The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(48)
Adam’s only sign of emotion was a slight flush of red underneath his Michigan State cap. He clenched his fingers into fists, released and then clenched them again, as his mind focused sharply to another horrid time in his life…
“You have a torn ACL in your right knee. In some cases, athletes recover well and still have a career. You’ll need surgery, Adam. You’ll be sidelined at least a year.”
“Mark, my God. You’re hitting me in exactly the right spot. I’m going to come. Please…”
Hearing Heather’s breathy words jolted Adam back to the present. With a few long strides across the freshly laid hardwood floor, he hovered just a short arm-length away. As if they weren’t connected to his torso, Adam’s arms snaked out and grabbed his brother by his long, brown hair. He threaded his fingers through the mass of thick waves and yanked. Hard. Harder than he’d done back in the third grade when Mark had wrecked his favorite Power Ranger. Not stopping until he heard Mark’s yelp of pain. Adam finally felt something when he noticed the recognition in Mark’s brown eyes. Quickly replaced by panic.
Adam welcomed the rage. White hot and all encompassing. He took advantage of Mark’s bemused state to land a bone crunching right hook to his pretty face.
“You f*cking bastard. You were here for me, huh? Said you’d take care of everything? That include f*cking my future wife? Is that the kind of care you were thinking about?” Adam shrieked, not recognizing his own voice.
Heather leapt from her perch on the dresser, only stopping long enough to pull her skirt back down over her exposed * with the fresh Brazilian. Traitorous bitch. She wrapped her arms around Adam’s torso and clung to his back like a leech, trying in vain to stop him from kicking Mark’s scrawny ass. That’s when Adam noticed the three-carat diamond solitaire sparkling up at him from her left hand. She hadn’t even bothered to take off his ring while she f*cked his brother.
“Stop!” she screamed, terror coloring her voice. “Adam, you’re killing him!”
“Good. That’s what I’m trying to do.” Adam stopped hitting only long enough to spit the words in her direction as he hooked his left arm around her waist and tossed her to the side. Heather hit the floor on her ass. Like the trash she was. “Maybe next time he’ll think twice before whipping his dick out to betray his motherf*cking flesh and blood!”
Not until Mark lay on the floor of the converted barn like a blood covered lump did Adam stop and take some breaths. Great heaving breaths that took over his entire body. And soul. He was done. Done with the whore who couldn’t keep her legs shut. Done with his brother.
No.
Not his brother anymore.
Never.
“I’m leaving,” he spat as he turned on his heel and started towards the door. “You’re both dead to me.”
Adam stomped toward his silver Dodge Ram, leaving the barn door agape. One last reminder of what he’d left inside. What he’d just lost. He climbed in, slammed the door and turned the key hard before yanking the gear shift into reverse and hitting the gas pedal, sending the extended cab in a spin. As he deliberately pumped the brakes, he shifted into drive and left a spray of gravel hurtling toward Heather’s white Mercedes. But the action of marring the perfect paint on the luxury car still left him cold.
Once on the paved road, Adam punched it, hell bent on reaching his house as fast as he could get there. Something. He needed some kind of comfort. Like Jack Daniels or Johnny Walker.
Or maybe John Deere.
He’d always been able to turn off the demons doing chores in the barn. Something about the smell of the hay and the feel of his muscles rippling underneath his shirt when he engaged in any kind of hard physical labor. Yeah, that was it. He’d take out the tractor or work on some fence repair. Except it was dusk and night would fall before he got back to the farm.
Nausea bubbled up from his gut and crawled up the back of his throat when an image of Heather invaded his brain. Heather with her svelte shape, lush lips and long, platinum hair that felt like spun silk in his hands. Heather, holding his hand tightly during the ambulance ride from the arena. Her ocean blue eyes glistening with unshed tears as she tried to be strong at the hospital.
“I love you so much, Adam. No matter what this is, we’ll face it head on. Together.”
The biggest crock of bullshit in the history of the free world.
He was a complete moron.
Adam pursed his lips and slammed a fist down on the leather steering wheel. Never again would he be taken in by a woman. Gold diggers, whores and dishonest pieces of shit.
A ringing and vibrating in his jeans pocket pulled him back to reality. And torment.
It was her.
Not f*cking likely, bitch. Dead to me. Pretty sure I was crystal clear on that front. Now I can add ignorant to your glowing list of attributes.
Adam touched the ignore button and continued on down the highway, turning on the radio so he could blare Jason Aldean at ten decibels. As he pulled onto the familiar gravel road, memories of his folks danced across his consciousness. His mom standing on the front porch, hands on her ample hips, telling everyone to come on up for fried chicken and cornbread. His dad in the cab of the combine, with thin lips moving as he argued about the price of pork bellies with local talk radio. Now, the house loomed before him. Empty. Laughter, joy, and family had floated away like confetti on a light breeze.