Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (51 page)

“Mo, I . . . uh, mean, no. I’m not out of it,” I insist through a slur. I’ve always sucked at lying, plus I’m half tanked. “Well, I am a
little
tipsy, but yes, I think Brock will understand. He has to. Like I said,
he’s
the one who wanted this.” I open the window, sticking my head out into the frigid, early evening Friday night air. “Hey, asshole!” I yell, catching the attention of the moron three stories below us, sitting in a beat-up Chevy Trailblazer, his eyes narrowed on mine as he waits, alert, for either me or Madeline to try to get past him. Gotta love my paranoid boyfriend for keeping me hostage. “Go. The. Fuck. Away.” I kick him a wink, wondering if he caught it. I turn to Madeline, urgency thick in my tone. “Will you help me get out of here without numb-nuts seeing me? I have to find Ryder, Mad. Have to tell him how I feel. I’ll deal with Brock afterward, but right now, I need out of here without daffy-dick down there following me.”

“Yeah, I got you,” she says, helping me squirm into my pea coat as I pluck my car keys off my desk and gulp back the last few ounces of Captain Cool. She shoves a white winter cap onto my head, a green cashmere scarf following her motherly act as she spins me in the direction of the closet mirror. “I don’t think this whole
I can have them both and be fine
thing’s gonna work in your favor, but I have to ask on a serious note: Are you really going to see Ryder Ashcroft looking like
this
?”

Through mascara-streaked eyes, I glimpse my sweatpants-sporting, vintage-Metallica-donning getup and scowl, a sigh dropping from my mouth as I rip the cap off and attempt to pat my hair down from its just-fucked, demon-clown arrangement. It’s no use, but to hell with it. I’m going to see him looking like a deranged psycho stalker, my need to tell him I love him taking precedence over vanity any day.

Nodding, I slip the cap back on. “I don’t care what I look like. Now, how am I getting out of here unnoticed?”

Madeline kneels down, a giggle bursting from her chest as she helps me into a pair of purple, spongey snow boots. My appearance is getting worse by the second, but I have to keep my main goal in sight . . . the man I can picture spending the rest of my life with. The man who, if not by my side, I can see dying without in my darkened universe.

Madeline gets to her feet, a smirk creeping across her face as she pats my back. “Have no fear, my dear. Momma Maddie’s got a foolproof plan.”

• • •

Okay. So maybe Madeline’s plan wasn’t
foolproof
, but it’s working.

Despite wanting to watch her put on the worst-ever alcohol-induced, embarrassing version of the belly dance, I turn away from her diversion show. Better for me, the sandy-brown-haired, unsuspecting twentysomething dumbass who’s sitting in his Trailblazer—enthralled with her twisting capabilities—is buying into her less-than-stellar Marilyn Monroe award-worthy bullshit.

Score!

At a speed that’d surpass Superwoman’s, I round Fifth and Washington, my panicked gaze snagging my golden-horse-driven ride. I cross over State Street, still within earshot of Momma Maddie as she continues to flirt her way through my escape. I grab the handle to the taxi and swing open the door. Nerves skyrocketing, I lunge into the backseat, my sporadic breathing trumping that of a burglar who’s
committed armed robbery as I tell the overly confused, and somewhat scared, driver my destination: Ryder’s apartment.

No questions asked, Bin Laden’s ghostly doppelgänger takes off, the vehicle slipping in and out of traffic like a centipede as we head toward Ryder’s casa. I have to hand it to Middle Eastern men. They might scare me a bit, but they sure as hell know how to navigate the busy streets of Baltimore on a frantic Friday night. Before I can blink, we’re in front of Ryder’s apartment. However, he’s not. My heart sinks some as my sluggish vision lands on his empty parking spot. Knowing this was a possibility, I tell the driver plan B, directing him to Glen Burnie, where, hopefully, Ryder’s hanging at his mother’s house with Casey, possibly in the midst of a game of Hedbanz.

Fifteen minutes later and no such luck, another piece of my heart bruised as I try to think of where he’d be. The only other place is Ram’s Head Tavern, down in the heart of Annapolis, where Lee’s sure to be the man of the night tending bar. Going with an unexpected plan C, we’re off and running again, my nerves mounting as we hit West Street, tear through the roundabout, and land on Main Street, smack-dab in front of Ram’s Head. I ask the driver to hang on a second before jumping from the cab to see if Ryder’s Mustang’s parked around the back.

