Amber to Ashes

  “Ber?” My breath falters as he steps in front of me, resting his hands on top of the Hummer. “Now you’re just being a wiseass.”

  “Why? Besides never forgetting the cute embarrassment on your face when you said it, I think it fits you. I loved it the day we met, so I’m simply making it permanent.” His smile widens, the fire in his eyes imprisoning me. “It’ll be our private little joke. You might not like it now, but I’m gonna make you ache to be called it.”

  “You think so, huh?” Every cell in my body rebels, exploding into a fight for self-control. It’s not working, the merciless work of art before me making the battle in vain. He’s stripping away my defenses, not only buckling my knees, but also the promise I made to myself to never fall. “I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.”

  “I wouldn’t be so unsure . . . Ber.”

  Brock’s smile collapses into something so indescribably male, fierce, and primal, I want to bare every inch of myself to him—emotional scars included. His gaze is undecided on where to settle, skidding between my lips and eyes. Along with mine, his breath hitches as he leans down, stroking the side of my nose with his. My back’s pressed to the hot vehicle as I attempt to think, but I can’t. My thoughts are chained, frozen in this moment. Want quakes between my thighs, its strength growing as Brock barely touches his lips to mine.

  But that’s all he gives me.

  Before I know it, his lips are suddenly at my ear, his whisper teasing my senses. “Are you ready to get your fishing on, Ber?”

  Disappointment kicks through me as he slowly backs away, stacking the fishing gear on top of the cooler. I give an unaffected smile as I try to quell the shaking that’s taken over my body. Heart stuck in my throat and unable to do otherwise, I simply nod.

  Brock watches me intently, his eyes creased in amusement with every step we take toward a graying, old wooden pier. I move to the edge and look out over the water. It’s huge, its ending nowhere in sight. Miles upon miles of nothing but pristine lake, filled with small boats, families in canoes, and people fishing for as far as my eyes can see. Though we’re surrounded by life in every sense of the word, we’re in our own world, tucked away in a private cove.

  I take a deep breath, relishing the sun on my skin as Brock sets everything up. Nevertheless, it’s sweltering out, so I do what I deem necessary to avoid succumbing to a slow, heat-induced death. I kick off my Chucks and slip my T-shirt over my head, leaving me in only a bra and red cotton shorts.

  From behind me, Brock roughly clears his throat.

  I turn and find him staring, wide-eyed, his mouth parted. “Stop. A bra is the same as a bikini top. Besides, the little schizophrenic woman inside of my head is telling me you’ve seen your share of bras.”

  He smiles and reaches into the cooler for two beers. “Want one?”

  “You’re going to serve alcohol to an underaged girl?” I take the ice-cold Heineken and slide it against my neck, enjoying the temporary chill it brings to my flesh. “Such a bad, bad boy.”

  “How old are you?” he asks, his eyes playfully narrowed.

  “Nineteen, soon to be twenty.” With no luck, I attempt to twist off the cap.

  Brock takes the bottle and de-caps it with an opener. However, he doesn’t hand it back. Instead, he takes a long gulp, emptying half its contents.

  “What the heck?” I snatch the bottle from him. “Not cool. I just deducted a point.”

  He turns and jogs toward the Hummer, calling over his shoulder, “Well, you are underage, my beautiful Ber. But it’s all good. I’ve got a few million points left.”

  “Wiseass,” I mumble, watching him open the driver’s-side door. I enjoy the view when he leans in to flip on the stereo, his cargo-short-covered ass in my line of sight as The Script’s “Broken Arrow” pelts from the speakers.

  Brock leaves the door open and jogs back to the pier. “We needed music.”

  I nod in agreement.

  “You like The Script?” He unbuttons his shirt, his smirk letting me know he’s about to torture me with his bare skin.

