Page 122 of Adam
“Shut the hell up,” he growls. “Get the fucking girl and get out of here.”
I pant. “Asshole.”
“Dickhead.”
I stare at him a second longer. He’s an asshole. A useless, loud-mouthed, pain-in-my-ass cockroach I’ve fantasized about crushing with my boot more times than I can count.
But he’s also the idiot keeping me alive right now.
Generous in the worst way, reckless as hell, and stupid enough to risk his own neck because he owes me.
Reckless. Generous. Suicidal.
And unfortunately for my sanity, that’s the kind of shit you don’t unsee.
I toss him a lazy salute. He gives me this half-assed nod back, already sliding down the wall like the dramatic bastard he is.
Then I bolt down the hallway to find my girl.
I’ve got about two minutes, right?
Then what?
For the first time in months, I finally have the urge to draw something. The need to create settles in, and I focus on the weight of the charcoal in my hand.
That small joy is soon gone the moment I hear that terrifying and deafening sound.
The waves reach me before I understand what it is, and something in my chest tightens instinctively. The feeling is wrong. Too wrong to ignore.
“What was that?” I mutter to myself, my head snapping up.
My heart won’t stop pounding. It hurts with every beat.
A loud noise comes from inside the house. It sounds like a gunshot. Moments later, the house sirens go off, and my breath catches.
Who fired it?
Why?
Who was he aiming at?
Something is going terribly wrong, and all I can think about is him.
I toss the easel without caring whether it breaks or not.
I need to find Adam.
As I open the door, he’s already there, so close I walk straight into him.
“What happened?” I ask.
It takes a moment for my eyes to catch up with what I’m seeing. He’s covered in blood—so much of it that I can’t tell what’s fresh and what’s already drying, and I don’t know how much of it is his.
“We’re leaving,” he says, his hand closing firmly around my arm.
“What? Where?”
“I’ll explain once we’re out of this hellhole.” He pulls me closer.
