Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (54 page)

CHAPTER 23

Ryder

I
HAVE JUST ENOUGH
time to shower and slide on a pair of sweatpants when I hear a loud
crack-crack-crack
on my door, the sound breaking me from the temporary bliss of Amber’s confession.

The girl loves me . . .

Christ. When she told me that, I knew she was mine, knew I’d won her heart. The undeniable want in her kiss, the unhidden truth swirling in her eyes, and the unmistakable need for me in her every touch couldn’t tell me otherwise.

It’s me whom she’ll pick, me whom she’ll spend the rest of her life with.

Still, I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Though she loves me, there’s still a good chance she’ll pick Brock, leaving me to rot away without her because of her confusion as the fucker sucks the life out of her, using her weaknesses in his favor.

I exit my bedroom, ready for what’s to come, for what I’ve been waiting for over the last forty-five minutes or so. Absolute mayhem. I know it’s Brock behind my door, Amber’s truth propelling him straight to me. When I dropped her off at his condo she told me she was telling him about her feelings for me, letting him know she plans on making a decision during the week.

If I know Brock as well as I think I do, the sick fuck’s in the midst of losing his mind, my head on display in a trophy case the only thing running through his thoughts as he waits for me to open the door. Taking proper precautions, I pop the back cover off the surround-sound subwoofer and grab my Smith & Wesson, loading it as I peek out the window from behind the closed blinds.

Well, fuck me. It looks like me and my buddy have a lot more in common than I thought, the both of us holding guns in our hands, his aimed at my front door—straight for my head—mine hanging loosely at my side as I unlatch the lock.

I turn the dead bolt and swing open the door as I lift my gun to his head, getting off on our mirrored poses.

“Come here to kill me, bro?” I question, a smirk on my face as Brock’s glassy eyes shoot open. “Such a shame too. I thought we had a pretty good thing goin’ for us the last couple years.” I step forward, jabbing the barrel of my gun against his right temple as he does the same to mine. “Mm, feels good, doesn’t it? The taste of death so close, so . . .
here
, it makes ya hard.” My expression goes placid, his turning white as I cock my weapon. “The only things I was ever really sure of were pussy’s wet and life’s a bitch. Plain and simple, that’s all I knew was solid, something that’d never change on me. But
never
in a million fucking years—ultimate pussy up for grabs or not—did I think my
best friend
, my partner in crime, would show up to my apartment looking to . . . do me in.”

“You
love
her, asshole?” he hisses, sweat caking his forehead despite winter’s brutal bite. Body shaking like a roller coaster, Brock moves the barrel of his gun beneath my chin, betrayal possessing his expression as his free hand attacks his pistol in a paranoid grip.

I hold my stance, fear not an option as I simply stare into his eyes.

“Answer me!” he demands, impatience causing him to twitch with anxiety. “Like,
really
love her?”

“I love her with every breath I breathe,” I answer, the calmness,
the undying finality in my tone, a whisper of freedom to my senses as revenge takes over Brock’s.

Surprisingly enough, he doesn’t shoot me, but the dick makes sure I feel him pistol-whip my cheekbone before he charges at me, his bull-like rage knocking me flat on my back as he tackles me to the ground. He chucks his gun across the room, deciding to use his fists as his weapons as they leave a few reminders of his hostility against my stomach, head, and ribs. I show him the same courtesy, pitching my gun onto the linoleum entryway as I clone his reminders. Unleashing all of my frustration for Amber’s past pain, present confusion, and future hurt, I dig into every crevice of his body, letting him know he’s playing with the wrong man, has fucked with the wrong girl’s emotions.

Rolling around on the floor, we beat on each other like rabid gorillas, two strangers in a bar fight, our fists swinging wildly until exhaustion slows us. Before I can blink through another bloodstained blur, we’re both on our backs, staring up at the ceiling, our breathing a battered mess as we drop our arms to the side, physically and emotionally spent.

Silence reigns a second before Brock whispers, “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“What wasn’t supposed to happen?” I ask over a cough, blood dripping from my nose as I sit up, backing myself against the couch. “Us beating the
fuck
outta each other, or us trying to
kill
each other?” I yank my old football jersey off the entertainment center, using the thing as a towel to soak up my blood. “There’s a few variables here, so why don’t ya enlighten me, bud. Again, what wasn’t supposed to happen?”

