Whiskey-colored eyes narrowed into slits—all traces of pity gone—Amber snatches Madeline’s Cosmopolitan and pours it over Mike’s head. Laughter explodes from a group of onlookers, most of them familiar with who Brock is. A buddy of ours, Kevin, who happens to be the lead bouncer, watches from afar. All six foot nine of him nods, telling me everything’s cool.
Let the evening’s entertainment commence, folks. Enjoy the motherfucking ride.
A smile splits Amber’s glossy lips as the hot-pink liquid slides down Mike’s face, onto his brown leather jacket, and soaks through his jeans. She takes a calculated step forward, looks him in the eyes, and spits onto his cheek. “Beat his ass to the ground, Cunningham.”
Permission granted, Brock unleashes a string of blows against Mike’s head and ribs, each one fucking up the cocksucker worse than its predecessor. Roars and drunken howls ignite the stagnant air, their amped-up pitches drowning out the band jamming away in the back corner.
I grab Amber’s waist, pulling her a safe distance away from the growing frenzy. She doesn’t resist but instead presses her back to my chest as I relax against the bar. She’s tense—I feel it running through her muscles—but with Brock in our view, she plays the good-girlfriend role, allowing him to do his thing.
Though my attention should be on Brock and the plague-ridden asshole infecting the human race, it’s not. Fuck, I can’t help it. As lethal as I am to her, Amber’s no less poisonous to me. She knots me up, twisting my emotions sideways. She drums up every inch of my head, testing my sanity and making me question everything I believe. Her soft, curvy frame, cushioned against mine, hijacks each of my senses.
My hands go to her hips, my fingers gripping her. I feel her jolt, but after a second, she relaxes back into me, a silent whisper from her body giving me permission. I touch my nose to her hair, the act so subtle she doesn’t even realize I’m doing it, and inhale the sweet raspberry scent tangled in her long, ebony waves.
Silk. Goddamn fucking silk.
I envision her golden, catlike eyes staring up at me and those silken strands of heaven tickling my abs as her tongue maps its way farther south. My heart kicks against my ribs, speeding blood straight to my cock. I contain a groan, and my eyes flip into the back of my skull as I bite my lip, wishing I was biting hers. I clear my throat, pretty fucking sure I’m the plague-ridden asshole infecting the human race, not the douche taking the beating from Brock. I drag my attention back to my friend, knowing I’m right.
A second before Kevin and his sidekick break up the fight—if that’s what I can call it—dickwad’s barely holding on, so this is more like observing a hungry bear mauling a helpless kitten—Mike gets lucky and somehow connects a lame fist with Brock’s mouth. Lame or not, it splits Brock’s bottom lip, blood dribbling from it as Kevin grabs Brock by his shoulders and hauls him away from the piece of trash who’s now a puddle of bloodied flesh. Moaning, groaning, and most likely regretting stepping foot into the bar, Mike attempts to move from his fetal position, but fails miserably as his body gives out.
Ah, an asshole with a big mouth and the captain of the football team fighting for his girl always makes for a memorable Friday night.
I need another drink . . . now.
CHAPTER 12
Amber
WHAT AM I doing?
I push off Ryder as Brock approaches, everything inside me mourning the absence of Ryder’s warmth. Blood dotting his bottom lip, and breathing heavily, Brock wraps a strong arm around my waist, pulling me into him. I nuzzle against his chest, a tangle of emotions twisting through my skull as I war with the filth I’ve become.
The filth I’ll continue to decay into if I don’t check myself.
The minute I became aware of my feelings for Ryder should’ve been the minute I stopped having them. From that second forward, I was conscious they were wrong, unhealthy. I’m not sure how many seconds have passed since that realization hit me. I just know there’ve been too many to count.
The man I’ve confessed my love to—the one who’s shown me nothing but kindness—wasn’t the only man invading my heart as he defended my filthy honor. Right down to my hollow bones, the diseased marrow in between, I disgust myself. Cheating, especially the mental kind—because when we desire something we shouldn’t, the ravenous hunger for it consumes each fantasy playing through our immoral brains—can rot a relationship, sending its skeleton to the graveyard of “what should have been.”
While Brock dug into the prick who’d disgraced me with his merciless tongue, my eyes might’ve been trained on my boyfriend, but my mind and all its sickening thoughts couldn’t unfasten itself from his friend. Body betraying each unsteady breath I took, I watched Brock, yet my soul ached for Ryder.
As those panicky minutes unfurled, I felt safe in Ryder’s arms, his presence soothing the nervousness cording my muscles. Like the whore I was bred to become—the whore I am—I let him touch me. Sure, some might consider the act innocent, juvenile at best. Hands on hips will never go down in history as being taboo. Well, not in my book.
But the unspoken emotion behind the caress was present, heavy, suffocating.
The deliverer and recipient just didn’t . . . care.
I’ve come to one terrifying conclusion: I’m no better than my father was. I’m dark, weak, broken, and bruised. The only difference is I’m the rightful owner of a pussy, and I’m not aiming a gun at someone I love.
At least not yet.
The band’s sharp drums reverberate through my ears as my attention crashes back to the commotion around us. I suck in a shaky breath, watching a bouncer drag my offender to his sloppy feet. A raw groan spills from the asshole’s mangled mouth as he attempts to stand, his hand darting to his ribs. Another groan greases the air, this one feral as he cranks his free hand through his dark, unkempt shoulder-length hair.