Touchdown!

The orgasm-producing muscle machine is sitting pretty under a streetlamp, its black-cherry glow a condescending balm to my nerves as I pull in a shuddered breath, worried. Scared that Madeline’s spiel was just that—a drunken spiel, filling me with false hope—I clear my throat, a snowflake hitting my nose as I scurry, like the desperate woman I am, through the alleyway and back over to the taxi.

“I’m going to stay here.” I pluck a twenty from my purse, eager to get inside as I hand it to the driver. “Thanks.”

“It taking you long enough to decide,” he answers, shaking his head. “And it
fifty
for the ride,
not
twenty.” He sticks his wiry hair–
smothered hand out and, with his unibrow scrunched up—its angry wave staring me straight in the face—he huffs. “You think I going to go all the way to the jungle, stop in the semijungle, and come down here into wasteful-wealth land for
only
twenty dollars?” Another huff, this one as he sticks his nasty hand out farther. “If this is truth, then you Americans are crazier than us.”

And to think I was gonna slip the undercover terrorist an extra twenty for his speediness.

Shame. On. Me.

Keeping my narrowed eyes on his, I dig another thirty bucks from my purse, Mr. Captain Morgan himself—another bastard contender in tonight’s Hunger Games—kicking the shit out of my brain as I slam the correct fare into the driver’s palm.

He smirks.

I smirk in return, but decide a proper dose of patriotism’s due. With my middle finger saluting the asshole like a true-blooded American, I spin on my heel, my feet nearly coming out from beneath me as my boots slosh through a few centimeters of freshly dropped snow.

Paying no mind to the dickhead driver’s tires grinding through the white blanket of slush, I approach the crazed bar, my heart imploding as I witness Hailey Jacobs, a she-devil in the flesh, place a long, lingering kiss on Ryder’s cheek from beyond the frosted window.

“You’ve
got
to be kidding me.” My muscles tense, the hot strands of emotionally fueled gas lines reacting of their own accord as they send a signal to my hand, causing it to grab hold of the door. Yanking open the door like Hercules’ long-lost daughter would if she were stuck in my mental state of WTF, my teeth skid across my lip in an angry attack, my pulse trying to fight its way out of my veins as I . . . swoop into a vacant booth like a petrified coward?

God. I can’t do this. Can’t approach Ryder as his cheek enjoys a second, then third Hailey-diseased kiss. I might’ve fooled myself into thinking I didn’t love Ryder, didn’t need him in my life. But as I watch
him rest his hand on the porcelain curve of Hailey’s neck—a smooth-as-they-come grin curling his mouth in the process—I’m convinced he’s the magician who’s fooled me, his talent blinding me to the truth in more ways than my liquor-fueled brain can comprehend.

He doesn’t need or want me, our connection a figment of my desperate imagination.

On that horrifying note, I unsuspiciously wave down a waitress, my body twisted in the fetal position in the corner of the booth as she approaches somewhat cautiously.

“Are you . . .
okay
?” she asks, setting a napkin in front of me.

“I will be after I murder one of the patrons across the bar.” I laugh maniacally.

Mute, she stares at me, appearing marginally scared.

I shake my head, spitting out an order for three tall shots of tequila.

I need to switch things up. Along with my credit card I hand her a hundred-dollar tip, asking her to add a full glass of Captain to my request.

I hate change.

I also note to keep the drinks coming, my goal set on getting as hemmed up as humanly possible as I continue to spy on the man I thought I had a future with.

The hefty tip must’ve satisfied her fear of me going postal, because the waitress smiles and skirts off, her Christmas tree–dotted tie swinging cheerfully in tune with the bounce in her step as her disappearing act allows me an unobstructed view of Ryder and
Hell
-ey.

It’s getting worse. At least from my vantage point it is. The skank’s sitting on his lap, her arm dangling over his shoulder as she whispers something in his ear.

She giggles, he chuckles, and I . . . go postal.

Hail Mary, there
is
a God, my waitress’s return timed perfectly
as I stumble to my feet, whip the glass of Captain from her bar tray, and chug back the entire drink, less what I spilled while bringing it to my lips, of course. I nod my thanks to her and fly into the throng of equally wasted patrons, determined to end Ryder and his little whore’s life as I round the bar, purposely crashing into his side.