I know what he’s referring to, what’s eating him alive. Still, I want to hear him acknowledge it,
need
to see the regret seep down his face as he says the words.

Brock gets to his knees and backs himself against the wall across
from me, his hand reaching out for my jersey as he shakes his head. “You and her falling in love.
That’s
what wasn’t supposed to happen.” Another whisper, his face pained beyond the damage I caused it as he, too, uses my jersey to sop up the blood pouring from his brow, nose, and bottom lip. “What the fuck was I thinking?” He drops my jersey to the floor, his hands buried in his hair as he starts rocking back and forth. “Goddamnit! What the fuck was I
thinking
?” Brock grits out, his misty, narrowed eyes pinned to mine as he punches at his chest like Kong himself. “I knew you wanted each other. Knew the two of you had some freakish chemistry I couldn’t compete with! Yet I
still
shoved her into your arms, all but begging to have my heart demolished in the end.”

Remaining silent, I stare at my friend. Though she has yet to pick either of us, Brock’s already grieving the loss of Amber, hating himself for it, wishing he could take back that one decision as he tugs at his hair like a madman.

And just like that, I don’t wanna witness Brock’s pain, feel his anguish, or step into his terrifying reality. Like me, he could lose the girl he loves, the girl he needs to complete his next breath. A minute ago I wanted to see the asshole suffer. Now the fucker’s got me feeling bad for him, my mind warring over who’s
really
the dick who dragged us into where we are now.

I knew how dirty shit could get, was more than aware of where this could lead all of us. Still, my heart roared for what it wanted, for what was so close in physical reach yet so mentally far away. Unable to ignore Amber’s pull, I went along with it, hoping like an imbecile that everything would even out, that neither I nor Amber would develop feelings for each other.

Head clear, it’s fucking simple: I loved the girl before that night ever happened, loved her with everything I was and will ever be before I even knew I did.

I stand up, my body aching from head to toe as I stare down into the eyes of a depleted man. Despite feeling bad for him, I need to say one thing to Brock. The one thing he should’ve known the second Amber opened her darkened world to him. “She’s not a robot,” I mumble, reaching for his hand. “She never was.”

He accepts my aid in getting to his feet, his hand clasped around mine as his gaze skirts around the room, lost, desperate for answers to something people have questioned for millions of years . . .

Fate.

Not knowing where either of our fates lie, I pick up my gun from the floor, unloading the bullets from it as I not so gracefully make my way to the front door. Between the bar fight with Amber and Brock’s ambush, I’m positive I’m gonna wake up hurtin’ tomorrow morning, every muscle in my body telling me to fuck off as I wait for the ghost of Amber’s decision to come haunt me.

Shoulders slumped, and spirit visibly fighting the same battle I am, Brock locates his gun, his face disturbed as he approaches me. “You actually had the goddamn thing loaded?”

I spring a brow, unsure if the asshole’s fucking with me. “Like you didn’t.”

“I did at first,” he admits, a guilty grin peeling across his face, “but after I got out of my ride I rethought what I was doing. I figured you’d do the same. Guess I was wrong.” He sobers, his eyes swimming in a pool of questions as he tucks his gun into the waistband of his jeans. “I’ve already killed for Amber. I wonder,
really
wonder, if you would’ve been able to kill for her love as well . . . friend.”

I don’t answer him. I don’t have to. If the
wanna test me out?
look burning through my glare doesn’t tell him the answer he’s seeking, then the dick never deserved Amber to begin with.

He nods, accepting my unspoken words, knowing—friend or not—I’d kill him in a heartbeat for her if it came down to it. “So
where do we stand after she’s picked her leading man?” he asks, his voice calm, eerily monotone as he leans against the doorjamb. “We’re just . . . finished?”

“How can there be any trust between us after what went down tonight?” I’ll live out the rest of my life wondering, hour by hour, minute by minute, and second by second if he’s gonna change his mind and leave the bullets in the gun next time. Trust is impossible for us now. We’re nothing but a shell of what was once solid, tight. “Yeah. That ain’t happening.”

