Page 125 of Adam
Everything fell apart in minutes. And somewhere in the middle of it, I lost track of myself—when I stopped resisting, when fear turned into something else, when following him started to feel unavoidable.
After they lost us for good, we pushed the bike off a cliff, and he stole another one. I suppose he wants us to look dead or … something like that.
I don’t know where we’re going. I don’t know who he is now.
I only know that whatever line he crossed back there, he didn’t look back—and I don’t know if I did, either.
After hoursof driving just beyond LA, we finally reach our destination.
A mansion rises from behind iron gates, pristine and shiny. Opulent, expensive, and restrained.
It reminds me of my house in the same way a scalpel reminds you of a knife. Similar shape but entirely different purpose.
This place is immaculate, like nothing bad has ever been allowed to linger long enough to leave a mark. The lawn is perfect. The glass is flawless. A giant maze in the corner gives it a haunting, almost unsettling edge.
There’s something calm about it. Cleaner on a moral level, I think.
Immediately, I distrust the thought.
Because morality this polished usually means someone else paid the price for it.
“What is this place?” I ask, pulling off the helmet, my head still ringing as I look around.
“This, little orchid, is the place where it all began,” he says, amused, before setting his helmet casually on the fuel tank.
He looks different again. Like he’s flipped a damn switch.
The monster I saw earlier—the violence, the blood, the way he enjoyed it—is gone. That part of him is still there, I know it is, but it’s tucked away now.
In its place is that cocky and confident grin he always has.
His face is still splattered with blood, drying in dark streaks along his clean-shaven jaw, but my eyes won’t stay there. They keep drifting back to his smile, daring me to forget what he did.
And screw me, it’s working.
I’m standing here, staring at him, wondering what kind of sick control he has over me—and how long before it costs me something I can’t get back.
He gives me a casual nod to follow him and starts up the stairs. I hesitate, then go anyway.
At the entrance, the door opens, and an old man steps out. His smile is bright, stretched thin across his face.
“Adam Manson,” he says, a soft smile tugging at his mouth.
“The one and only.”
Manson?I thought his last name was Mitch?
“Let me guess—none of this was your fault?” the old man scolds.
“You know me.” He rubs the back of his neck. “If I can’t get out of it, I make it worse,” Adam replies dryly.
The man shakes his head with a smile, like a father who disapproves while still being proud of what his boy has accomplished.
Then he pulls him into a hug, not even hesitating over the blood. That answers more than the words do. This isn’t new to him.
“It’s good to see you again, trouble.”
Adam pats the man’s back.
