Brett’s expression grows tenser.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Truett growls as he uses the edge of the table to help him get up to his feet, clearly struggling to rise. “You ungrateful little shit.”
“How could you do this?” Adam yells in anger. “To us. To Mom! ”
Truett only laughs as he fixes his suit. “You’ve got a lot to learn, son.”
“Son?” I hear Brett gasp.
“How could you do this?” Adam says, still held tightly in the bouncer’s grip. “You were supposed to take it down. You made a promise to the people.”
“And that’s why you’re going to keep your mouth shut about it. What the people don’t know won’t hurt them. They want a good preacher, but what I do in my private life doesn’t really matter so long as they have someone who looks like a good man. Because if they like me, they must not be so bad.”
Adam struggles against the bouncer’s grip on his arms. I wince again as his expression contorts from anger to anguish, the pain evident in his features. He looks like his entire world is collapsing, and I’m starting to think it is.
“Hold him,” Truett grunts.
The air is sucked from my lungs as I step closer, but Brett’s hand on my arm stops me.
What is happening?
The bouncer squeezes Adam’s arms even tighter behind his back and my stomach drops.
“I’m your father, so it’s my job to teach you a lesson. And your first lesson is a little humility because you’ve frightened that sweet girl and you’ve embarrassed me at this club.”
Truett rears back his fist and lets it fly. The smack as it lands hard against Adam’s face is audible, and I let out a scream at the sound.
“Stop!” I yelp.
Brett yanks me toward him as Truett lands another hard punch.
Adam spits blood onto the floor as he lifts his head back up to face his father.
“You never did fight fair,” he growls.
“Life isn’t fair, Adam. Grow up.” With that, he jolts forward, cracking Adam hard in the stomach with his fist.
Adam folds over in pain, and I tear myself out of Brett’s grasp.
Before he can grab me again, I thrust myself between the two men, putting a hand out to stop Truett from throwing another punch.
“Enough!”
He grimaces at me before glancing over at Brett. My teeth grind together as I see the two men sharing a silent conversation, and I realize, at this moment, I’m really out. Out of this club. Out of my relationship. Out of a lot of money.
“Get him out of here,” Truett says darkly as he turns his back to me.
I send one glaring expression toward Brett before I push the bouncer toward the door. He’s practically dragging Adam as he moans, looking like he’s about to pass out.
Fucking men.
As I push open the heavy door that leads to the back of the club, the bouncer tosses Adam out, and he rolls onto the dirty pavement with a groan.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” I argue, but the guy only shrugs as he disappears back into the club.
“Assholes!” I shout in frustration, banging my fist on the heavy metal door. Rage is bubbling up inside me and I let it all out with a wailing scream.
Behind me, Adam groans again.
When I turn around, I find him struggling to his feet. He’s still clearly drunk and bleeding like crazy from his nose. As he
gets to a standing position, he sucks in a breath through his teeth, wincing with pain and grabbing his ribs.
Probably bruised a few of those.
I’m standing here with a few choices. Go back inside the club with Truett and Brett and leave Adam Goode to fend for himself.
Or I get in my car and drive home—again, leaving Adam Goode to fend for himself.
Shit.
“Come on,” I say, sliding my hand under his arm and guiding him toward the employee parking lot on the left.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To my car,” I reply.
“Why?” His voice is deep and gravelly, clearly tired and in pain.
“I can’t put you behind the wheel of your car. Do you have a wife or someone at home who can take care of you? You look like shit.”
He manages a small chuckle. “No wife. Nobody.”
Shit.
“Fine,” I reply with a grunt as we reach my car. It’s an old Ford pickup that Gladys lets me borrow since she never drives anywhere. Apparently, it was her husband’s before he passed.
The passenger door creaks as I open it for Adam. Without another word, he slides into the seat, resting his head against the headrest.
As I climb into the driver’s seat, he squints his eyes and turns toward me. “Where the hell are you taking me?”
“Back to my apartment,” I reply without looking at him.
“You don’t even know me.”
“I don’t like you very much either, but what choice do I have?” I shrug as I start the truck. It takes a few turns before it finally revs up.
Finally, I look at him. “I can’t put you in an Uber like that.
And if I take you home, who’s going to help you bandage up that gross cut on your cheek? Or clean up that mess of blood all over your face?”
His brow is furrowed as he stares at me, clearly struggling with an argument for that.
I let out a tired sigh. “Listen, this is partly my fault. And I feel bad that you had to find out about your dad like this. So just promise you won’t rape and/or murder me at my apartment, and I’ll make sure you don’t die.”
After a disgruntled sigh, he nods. “Fine.”
Eight
Adam
“Y ou live in a Laundromat?”
“I live above a Laundromat,” she replies as she unlocks the front door and ushers me in. This would be the strangest part of my day if not for that moment back there when my father had someone hold me down while he broke my nose.
I can only assume it’s broken by the way it keeps bleeding and has gone completely numb. In the truck, Sage tore off her shirt and handed it to me to stop the bleeding. Now she’s prancing around in a bra, and I’m doing my very best to keep my eyes off of the tattoos scattered around her torso and chest.
My eye being swollen shut helps.
I don’t object as she pulls me through the dark and empty Laundromat. There’s a door in the back that she opens and pushes me through. Then we’re walking up some cement stairs when my ears are assaulted by a sound that feels like nails being driven into my already pounding head.
“Roscoe, hush!” she whisper-yells as she unlocks the door of her apartment.
As we enter, she scoops up the small dog, but he doesn’t stop his incessant yipping. When I try to pet the tiny demon, he snaps at my hand.
“Jesus,” I say with a wince.
“That’s not a good sign,” she says with a judgmental glare, carrying him away from me. As if dogs can sense evil, and I’ve just failed the test.
“In my defense, I’m bleeding profusely and I smell like a dirty sex club.”
She mumbles something as she walks away, and I realize I should probably feel bad for insulting her club, but I’m too irritated to care at the moment. The pleasantries and chemistry
from that morning we met are long gone, and at this point, I’ve lost the energy to care. If I wasn’t covered in blood, I’d turn around and order a ride home.