Arms crossed over his chest, he tilts his head. “Really, bud? It’s just that simple for you? After everything you and I’ve been through, the countless times we had each other’s backs, our friendship’s done?”

“Yeah. It’s as simple as that.” I nod tightly, knowing there’s no going back but hating the fact that there’s not.

“Fine,” he says, his tone teetering between hurt and pissed. “After we take Derick out, which needs to happen soon, we’ll go our separate ways.”

And just like that, something else happens. Something that, just a couple of months back, I would’ve never seen coming, couldn’t even picture it . . . The man who’s claimed the title of my best friend for as far back as I can remember, the only true brother I’ve ever known, walks out of my life, the love we have for a rare diamond amid cavernous rocks heavy enough to crash our unbreakable mountain of friendship down.

He knows it. I know it. So what the fuck is the use in lying, denying what’ll inevitably happen?

One of us killing the other somewhere down the road . . .

CHAPTER 24

Amber

B
ROKEN.

My heart’s literally broken, the very organ that keeps me alive slowing its beat as I write the final words of my parting letter to the man whose heart I’m equally going to break tonight.

One hour.

A single hour remains before I have to look him in his eyes—those beautiful eyes that captured my soul from the second they stomped into my life—and tell him the reasons why I chose his best friend over him.

Feeling sick to my stomach, I seal the envelope, my gaze sweeping over the name written on the front of it one last time before shoving it into the front pocket of my satchel. Words can heal, words can bruise, and tonight mine will do both to two worthy contenders, the two most amazing men to have ever stepped foot into the chaos of my life. Into the chaos of . . . me. Born from all I’ve torn apart, all I’ve poisoned, a friendship is in ruins, its once indestructible loyalty a casualty of my love for them.

I stand, fearing with everything in me what his face will look like when I try to explain that even though we’re a perfect match in so many ways, we’re not meant to be. Never were. Our coming together
was fleeting, a shooting star barely seen from Earth, still beautiful, magical, as it slips past your eyes. Though a blip on the road map of my life, he’ll forever remain with me through every unsteady step I take without him over the roots of my future.

All I have, all I need, has been right here next to me the whole time, the man who’s always loved me, having taken the backseat to my heart so many times when I ignored his love, discounting it for something else . . . someone else. The light emanating from the man who makes up my past, present, and future—burning brighter than a billion shooting stars ever could—has seared his name into my soul, his presence the air I’d kill to breathe.

Emotions hanging from a slippery tight wire covered with excitement and sorrow, I pull open my dresser drawer, plucking out a replica of the notebook I’ve kept since the day my parents died. Everything’s there. Every good, bad, and scared day I lived through copied onto the once blank pages. Every confused, frightened minute I wished away into the whisper of the darkened moment. Every second of questioning and requestioning my parents’ love for me while feeling the absence of it from those who were . . .
caring
for me. Thoughts stained in black ink, every thought I’ve had over the last decade resides in this notebook, this offering of my complete truth to the man I know will hold it in his hands, taking care of it the way it needs to be . . . the way he always has. The first page, my letter to him. The reasons why I chose him, why I can’t take another step forward without his love guiding me.

Still, I can barely think straight, my memory twisting with the sound of Brock and Ryder’s worried voices when I’d called them to let them know I’d made a decision, that tonight was the night I’d be leaving the diner with one of them. Time and place set, this is it. I’m about to wreak havoc on one of their lives, leaving him to pick up the pieces of the carnage I’ve left behind.

With everything in place, I glimpse my reflection in the mirror,
sickened by the girl who’s staring back at me as I slip on my coat and scarf. Who does this to someone, plays their heart like a game of chess? I do, that’s who. A black widow in the flesh, I’m about to eat a man alive, killing off every dream he had for us. On the verge of not going through with it, coming close to choosing neither guy so as to save all of our hearts from splitting in two, I take a calming breath.

The man I love and need is here with me in spirit, his face consuming my thoughts as I grab my keys off my desk and head out of my dorm room.

As I make my way down the stairwell and out into the icy hold of Old Man Winter’s arms, to my surprise, there’s no one waiting for me to flee campus, not a single Brock- or Ryder-imposed bodyguard awaiting my escape. Considering Brock insisted on picking me up to drive me to the diner, where we’ll meet Ryder for this . . . this final good-bye of sorts, I guess the lack of a lookout shouldn’t come as a surprise. For reasons that still remain a mystery to me, it looks like they didn’t place anyone here because they figured they wouldn’t need to. Brock will be here in fifteen minutes.

