perfectly white, their ghostly shimmer as straight as a stick figure’s dick, he’s too adorable, too inwardly twisted to inflict physical pain upon. Jock or not, and wiseass or not, this good boy’s as bad as they come. I can see it, smell its deliciously dirty presence. My intuition tells me he’s aware of it, and that I’ll soon be introduced to the inner workings of what makes him hard.

Continuing to smile like a virginal imp, I obey and take another bite from my Twizzler, all the while wondering how long it’ll take him to show me where his inner demons
really
lie.

“So do you have any exciting plans this afternoon?” he asks, entertained curiosity on his face.

“Maybe,” I lie again. Well, if you consider studying until your eyes are about to bleed exciting, then maybe it’s not a lie.

“Wait, did I just hear you say that you’re stopping by the field to watch me practice?”

“Uh, nope.” I laugh. “That must’ve been the little schizophrenic man in your head.”

“
Nothing
on my body is little. Let’s get that out of the way right now.” His eyes sparkle with mirth as I sigh. “But, no. I definitely heard
you
say it. Besides, I know you wanna see me in my uniform. You’re curious. I can tell.”

“Oh, can you?” I ask dryly.

“Yes, ma’am. Sweat. Raging hormones. Me coming close to murdering someone. There’s a certain amount of appeal to it. Don’t lie.”

There
is
a small amount of appeal to it. Though I’d gladly choose a double root canal over an afternoon spent watching any kind of agonizingly boring action on a football field, I can’t deny that I wonder—just a little—what Brock’s already-fine ass looks like in those tight pants. However, considering it’s close to a billion degrees outside, the idea loses its attraction real fast.

“I have to study,” I say, snatching a second Twizzler from the pack.

He pitches his head to the side, his green, seawater eyes intense. “I guess I need to tempt ya a little more, then.”

“You think you’ve tempted me at
all
?” I balk, amused by his confidence.

He shrugs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Well, I hope my gift of Twizzlers has.”

His gaze, pinned to my lips, and the boyish grin lifting his cracks my resistance, unlacing me with a sweet yet petrifying anxiety. The inescapable truth is . . . I think I like it.

I rest my elbows on the table, my hands folded beneath my chin. “And how do you plan on tempting me more than you
think
you already have?”

Brock stands, and I have to crank my head back to look up at him. “That’s easy.” He touches his knuckles to my cheek, my breath kidnapped by the shadow of promise in his eyes. “I’ll watch every episode of
Happy Days
with you, and I’ll always be the guy who brings you Twizzlers.”

As Brock walks away, yet again without saying another word, my empty heart teeters between curiosity and absolute fear over something I’ve rarely experienced.

Human warmth.

Though I’ve craved it, I’ve been dehydrated of it, a desert thirsty for even the smallest trickle of water from a passing storm. Sure, I’ve received warmth in small doses, but it usually came from someone who had thwarted reasons behind showing it to me at all, including my parents.

The people who were supposed to put me before anything.

The people who were supposed to give up their breaths so I could take an easy one.

The people who were supposed to choose my smiles over a dirty needle.

After they died, I shot through a series of homes where warmth,
love, and being recognized as an actual person was dangled in front of me like a meaty bone to a hungry dog.

A scrap of day-old food to a soul seeking nourishment.

Inside those homes, I was physically beaten, mentally raped, and inwardly stripped down to nothing but stagnant memories of a life that I’d sought to escape. Still, no matter how stagnant my memories of my parents were, they became the only place my mind desperately clung to in the middle of the chaos that had replaced what I had thought was evil.

What I had eventually wanted back.

It’s funny how our minds execute many purposes, the two main contenders of our psyches conflicting beyond confliction. One side teaches us that it’s our grand escape, while the other preps us to play the role it never wanted: our worst enemy.

It wasn’t until I was placed in the caring arms of my most recent foster parents, Cathy and Mark, that I experienced any sense of feeling wanted or loved. Any sense of feeling . . . human.

But their safety net came too late, unable to save me from my ancient habits. I continue to disconnect, self-destructing one man at a time, using sex as a brain detox. Sex is and will always be where I find control, a hidden shelter keeping me benign from the cancer that will forever disease the dark, frayed edges of my thoughts. Starting at the age of fourteen, I’ve abused, loved, craved, and hated sex in ways most people can’t fathom. It’d rock their skulls. I’ve given it away without feeling a morsel of anything for the person on the receiving end and, many times, accepted it from those I knew couldn’t stomach me.

With the fear of possibly experiencing something real, true, and healthy eating through my bones, I head out of the library, fully aware that the only world I’ve ever known may become disrupted by the beautiful chaos of a boy who promised me more in two seconds than anyone ever has.

Such a bittersweet, twisted paradox . . .