  A second then third sporadic nod, a nervous swallow greasing my throat as he peels the material from his body. The dick’s beating me. I may have to reconsider not flawing his gorgeous teeth. Left only in his cargo shorts and Nike Free Runs, Brock smiles, and I’m the one who’s staring now. I’m also pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, drool possibly involved in this embarrassing, mathematical turn of arrogant equations.

  His chest is cut, layered with slabs of lean muscle from the hollow of his glorious neck down to the delectable V between his hips. He has the kind of chest I can lick without getting my tongue twisted up in wiry hair. Not that he doesn’t have any, but he has just the right amount of hair a girl such as myself can appreciate while she rubs oil or chocolate all over it. As he turns, reaching for a fishing pole, my eyes land on a tattoo covering the top half of his right bicep. Barbed wire encases a heart, a skull’s evil, flaming eyes peeking out from the bleeding organ.

  He attempts to hand me the fishing pole. “Good. So do I.”

  “So do you what?” I ask, my attention still on his chest.

  He tucks his finger underneath my chin, lifting my gaze to his. I exhale the breath I’m well aware I’m holding.

  “I also like The Script,” he says with a knowing smile. “And stop. It’s just a chest. The little schizophrenic man in my head’s telling me you’ve seen your share of them.”

  “I wasn’t staring,” I blurt, yanking the pole from him.

  “Whatever you say.” He laughs and squats next to the tackle box.

  I sigh, hating that he caught me ogling.

  He peers up at me, dangling a helpless worm between his fingers. “You might love fishing, but are you willing to get your hands dirty for it?”

  “Everything has to die, right?” I take the slimy worm and hook it onto its awaiting electric chair.

  An impressed grin shadows his lips. “Yeah. You’re definitely the coolest girl I’ve ever met.”

  With the worm swinging in misery, I bat my lashes, deposit myself on the edge of the pier, and dip my bare feet into the cool water. After removing his sneakers, Brock sits next to me, also dipping his feet in the water. A pleasurable chill runs along my spine when I feel his bare flesh against my ribs.

  “I can tell you’re not from around here,” he says, breaking me from the stupidity that seems to have made a cozy nest within my brain.

  I cast my line into the water. “How so?”

  “You have a West Coast accent.”

  “I’m not from the West Coast, and I definitely don’t have an accent.”

  “I’m pretty positive you’re from the West Coast, and you sure as fuck have an accent.” He casts his prisoner into the lake, a lazy smile on his face. “But don’t be embarrassed by it. It’s a part of your sexiness.”

  “I’m not embarrassed,” I scoff. “You’re the one with a Southern twang.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Maryland’s far from Southern, but if you say so, I’m nothing but a Southern boy for you, Miss Ber.”

  “Oh my God. Would you stop with the whole ‘miss’ thing?” I giggle, knowing this dude, this beast of a competitor, just might shake my faith in all I’ve ever believed in.

  “For now I will, but I’m not making any long-term promises on that one.” He grins, and I shake my head. “So what’s the deal with you and Happy Days? I did a little research, and no one I know grew up running home to watch that shit.”

  Do I choose honesty and tell him that between the ages of four and eight, when my parents were looking to score their next fix, they’d leave me unattended for hours on end with nothing but a bag of Doritos and VHS tapes of Happy Days to keep me occupied, or do I go with the classic lie?

  “My parents worked a lot, and the babysitter had a thing for Henry Winkler.” I shr
ug, trying to downplay the only good memories I have of being left alone. “She was a bit of an outcast in the social department.”

  He smiles, suspicion glimmering in his eyes. “Right.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because you were the one who had the crush on Henry Winkler. Not the babysitter. Nice try.”

  I might’ve grown up with Henry keeping me entertained, but that’s about as far as my noncrush went. “Are you nuts?” I ask over a laugh, positive he lost his mind long before I stumbled into the picture.

  “I’m as close to crazy as they get, darlin’. But come on,” he urges, lightly elbowing my ribs. “You like that I’m a little out there. Admit it.”

  “I’ll do no such thing.” And I won’t.

