The petrifying feeling that our time is almost up . . .
CHAPTER 17
Amber
“YOU LOOK LIKE a sex kitten,” Madeline appraises from the minibar as she prepares me a shot of tequila. “Amber Moretti in a black strapless leather dress is one badass vision. You’re gonna make every dude and dudette in the casino wanna get it on with you.” She shimmies her sequined skirt down her thighs, beaming as she ungracefully wobbles into the bathroom. “Guy and girly parts all over the Borgata will be on high alert.”
I inwardly giggle at her attempt at walking with poise in six-inch stilettos. “You need practice in those things.”
“Ugh! Tell me about it.” She hands me the shot and looks down at my four-month anniversary gift from Brock: a pair of fuck me now seven-inch animal-print Louboutins.
“You make walking in them look like second nature. It’s like they’re a freaking extension of your body.” She frowns as she messes with her fiery red strands of hair. “Me? I’d be better off sporting circus stilts.”
I smile, chucking my lip gloss into my beaded clutch. “Stop. Like I said, with a little practice, you’ll be able to walk in them like a model with your pretty brown eyes closed.”
“I highly doubt that. But thanks for the encouragement.” She grins, bumping her hip against mine. “You look amazing, really, but we gotta jet. Lee texted me twenty minutes ago, threatening to auction us off to the highest bidder if we weren’t downstairs at the craps table within ten minutes. Considering he’s down a grand, I’m treating his threat with the utmost seriousness.”
I toss the shot down my throat, shoot one last glance at my reflection, and head out of the bathroom, my nerves a mess as I grab my room’s key card. Though I’m excited we’re in Atlantic City celebrating Brock’s twenty-third birthday, and my man spared no expense for the Piatto suite, I can’t help but worry what the next forty-eight hours are going to bring.
The last month with both Brock and Ryder has been the closest thing to what I imagine living in a psychiatric ward would be like. Absolute mayhem. Between their sudden bursts of anger, secretiveness, drinking until they pass out, and even going as far as getting lit up last weekend on their own supply of blow, I feel like I’m losing my mind. Add all of that to Brock skipping out on sex with me, and I’m sure it won’t be long before one of us ends up in a straitjacket. Brock’s denied it, but since their last pickup, they’ve turned into two completely different men, each one acting out in ways that petrify me.
Though I may be reaching, my best guess is they’re vexed I decided against being with them. The night Brock brought it up, my world was rocked, its very foundation sinking into a state of Brock and Ryder euphoria. The mere idea has taken over my life, visions of each man bringing my body to new heights—to its glorious limits—dominating my every breath, dream, and fantasy, reducing me to nothing but a sloppy, masturbating mess.
Masturbating mess or not, after considering the repercussions, my conscience won’t allow me to go along with it. I have a feeling the whole thing will backfire on us, leaving me the reason these two men—whom I equally hold close to my soul for different reasons—will lose a friendship. More than that, I’ll wind up being the culprit of two broken, unrepairable hearts. I wouldn’t be able to breathe knowing I hurt either man. Although I bounced between what I long for and what I already have, the decision was somewhat simple.
For the first time in my life, I put my sexual addiction to the side, choosing our sanity instead.
Still, though I’m pretty sure their abrupt change in demeanor is because of me, I’ve been unable to ignore the unwelcomed voice in my head telling me I have nothing to do with it at all. It’s whispering that something happened while they were in West Virginia. Something dark, a monster born from an evilness I couldn’t even begin to understand. It’s screaming it’s the reason Brock has woken up most nights since they returned in cold sweats, his body riddled with the shakes. Its sinister cries keep telling me it’s the motive behind Ryder’s decision to quit football, his love of the sport ending overnight.
Either way, no matter how many times I’ve questioned them, I’m left with the same answer: I’m overreacting to something that doesn’t exist.
On a sigh, I follow Madeline to the elevator. Sweat threatens my makeup as the doors part on the casino’s main floor. The air—rife with the smell of stale cigarettes and sweet cigars, along with the hum of slot machines—awakens my senses. A thick layer of excitement bubbles in my stomach, my attention sweeping the span of the casino as Madeline hooks her arm in mine and drags me toward the craps tables.
Overwhelmed, my eyes take in a concoction of strategically placed numbers, stacks of colorful chips, and tumbling dice, ultimately landing on Ryder and Brock. I smile, my pulse whipping my blood into overdrive at the dual beautiful sights before me. In a crowded space, filled with the heavy buzz of commotion, they still manage to command a room, the eyes of women spread out all over the casino appraising them with heated interest. Decked out in tailored suits, they motion me over, both chuckling at the confused look on my face as I approach the table.
God, it feels so good to hear them laugh again. Depleted of their usual wittiness and jovial spirits, the past month demolished my existence as a whole, every agonizing second killing off a section of my heart.
Brock curls his arms around my waist and pulls me into his chest. “You know I dig you in leather, right?” He grips me tighter and slides his lips to my neck, his erection tickling my stomach as he nibbles my flesh. “It does things to me no man should have to bear in public.”