Not only does the impact gain his immediate attention—his baby blues the width of Saturn and its rings as his gaze hits mine—but it also sends Hailey flying from his lap.

Aww . . .

The unpaid blonde call girl rockets to the liquor-slimed wood floor, a wheeze of pain pelting from her mouth as—if at all possible—Ryder’s eyes go wider.

Hot damn!
Another touchdown for me tonight.

Figuring I’m on a roll, I don’t say a word to Ryder. Nope. I stick to simple, yet black widow–ish. I keep my mouth shut, finding a sliver of peace in watching him shit his pants as an,
oh, I’m so very
NOT
sorry for
knocking your sleazy date off your lap
smirk oozes across my face.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, the shock in his voice palpable over the thumping bass of the live band’s drums. “And
why
are you out, noticeably fucked up, and
alone
?” He growls the last part into my ear, his hand gripping my waist as he hops from his bar stool. The dominant set of his jaw commands an answer, his eyes narrowing on mine.

Yes, I’m pissed, sober Amber counting the many ways she plans on making Ryder sterile for the rest of his remaining days as she narrows her eyes right back at him. Still, though my heart might be in the midst of bursting at the seams from witnessing his deceitful acts, and the asshole’s dimpled cheek deserves
nothing
but another strike of my hand against it, I can’t help it, I’m human—a poisonous concoction of strong and weak, its main ingredients made to test our every move.

With a quick intake of air, human weakness winning the battle by a long shot, my body reacts to Ryder’s touch as searing streams of needing to feel his cock inside me one last time lick uncontrolled de
sire over every muscle and bone holding me up. Remaining tactfully mute, I shove his hand off my waist and reach for a pinkish-colored shot winking at me from the bar to my left.

Its rightful owner? Go figure. A dude who’d—undoubtedly—kick Ryder’s ass if need be.

Ooops . . .

“Answer me,
now
, peach,” Ryder insists through another growl, his hand recapturing the right side of my waist
right
about the same time Jolly the Green Giant loops his arm around my shoulder.

“What are you doing in public without a lookout?” Before he lets me answer, Ryder cranes his head over the bar, his eyes flaming red as he taps the linebacker’s forearm. “Hey, asshole! Get your fucking hands off her before I break that neckless skull of yours in half. ” Ryder sends him a wink, his infamous cocky smirk front and center as he juts that beautiful square jaw of his out like the true wiseass he is. “She’s taken, buddy. Go sniff somewhere else.”

It could be the Master Morgan clogging my arteries, the wire of nerves rattling my rib cage, or quite possibly my newly appointed, nameless boyfriend’s shot—at what I believe was a lame version of a fuzzy nipple—which slows the motion reels of my brain. Who knows the reason? But at this point, brain slow or not, I’m positive the tension-filled air’s about to thicken, a dense fog of ass-kicking swallowing the oxygen from my lungs as Bibbidi-bobbidi-Bimbo climbs up from her minute-long affair with the ground. The tap from her finger on Ryder’s shoulder momentarily steals his attention from the insanely pissed-off-looking ogre, who’s currently rising like
T
he Empire
from his bar stool.

“Oh, fuck,” a familiar voice croaks.

Lee!

Yep, that was Lee, his boyish physique swooping over the bar a millisecond before my nameless friend’s fist leaves a decent-sized dent in the back of Ryder’s skull.

The next several minutes include my brain
really
fucking off: spots of bar stools sailing through the air, bone-cracking testosterone-filled grunts, and random gasps from onlookers filling my ears and vision as I’m tossed—mosh-pit-style—against the wall. With my view of the main event clogged by a horde of amped-up college students, I don’t see the rest of the show. Even if I could, I wouldn’t want to, couldn’t bear it. As I completely black out—my brain taking its final, fizzed shit—I know when I wake up that I’ll remember one thing . . .

Remember nothing, this moment sure to tattoo its wickedness across my heart.

• • •

I wake with a start, my senses strumming back to life as soft fingertips trace figure eight patterns across my forehead. I open my eyes and look straight up into Ryder’s, my head resting cozily in his lap as I try to figure out if I’m dead or not. With a hesitant grin, he moves a piece of hair away from my face, his free hand holding an ice pack against his bloodied bottom lip as I realize I’m not dead.