I shoot him a text, letting him know to go on ahead to the diner without me. I’m driving myself there. I shut off my cell, not wanting to see the texts that he and Ryder will undoubtedly send, warning me not to step foot out of my dorm without one of them here.

Satchel flung over my shoulder and notebook tucked under my arm, I fumble for my keys halfway across the parking lot. Fingers half frozen, my key chain slips from my grasp, landing with a hush in the recently dropped snow. Before I can reach for them, a swastika-tattooed hand crosses my vision, lifting them for me.

“Let me get those for ya, darlin’,” he offers in a raspy drawl, its dark tone raising the hairs on my neck.

His voice reminds me of a predator’s. A viper coiled, ready to strike.

With my keys in his possession, he rises, a crooked grin scarring his face.

A half-skeleton-tattooed face.

Death’s mask.

“Sorry I startled ya, but you seemed . . . faraway.” Grin unwavering, he dangles my keys from his index finger. “So you want these or not?”

“I—I do. Thank you.” My words are spoken through a halting whisper, the faux smile tightening my lips betraying my surprise and sudden fear as I tentatively reach toward his upturned palm.

I gasp as his hand swallows mine, my keys stabbing into my skin with the tightening of his grip. Before I can produce another thought, he yanks me into his chest, his nose buried in my hair as he sniffs at the snow-dampened strands. All of my words come undone, my fight-or-flight instinct pumping its juices through my veins as a voice from within screams for me to run. Frozen, my limbs don’t receive the urgent message, my entire body an icicle stuck to the pavement as he slowly backs away.

Eyes as dark as crow’s wings, a smirk etches his mouth, the towering set of his body leaning against my driver’s-side door, blocking me from getting in my car as he crosses his arms over his chest. “Sorry about that. I couldn’t help myself.” A pause, the intent in his deadly stare showing nothing but harm. “I’ve spent the last several weeks wondering what you . . . smelled like, what Brock gets to wake up to every morning.”

It hits me all at once. He’s the reason my boyfriend’s begged me not to make a move off campus without telling him beforehand.

The reason Ryder and Brock have kept someone watching after me the last few weeks.

The reason I may never see either of their beautiful faces again after tonight.

Here to take my life, camouflaged before me, the Grim Reaper’s eyes never leave mine as he scratches at the stubble along his jaw. “You
are
Amber Moretti, correct? The cunt who’s been fucking Brock? The cunt I’ve been
dying
to get my hands on?”

I don’t respond. Instead, my gaze instinctively drops to a quarter-sized blot of blood staining his camel-hued bomber jacket, its cuff gleaming ruby red with the fresh stain as everything starts to click into place. Not only is he here to take my life, but he’s already taken my lookout’s. My attention shoots out into the parking lot, my breathing picking up as I scour my surroundings. Nothing. Not a single soul’s here with us, finals and the wintry mix keeping most students in for the night.

“Ain’t ya gonna answer me?” he growls, impatient.

Remaining frozen with fear, my eyes meet his for a brief moment before slipping back down to the blood on his cuff.

He catches me in the act, his eyes flicking down to the blood, then back up to mine. Head cocked to the side, his expression turns void, no signs that a human soul resides within this man, this devil’s serpent, as his fist connects with the side of my head.

Skull splintering in pain, my keys slip from my jellified fingers, the notebook following in its wake.

Now I lay me down to sleep . . .

I hit the ground, my nails clawing at the cold pavement beneath me as I try to regain my bearings, try to get to my feet.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep . . .

Starting to blank out, he rolls me onto my back with the tip of his boot, his evil face inches from mine as he crouches down, hovering above me.

If I die before I wake . . .

As my surroundings fade to black, my eyes drifting closed as the warmth of my blood pools around my head, comforting me in some sick way, the only thing I can think of is my two boys. If my two shooting stars—though one brighter than the other in my sky—are going to be okay without me, able to make amends without their weakness blocking their way.

I pray the Lord my soul to take . . .