Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (21 page)

I shake my head at myself. Who am I trying to kid? I know why he fucking brings it up.

My father acts like my judge and jury. He hovers, trying to control my existence as though it were his own. If it involves my life, and it’s something he knows about, then he’s all over it like flies on shit. Not because he wants me to make good decisions or avoid getting hemmed up in trouble—that would be one thing. But it’s all about not blemishing his name, the façade he’s built in the community surrounding his Cunningham clan. It drives me fucking nuts. Even though I’ve died trying, there’s no pleasing these people.

“
Sick?
” my father says. “Unless you’re in the hospital tied to an IV pole, you can’t miss practices, Brock. You’re on scholarship and your future is on the line. It looks bad if you aren’t giving a hundred and twenty percent. You know that.” His eyes are icy, his struggle to maintain his composure something you couldn’t miss a mile away if you tried.

“I got it. It won’t happen again,” I mutter, the bullshit flowing out of my mouth as easily as it did Amber’s. This isn’t the place nor the time to discuss my nonexistent football career.

Amber’s hand grazes my thigh, causing my attention to shift to her. She smiles at me before turning to her foster parents. “You guys will have to come to one of Brock’s games. He’s amazing on the field.”

“Oh, I bet,” Cathy says, her gaze set on Amber. “I still can’t believe you watch football. He would have to be something special for you to go to a game.”

My mother cackles, her
I’m two sheets
to the wind
pitch making me cringe. I wish I could yank the fucking alcohol off the table. Better yet, I wish I could yank
her
from the table. But I can’t. I’m as unable to dictate this situation as I am every other time I’m around her or my dad.

Amber’s grip on my thigh tightens as she glares at my mother. “I’m surprised too. God knows I couldn’t stand the sport
before
Brock.”

“Don’t worry, Amber.” Brit takes a sip of water. “You’re not the only one who despises it. I’d rather clean my house than watch a bunch of sweaty dudes throw a ball around. And me saying I’d rather clean is saying
a lot
.” She nudges my arm, a smirk twisting her lips. “No offense, bro. Though I love you to death, I’d take a month spent with the vacuum over watching you play any day.”

A laugh moves across the table, the easy banter continuing as I fix my attention on my mother, who’s refilling her glass with a near-empty bottle of wine. I watch, sickened, as she barely takes a breath in between gulps, her entire body trained on the plum-colored mixture as though it’s her lifeline. After inhaling the entire glass in under a
second, her gaze catches mine. She raises a perfectly arched brow, my pulse jumping at the darkness dashing over her features.

Shit’s about to go south. I know it, can feel it. I’ve seen this more times than I can count. I grab the sides of my chair and brace myself for whatever poison is about to fly through the room.

After a second, then a third heavy sip of the merlot, her sharp voice hits me in the center of my chest. “How’s
Ryder
doing, Brock?”

I meet her stare head-on, wondering how quickly the situation is gonna deteriorate. I know my mother, can see her demons slowly dragging her back to her inner hell. The bomb’s about to go off: that I can’t prevent. All I can hope for is a mild explosion.

“He’s good,” I answer, my voice remaining calm. “Working, school, football—the same old stuff.”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, tapping her nail on the rim of her glass. “I bet
he
hasn’t missed any practices.”

Silence simmers midair, a thick tension compounding as I say, “I don’t know, Ma. You’d have to ask
him
that. I don’t usually keep a tally on what he does or doesn’t do when it comes to practice.”

A mirthless smile lifts her lips as she once again refills her glass. “I don’t
need
to ask him anything,” she hisses. “Ryder would
never
throw his future away.”

“Neither would I.” My words come out tame, despite my wanting to scream them. “I’m thinking about a business law class next semester. Will that work for ya? Make ya proud of me?”

“Not sure
anything
will work or make me proud when it comes to you, Brock,” my mother points out through a sardonic laugh. “You look at life like tomorrow’s guaranteed. Who knows what will happen? Bad decisions and hedonistic attitudes take away people’s will to live.” She openly glares at me, then Amber, her hatred palpable as she dangles her glass in the air. “
Especially
when they’re running around with white trash.”