  Though he looks as though he belongs on the cover of a magazine, has a cute sense of humor, and is trying hard as hell to get into my panties, Brock has another thing coming if he thinks I’ll admit to anything this early on. If ever. It’s as if he’s trying to open me up and read the torn pages of my heart. To be honest, I don’t like it. I’ve already reduced myself to acting like an excited ball of anxiety around him, and I have no intention of letting the situation get out of hand.

  Well, at least not the mental part. I’m all for the physical, though.

  “I can’t figure you out,” he says, searching my face.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind.” He looks out at the water, his expression distant.

  “No. Tell me,” I press, nudging his arm.

  He brings his attention back to me, a million questions floating behind his eyes. “From you not giving me your number, to making it close to impossible to get you to go out on a date with me . . .” A pause, a shake of his head. “I don’t know. I just can’t figure you out.”

  “Why are you trying to figure me out?” I ask, my concentration turning to the light tug on my line.

  “You’re like a jigsaw puzzle.” He shrugs, his voice soft. “One that’s in desperate need of being put together.”

  I swallow, my heart rioting in protest. “I don’t need your pity, and besides, maybe I don’t want to be put together.”

  Another lie.

  I think I want to be put together, but I’m pretty damn sure no one can accomplish that without losing their sanity along the way.

  He licks his lips and stares at me a long moment. “I’m usually not a pity-giving dude, believe that, but something’s telling me you might be worth it. What if I leave you no choice?”

  “Huh?” Thrown by his response, I pull my attention from what I’m sure is a fish murdering the worm on my hook. “I don’t understand.”

  “Ah, sure you do. You heard what I said, Ber. What if I leave you no other choice but to let me put you back together?” He shrugs again, his eyes alight with challenge. “I’m all for nicknames and figuring out people who I think need something more in their lives. Especially ones who I’m pretty fucking sure stepped into mine for a reason.”

  Though his declaration comes out as a soft whisper, the conviction in it torches my ears. I clutch the fishing pole tighter and stare at him, my heart pounding as my mind replays his words. I don’t say anything. I can’t. Instead, I look at the water, wishing I weren’t so handicapped about opening up to others.

  “You deny having an accent,” Brock says, reeling in his line a little, “but seriously, which West Coast state are you from?”

  Persistent—I can’t deny I like it . . . sometimes. I sigh. “Washington.”

  “I knew it.” A triumphant smile stretches his lips. “So why Maryland? Did your parents insist on Hadley U?”

  The question flares old wounds, opening the levee guarding my memories. “My parents are dead,” I say flatly, my attention honed in on a canoe pulling up to a dock. I watch a couple stumble out, their laughter thundering over the sound of ducks fighting for their next meal.

  “That blows,” Brock notes without a hint of solemnness.

  “What? You’re not gonna go into the whole sorry for your loss, I understand what you’re going through, and if you need someone to talk to I’m here spiel?” I bite my lip, realizing what a bitch I sound like.

  Shock jumps over Brock’s face, but he sobers. “To answer your first example: Yeah. I’m sorry you lost them, but I told you I’m not a pity-giving dude, and that seems to be what you want. You’re closing yourself off to me; I can feel it. I sensed it the moment we met. So fuck pity, right?”

  I open my mouth to speak but snap it shut. I can’t form a coherent thought. Nothing’s there. I’m blank.

  He continues. “To answer your second example: No. I’m not gonna say I understand what you’re going through because I don’t. I’ve never had anyone close to me die, but I know I will one day. When that happens, then we can live bitterly ever after.”

  Wide-eyed, I just stare, swallow, and listen to the rest of what he says.

  “And to answer your third and final example, my beautiful, mysterious Ber, who I will eventually piece back together no matter what the hell I have to do: I have ears, and if you ever decide you wanna talk, I’ll listen. I’ll listen to everything you need to get out. But for now, the only thing these ears wanna hear from your pretty lips is my name being called out while I fuck away every bad pent-up memory and twisted shit you’ve ever seen right out of your mind. Cool?”

