PART 1
Chapter 1
The World According to Adam
Adam
A people person? Fuck that! People were a bunch of piranhas, and the world was a sewer. Life was a terminal illness, and we were all drowning in misery. A bitter philosophy? You bet it was, but no one could ever accuse me of being sweet, not even when I was a child.
Was it my job that made me so jaded? Perhaps. After all, I was in the business of cleaning, which meant scrubbing crime off the streets of Smitsville. It was my fifth year in the Loser’s Division, and I realized I was never getting out of it. Why? Because in the police precinct destined for the worst cops in the country, I was the worst of them all. I was probably the best detective, but as a person, I sucked.
Maybe I was born that way. While growing up, I tried to fit in, but I lacked something that other people had, like an electric spark in a light bulb. I never figured out what it was, but there was something about me that people justdidn’t like. Truth be told, I was a graceless, clumsy, quiet child. I did as I was told, and I spoke only when spoken to. I followed the rules, but despite my exemplary behavior, I remained an outcast.
Initially, I thought it was because of my looks, which were average at best. Then I blamed it on the awkwardness that clung to me like the bubonic plague, impossible to shake off. When I tried to hide it, those around me sensed it. The more they sensed it, the more my awkwardness grew.
“Hey, Adam. Have you seen Chief Bibb?”
The voice behind me made me snap back to reality. It meant the LD headquarters, Smitsville, and early fall.
“Bite me,” I replied.
John Smith was a forensic examiner working for the LD. He was a boring individual with no personality, so I mostly ignored him.
Where was I? Right, somewhere between, “Why am I the way I am?” and “How did Adam ‘The Scarface’ Markland become such an asshole?”. For a while, I blamed it on my family. First, they were filthy rich, and everyone hated them for it. Second, my father was the mayor of my hometown. Third, he was a corrupt mayor. I wasn’t aware of it until a kid in my school broke my nose because my father had made his father lose his job. My mother was a former beauty queen who married my father because she got pregnant. She tried to make up for her bad decision with whiskey and pills, but those things could only get you so far. After daddy dearest was arrested for corruption and money laundering, she OD’d, and I ended up in foster care. What ensued was a shitshow I wouldn’t wish on anyone, and which contributed to my shiny personality. I wasn’t using it as an excuse for being an asshole. It was a fact, and I had a scar on my face to prove it, hence my nickname, Scarface.
When I enrolled in the police academy, I wasn’t trying to prove anything to anyone. I didn’t do it to convince the world that I wasn’t like my father. Maybe I just needed the opportunity to become a thief and a money launderer like the man who made me. Only after I'd gotten my first job at the local police station did I realize I enjoyed putting bad people behind bars. As far as the rest of the world of non-criminal variety was concerned, I stopped caring years ago. After I stopped caring, I began to hate. Maybe hate was too strong a word. Mostly, I was either indifferent or frustrated with the world around me.
“Hey, Markland. Have you seen my gun?”
The gruff voice in my vicinity belonged to Maddox, a colleague and one of the latest additions to the LD. He was a black-eyed, black-haired, grim individual who seldom spoke and kept to himself. He was a stellar detective, but according to a rumor, he spent three months in a psych ward. No one knew why, or dared ask him, but there was madness in his black eyes, and you didn’t have to be a detective to see it.
“Maybe your wife took your gun when she left you,” I suggested.
Maddox may have been creeping me out, but it didn’t stop me from running my mouth.
“Still an asshole, huh?” he said, unperturbed by my answer.
“I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone.”
“As if that could happen.”
So, yeah, I liked to fuck with people. The resentment in their eyes fueled mine, and so the vicious circle continued. My only problem was that our numbers have been dwindling lately. The LD, once filled with all kinds of police rejects, came down to a few measly members. Thorsen and Carter got out first after solving a serial killer case. Smart men, because they got out of the gutter unscathed or almost unscathed. Bazooka came and went, being on loan from the New Mesa Police Department and not a permanent member of the LD. He left with the addition of a little shit-stirrer called Luz Zablonsky, so one less problem in Smitsville. Patricia Vile cracked the serial arsonist case and returned to the Domestic Violence Unit. The salvageable cases had gotten out, and only a few of us remained. It meant Chief Bibb, who was nearing retirement, Maddox for known reasons, yours truly for known reasons, and last but not least…
When I felt someone behind me, goosebumps ran down my body, and my fists clenched. I knew who it was even before he spoke.
“Hey, Ad-dam.”
“Fuck off, weirdo,” I said through my teeth.
Jordan fucking Slade.
Every time he came into the room, I had the same visceral response—my body revolted. Every fiber of my being rebelled; every muscle in my body knotted. Why? Because I couldn’t stand the guy. No, that was too mild a word. I hated him. I hated the sight of him. I hated the sound of his voice. I hated the scent of his cologne and the way it imprinted itself on my skin, trailing behind me and following me home. Not even a shower would wash it off, and no amount of scrubbing could remove it because it justrefused to fade.
Still, more than anything, I hated that he didn’t hate me back. Even worse, Jordan Slade liked me, and it was unheard of. Notliked me, liked me. Jesus. Not that. Yet, when I looked into his eyes, I saw curiosity there, caution, and something that resembled pity. I would rather murder the world than let anyone feel sorry for me, and Jordan learned it the hard way.
Looks-wise, Jordan Slade was a tall guy with the physique of a runner. It meant zero body fat, powerful hamstrings, and a slim, toned chest. I knew that because I entered the locker room while he was changing, which made me lose my appetite for a week. The sight of him in his briefs made my skin crawl as I stumbled out of the room, gasping for air. A grave mistake, that one, and the one I was careful not to repeat.
His caramel hair made me stop eating desserts like caramel-glazed apples, caramel corn, and caramel candy. His citrusy scent made me cringe at the sight of a lemon. His face was forgettable if you ignored the fact that everything about it looked just right. The bridge of his nose, the height of his forehead, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lips—it was all flawless. In my world, that nose begged to be broken. Those lips were made to be busted in at least three places. His face was punchable to a fault, but what bothered me the most were hiseyes. It wasn’t because of their weird amber color, or because they kept finding me wherever I went, but because they were lying eyes.
