Page 42 of Adam's Rising

Adam isn’t mad at me.

Even better, he hadn’t asked what was wrong. Why she was shivering.

Not only didn’t he blame her for leaving early, but he’d also been the one to suggest it.

When she’d gone into that dark pit Boyd created the previous evening, making her feel helpless, Adam hadn’t asked what she needed — he just made the decision to take her home.

Yeah, Lala and Rusty had stepped in after she’d gotten herself out of the truck, but what if he’d subdued her? What if he’d covered her mouth, kept her from screaming?

That’s whyNohad tumbled out of her mouth.

For just a second, watching the female actor in a similar situation, her mind had gone where it always did.

When she trained for search and rescue, she always ran scenarios, asked herselfWhat if?

Now thewhat-ifshad turned on her.

What if I couldn’t scream?

What if I hadn’t been strong enough to get out of the truck?

What if no one had come, and he caught me outside the Blazer?

Maybe that’s why reliving the moment hit so hard… because the outcome could’ve been so different, so much worse.

What if I’d been somewhere else when Boyd showed his true self?

She sighed quietly. But Adam — he hadn’t needed explanations. Hadn’t demanded anything.

He just acted. Got her out.

Adam chose the ending to that awful movie she hadn’t even known she needed.

Yeah, she liked the music, but she had the album.

She never wanted to relive that horrible scene — in reality or onscreen — ever again.

Claire gazed at the marquee through the rear window.The Goodbye Girl.

She liked the song, too. But what guy would admit that? Or even like the groupBread?

Adam would.HerAdam. Her prince in faded ranch-hand gear.

And already, she couldn’t wait for next weekend.

“You okay?” Adam’s voice broke the stillness in the truck.

“I am now.” Claire shifted in her seat. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d curled against the door.

“You were shaking.”

“I was?”

“You were.” Adam stared straight ahead, hands locked at ten and two, knuckles bone-white against the steering wheel.

She hadn’t noticed before how rough his hands looked — red, grayish in places, marked with old scars. Not the hands of a typical teenage boy. They showed strength, the kind that could break a wild horse. And yet, those strong hands had pulled her into his arms to protect her, not hurt her.

Boyd’s hands were smooth, characterless — like his soul. No callouses. No scars. No signs he’d ever labored a day in his life. Worse, they were the hands of a brute.

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