The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(49)

The atmosphere was stagnant. The only sounds permeating the country air were the footfalls of his boots as they hit the rickety stairs. The heavy cedar door creaked when he turned the knob that opened the two-story farmhouse. He stood in the entrance, overwhelmed by memories that attacked from every photo, knick-knack, and antique. Then, he saw it. Heather’s dancing eyes burned through to his soul from their engagement picture taken on the porch swing. In the place of honor above the fireplace. The same place where his family photo had once been.

Adam ripped it off the wall and gripped it tightly until he could reach the front door again. He opened the door and flung it out onto the front lawn. He’d deal with disposal tomorrow. Right now, he couldn’t stand the sight of her. Couldn’t even stand knowing any image of her was in his home. The attic. He knew there was a lovely photo of his folks from their thirtieth wedding anniversary up there. He’d find it and bring it down tomorrow. She’d be replaced.

First, he’d get drunk until he couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear.

Couldn’t feel.

Adam turned and rummaged around in the fridge for some beer. No. Not strong enough. This was a whiskey night. Straight whiskey. Burning down the back of his throat, shot after shot.

As he grabbed a glass tumbler from the cabinet and a bottle of Jim Beam, he thought back to the last time he talked to her. It had been hard keeping the surprise a secret. The surprise that he was coming home early just to spend quality time with her.

Surprise!

Adam rubbed his face, attempting to rid himself of the nightmare looping in his head. Splashing some of the dark amber liquor into his glass, he threw it down the back of his throat, welcoming the sting. Soon, he wouldn’t feel anything anymore. It would probably take half the bottle and a few hours, but he’d drink her off his mind just like a bad country song.

Adam teetered slightly as he clutched the bottle in one hand and the glass in the other. He put his stocking clad foot on the first step leading to the second floor. Her shit. It needed to get the hell out of his house. Now. She’d never see it again. Unless she happened to drive by like the pathetic stalker she was, and see it littering the yard and trees.

It felt good to open the window and allow the kiss of the fresh air to caress his booze fevered skin as he flung everything she’d ever left here out onto the grass. No, it didn’t feel good. It felt f*cking phenomenal. He started to drift again when he splashed some whiskey on a pair of her black, lace panties. The same ones he’d pulled down her body with his teeth in an anxious rush to taste her. To possess her.



“Adam, your ACL is healing, but at a much slower rate than what we were hoping for.”

“So, what’s next... more rehab, medical steroids...”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing more we can do. I can’t clear you to play. I’m afraid this is a career ending injury for you. I’m really sorry, Adam. I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but I have to be honest.”

“What are you saying? I’m not understanding?”

He’d stopped listening after he’d heard the word ‘can’t’. No f*cking way he wasn’t playing hockey this year. Goddamn it! Come hell or high water. Whatever it took. He’d play again. Hockey was his life. His breath.

His soul.

“Adam, if you were to fall the wrong way or slightly twist your knee during the course of play, the damage would be far too extensive to repair. Adam, this is no longer about hockey. It’s about walking. It’s about being able to have a normal life outside of sports.”



Adam ripped himself away from the mental torture as he threw a red Michael Kors dress into the towering oak tree with large branches flush with the house. The same one he and Mark had used to escape curfew as high school hooligans.

Hell, he’d been the star of the high school hockey team and Mark had been his adoring younger brother. Dad hadn’t been too hard on them as long as they kept their boyish antics away from the destructive or the criminal. Getting a little drunk and ripping it up with their group of friends.

And Heather.

Tumbling her in the hayloft or the bed of his truck down by the creek as they listened to the soft sounds of the trickling water over the rocks.

Adam shook his head and poured some more whiskey into the cut crystal. His mom’s favorite. The numbness. Blessed, but it was taking too damn long tonight.

What was that annoying tingling in his pants? Yeah, that was it. A couple of douchebags calling. He tore the phone out of his jeans and flung it out the window too. He’d deal with it tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

That’s when he’d deal with everything.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Blue.

Blue was with Jeff. Damn. Never was there a time in his life when he needed his yellow lab more than this moment.

Blue, I need you, buddy. Daddy’s coming.

Jeff lived on the neighboring farm and had been Adam’s best friend since first grade so it wouldn’t matter if he drove a little tipsy from the mailbox to the driveway. Hell, it was only about fifty yards on the blacktop.

Adam guided the Dodge onto the county road and hoped Jeff was at home. Otherwise, he’d have to steal his own damn dog. It was so dark outside, he hadn’t been able to see well enough to retrieve the iPhone he’d flung to the lawn in his last snit of rage. Pictures of Mark’s bare ass as he pounded into Heather, her blue eyes alight with passion gripped his brain. Except, now, there were two of her. Adam rubbed his eyes, he never should have gotten behind the wheel because the four shots of Beam had finally reached his veins to numb his overloaded senses.