Angers surges hot and fast, but before I can react, Brittany lets out a quiet moan. “
Put
the wine
down
, Mother.”

Cathy and Mark look at each other wide-eyed, not as familiar, obviously, with my mother’s lack of couth. Normal people, which the Cunninghams aren’t, don’t expect someone to be so vicious about another human being, least of all one sitting at the table with her parents.

Though I’m seeing red, I glance at Amber, my eyes flashing an apology as I wrap my hand around hers. She tosses me a tight smile, which only further ignites my anger.

I turn to my mother, making a point to look at her wineglass before speaking, my tone a harsh slap. “We all have different definitions of
who’s
considered white trash. In my book, a lush, such as yourself, is right up there in my top three.”

“I can smell a tramp a mile away,” my mother huffs, glaring pointedly at Amber. “Lush or not,
that
takes the cake in
my
book.”

“Excuse
me
?” Cathy’s jaw nearly drops into her plate of shrimp scampi. “Who the
hell
do you think you are calling my daughter a tramp?”

Brittany pushes back in her seat, a mix of anger and embarrassment thick on her tongue as she rises. “That was uncalled for. I don’t care
how
much you’ve drunk, this is
completely
out of line. I’m taking you home before you make a fool of yourself.”

“She’s already
made
a fool of herself,” I bite out, tossing my linen napkin into the middle of the table.

“Don’t, Brock,” Amber whispers, gripping my hand tighter. I know she’s trying to protect me, trying to downplay what happened to save me from saying some shit I can’t take back. I shake my head at her, silently telling her it’s too late. I can’t back down, can’t let this slide. I refuse.

With an aggravated sigh, my father intervenes. “All your mother’s trying to say is that you need to make
all
your practices. There’s no reason to miss any.”

“Your wife just called my daughter a
tramp
, and you’re still talking about
football
?” Mark stands, his eyes fierce as he jabs a finger into my
father’s chest. “I’m not about to sit here and listen to you put down my child
or
yours! I don’t know who you people think you’re messing with, but this shit’s about to get
real
ugly if you say another word about my kid!”

“That’s not what she’s trying to say,” I tell my father, barely picking up on Mark’s comment. I shove to my feet, my fists clenched at my sides, itching to blast something before I blast someone. “We all know what’s
really
going on. She’s a goddamn alcoholic, but that’s still no excuse for her fucking mouth.”

“Watch your language,” my father says, his tone a resounding warning. “She’s still your mother.”

“Right,” I spit, losing every shred of sanity I own. “I’ll watch my fucking mouth when you get your wife under control!”

Everyone in the room stills as our heated stares stay deadlocked. I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I knew nothing with them would ever be easy after Brandon was taken, but the last couple of years it’s been nothing but a clusterfuck of vile comments that have compiled into a storm of hurt and anger. Before Amber, I was able to bury my feelings in selling blow, my choice of employment providing me with a sense of purpose. I couldn’t do that in my personal life. There’s nothing my parents want from me other than a son who plays football and provides them with some form of status in their elite circle. It ends tonight. They’ve crossed a line, a major fucking line. There’s one thing I won’t condone and that’s hurtful comments aimed at my girl. You wanna rip me apart, fine, go ahead. But Amber? I’ll fucking hunt you down, dismantle you limb to limb, not giving a shit
who
you are to me while I watch you suffer.

“Take her home,” I continue, rage blistering my lungs. “Get her out of my fucking sight. She needs help, but you’ve turned a blind eye to her problem because you get away with more shit while she’s lit up. I’m done with it. She can’t keep going on like this. It’s gonna kill her.”

My father stands, his shoulders straightening to full height as fury
whips across his face. “Your mother’s fine, Brock. The
only
problem in this family is
you
.”

