I take a breath, knowing my new normal has already killed off my old.
CHAPTER 18
Amber
“HIS CELL WENT to voice mail,” Ryder says as we approach my suite. “Lee and Madeline said they haven’t heard from him either, so I’m banking on him being here.”
Hands shaking, I slide my key card into the door and step into the dark entryway, my ears clogged with the suffocating sound of a chick’s heavy panting. I still, my heart rate going nuts as her husky moans fill the weed-laden air.
The weed-laden air I can’t seem to inhale enough of in my current state of I’m about to kill a bitch.
Ryder catches my elbow, attempting to lead me out of the suite, but I yank it back, rage fueling me as I follow the sound of snarls and flesh slapping against flesh. Barely able to see in the darkness, and prepared to happily spend the night in jail for de-dicking Brock, I pursue a path of his clothing into the living area, where I find him passed out on the couch, undeniably alone. Sure I’ve thrown up in my mouth, I suck in what I’m positive is the largest breath of relief possible. He’s wearing nothing but boxer briefs, an empty bottle of whiskey at his side, the light hum of his snoring a sure sign he’s tanked.
Ryder chuckles as he points across the suite to the gigantuous plasma television. I turn around, taking in the offender: a panty-dampening porn showcasing two chicks getting it on with an extremely well-endowed dude. Though my nerves are still revved up, I can’t help but laugh, my heart rate settling some as I flip on a lamp.
Eyes flying open, Brock jerks awake, the speed with which he darts up to reach for his gun on the end table killing my “tanked” theory.
“Are you goddamn nuts, Ber?” He shoots to standing, uncocking the weapon. “I could’ve killed you.”
I plop onto the couch and, with no sign of stopping, continue to giggle. God, it feels divine. Ryder sinks into an armchair and clicks off the television, laughter bursting from his chest as we release the stress that’s built up over the last hour.
Brock sets his gun on the end table, confused. “Is there a reason either of you find this shit funny? It wouldn’t be so comical if her brains were splattered all over the fucking couch right now, would it? I bet neither of you would laugh then.”
Ryder and I glance at Brock, then back at each other, our thoughts on the same wavelength. Brock’s statement isn’t possible, the empty bottle of whiskey proving to be a hindrance to his intelligence.
Silence, then—yet again—Ryder and I bust out laughing, our bodies rocking like two ships caught in the angry undertow of a tidal wave.
Mouth dropped open and hands dug into his hips, Brock stares at us with widened, defeated eyes.
“I have to agree with ya, bro,” Ryder admits, his point made with difficulty as he chuckles, if at all possible, even harder. “She wouldn’t be laughing at shit if her brains were part of the décor right now. Dying will usually do that. You know? Prevent someone’s ability to do . . . well, anything.” He reaches for a joint perched on a stack of magazines and fishes a lighter from his pants pocket. “And if she could do anything, even if it was something as minuscule as licking her pretty lips”—he sparks up said joint, takes a long pull from it, and coughs before passing it to me—“then I can safely say, with all certainty, I’d turn into a pussy real fast. Though I’m sure she’d remain sexy as all fuck—scoring the lead role of The Walking Dead’s hottest zombie—that shit would be way too much to handle—even for someone who’s a self-proclaimed crazed, masochistic, kink-loving psycho, such as myself.” With a wink aimed in my direction, a smile deepens his dimples, his likeminded playful dementedness strumming my nerves to a complete rest as he mocks a cringe. “No offense, peach, but I think I’d pass on tapping that.”
“None taken,” I toss back over a giggle, instant gratification swelling through my muscles as I inhale a second, then third hit from the joint. I hand the smoking stick of happiness back to Ryder, a coy smile flirting with my lips. “There’s something understandably undesirable about a cold—excuse my French—pussy. I get it, really.”
“You’re both nuts,” Brock says with an aggravated sigh, stomping toward the bathroom.
A slam of a door and the mood in the room shifts, all pretense of joy gone as the reality of what’s to come pokes its menacing head into the moment. It was fun while it lasted . . .
Attention stuck on me, Ryder’s smile vanishes, a thin line taking its place as he pulls in one last hit from the joint before stubbing it out in an empty shot glass. Denial. Realizing we’ve been in it over the last few minutes, our demeanors deflate, a needle—held in the dirty hand of a bratty child—popping our bullshit-filled balloon of false hope. Nothing, not even jokes about me perfecting the role of one hot apocalyptic zombie, can keep us from facing what’s about to go down. Silence shrouds the air, the look in Ryder’s eyes mirroring what’s eating me from the inside out, trying to kill me.
Fear. It’s smothering my breath, its cancerous poison set on making me its next victim.
After what seems like forever, Brock reemerges, instantly picking up on the anxiety wiring the air as he sits next to me. “What’s wrong?” Frowning, he kisses my cheek and slides my legs over his lap, his finger toying with a strand of my hair as he stares at me, waiting for a reply. “No more giggles?” He kisses me again, his voice tinged with regret. “I’m sorry, baby girl. I need your giggles more than you’ll ever know. I was a dick before. It’s just watching you get off on what legitimately could’ve happened messed with my head. I’d never be able to live with myself if some shit like that ever happened.”