  I’m sure I just fell in love for the first time in my life. I nod. Jesus, the only thing I can do is nod.

  “Cool,” he repeats, reeling in and recasting his line. He looks at me, his eyes soft with curiosity. “So do you live here with extended family?”

  Like the first time we met, in those clear peridot pools of warmth, I see something familiar yet unfamiliar. All the same, I feel as if we’ve met in a different space and time. Somewhere along the ragged edges of my sweetest dreams and darkest nightmares, I’ve talked with this boy. He’s told me his secrets, and I, mine.

  Still, I’m nervous about revealing too much in fear that I’ll scare him off. I’m sure it’s not often that he comes across a girl who watched her parents rot away into nothing but pale flesh covering bones under their heroin addiction. Add that spectacular picture to the same girl witnessing her father take out her mother with one bullet reserved for the back of her skull, and the second reserved for his mouth, and you’ve got yourself a chick no sane parent would approve of their son dating.

  Murder-suicide makes for some great evening news. It also scares most decent families away from the one who was left in the aftermath of its destruction.

  Nauseated, I decide to let Brock in on just enough that he no longer feels like I’m trying to push him away. “Can I just give you a summed-up version of my past so we can talk about something else?”

  “Absolutely.” He nods.

  I pull in a shaky breath. This is the first time I’m about to spill my story, even a little bit, to someone I barely know. “I live here by myself and don’t have any extended family members who I speak to. They ditched my parents after I was born, so I never met them, only know what they look like from old photos my mother showed me. My foster parents were set on me going to Hadley because they both graduated from there. They live in Florida now, and out of the three or so foster parents I’ve gone through, they’re the best I’ve come across. I still have a relationship with them.”

  The curiosity in Brock’s eyes thickens.

  I’m aware I’ve already said too much, but the sutured scars have ripped wide open, and there’s no turning back. Might as well keep going. “I have foster parents because my . . . my father shot and killed my mother, then turned the gun on himself in front of me when I was eight.”

  Brock’s face clouds over with the shock I’ve come to know.

  I brush it off, hoping to push him away from the subject for good. “Six therapists in three different states,
spread over the course of eleven years of intense counseling, couldn’t get me to talk. Neither could those three or so sets of foster parents, including my latest. Before them, the others couldn’t take my mood swings, depression, or anger issues, so they handed me back to the state. Cathy and Mark were the only ones who held on to me.”

  Looking at the water, I think about how much Cathy and Mark have done for me. How much they’ve endured with me over the last two years. A knot of emotion wraps around my heart. Though I’m what most would consider a walking tragedy, a complete mental mess, I owe any sense of normalcy I’ve had to them.

  I sigh and bring my eyes back to Brock’s. “Fake friends at several schools talked behind my back and eventually ditched me the second I had a meltdown. I mean, shit. Even my last remaining living grandparent ditched me. Her great excuse when the state of Washington’s Child Protective Services contacted her to notify her of her son’s suicide?” Though there’s nothing funny about what she told them, I can’t help but let out a light laugh. “She couldn’t fathom taking care of a grandchild who she never considered hers to begin with.” I blow out a puff of air, a shrug lifting my shoulder. “I guess I’m unlovable. So, please, don’t try to get me to talk about any of this again because . . . I won’t. Cool?”

  I feel completely naked, exposed. I’m no longer looking at him, but I can sense Brock’s eyes on me, heavy, suffocating. I wonder how many judgmental thoughts are pelting around in his mind. I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about how fast he can shuffle me back into his Hummer and as far away from his life as possible.

  Silence mantles the air for the longest minute of my life before Brock breaks the tension. “Is it okay if I say I’m sorry?” he asks, his words soft, hesitant. “Or are you gonna rip into me if I do?”

  More silence while I study his face. It could just be me, but he seems genuinely concerned I might hack him to death.

  “If it matters at all,” he continues, “I really want to say I’m sorry that happened to you and your family, Amber.”