“That’s not true,” Brittany states, her voice forceful. “She has to stop blaming Brock for what happened to Brandon. It’s unfair to not only him, but
me
as well. He’s my remaining brother and it
kills
me to see the way the
both
of you treat him.”

My stare switches from Brit to my mother, who’s swaying back and forth, tears dribbling down her cheeks as she lifts her green eyes to mine.

“You’re the reason he was stolen from me,” she whispers, slashing the knife of guilt—already buried deep within my gut—deeper. “Because of you, I don’t have Brandon anymore. I think it’s sick that I have to suffer while you get to go on with your life as if nothing’s . . . happened.”

I hear Cathy and Amber gasp, my breath fucking off at the trail of sheer agony streaming across my mother’s face. The agony
I
caused her.

“You think I
don’t
think about him?” I snarl, pounding my fists against my chest. “That he’s just some memory that occasionally pops into my
mind
?” I drop my head, my fists deciding to connect with the table this time around. “If so, then you’re wrong. There’s not a
minute
that goes by that I
don’t
think about that kid. He was my baby brother, for fuck’s sake! I might be the reason he’s gone, but you’re
not
the only one who
loved
him! Not the only one
suffering
over his loss!”

“I’m not so sure about that,” she continues, sniffling as though I didn’t just bleed my heart out in front of an entire restaurant filled with mortified onlookers. “The only thing I know for sure, Brock, is you’re a filthy reminder of what I’ll never have
ever
again. One I can’t stand to look at.” The last part’s whispered as she picks up the bottle of wine, tossing back what remains of it.

Broken to pieces, I watch as she gets up, throws on her sunglasses, and stumbles out of the room.

Bile churns in my stomach as the pain of what our lives have turned into crushes me. I want to run after her, get as far away from the questioning looks I know are being aimed at me from Amber’s parents—from the hate getting tossed my way from my own father.

I look at Amber, my only safe place, her expression mirroring my torment as she laces her fingers through mine. I know she gets the level of dysfunction ripping through my world, tearing it to shreds. Maybe that’s the reason I’ve felt this burning connection to her, this insatiable need to have her in my life.

We’re two different people who share one common link—our blood families are fucking nightmares.

“Don’t listen to her, Brock,” Brittany says, anger assaulting her features. “The
only
thing this is about is her being a drunk. You can’t blame yourself for something you had no part in.”

I can’t talk, the pain pulsing through my core so strong, it feels like it’s choking the life right outta me.

“I don’t know what the hell all of that was about,” Mark says, his words strong, unwavering, as he watches, from the corner of his eye, my father toss a couple hundred-dollar bills onto the table. “But your sister’s right, Brock. What just happened appears to have
very
little to do with you.”

My father tucks his wallet back into his dress pants, shaking his head at Mark’s comment but saying nothing as he looks up at the rest of us.

He’s not about to make this worse than it already is. God forbid someone he associates with is watching and the word gets out to his circle of friends.

“It was nice meeting you all,” he finally says, his face hard as stone, his tone formal, presentable. “I apologize for the way the evening turned out.” Without a single look in my direction, he pivots and breezes out of the room.

I scrub an exhausted hand over my jaw, a breath locked in my windpipe as my sister walks over to me.

Sadness digs into the planes of her face as she cups my cheeks, whispering, “I love you. Don’t let
their
issues turn
your
life upside down.” She pauses, concern, along with tears, edging her eyes. “I want you to remember something. Mom and Dad are
not
a reflection of you. What they think isn’t who
you
are as a person. I know who you
really
are, and you’re a smart, good young man who I’m
proud
to call my brother.”

She stares at me a moment before turning to Amber and her family. I see the Cunningham come out in her, the survival skill she mastered a long time ago—the ability to smooth out a situation, manipulating it to not seem as bad as it was. “I’m sorry tonight didn’t go as planned. But it was so very good to meet you all.”

“Likewise,” Cathy says, her hand on her throat, tears welling up in her eyes. It’s easy to see she’s never witnessed anything like what just went down.

Amber, on the other hand, has seen much worse than this unfold in front of her.