Adam, Enough Said (This Can't be Happening)

by LeeAnne, Lynda

  Adam, Enough Said

  by

  Lynda LeeAnne

  Published by Lynda LeeAnne

  Copyright 2013 © Lynda LeeAnne

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright 2013 © Lynda LeeAnne at Smashwords

  www.authorlyndaleeanne.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance between persons living and dead, establishments, events or location is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my amazing husband who has stuck by me through my entire writing journey. Whether he has me happy, sad or insane, he has always been there for me. Joey, you’re the love of my life

  I also dedicate this book to the two most handsome and amazing little boys that a mother could ask for, and to my incredibly sweet and beautiful step-daughter. Ethyn, Eli & Tatiana, I love you! You are my inspiration...and the reason I work so hard. You guys are expensive.

  Muah! Love you!

  To Mom & Abel, I love you both so much. Thank you for always supporting me; even when I went through my very odd, teenage, maroon-lipstick-wearing, gangsta phase. HA!

  Dad, there are no words to describe how much I miss you. I love you with all my heart. I wish I could say it to you in person just one more time.

  Acknowledgement

  I have a number of people to give special thanks to for sticking by my side through all the fun, hard and, at times, scary experiences that I've had since entering the crazy world of self-publishing. Please bear with me and I really hope I don't miss anyone.

  To Sergeant E. Garza with the Houston Police Department: Without you, Adam would not be Adam. I am a stickler for making sure the themes of my stories are as accurate as possible; therefore, I am obsessed with doing research. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for answering all my questions regarding the organizational structure of the HPD. Surely I’d still be searching online for information if it hadn’t been for your help. In no way would I have known that the HPD no longer calls detectives “Detectives”, but rather “Investigators”.

  Thank you a million and one times over for all your help.

  To Shannon Nemsi, Crysti Perry, Gladys Medina and Jessica Prince: SQUIRREL! I love you ladies to pieces. You all have become my best friends. No joke. I truly appreciate you more than you’ll ever know. Thanks for having my back – gangsta style. Thanks for virtually pulling a bitch’s hair when I need you to, thanks for giving virtual black eyes when I need you to, thanks for listening and agreeing with anything and everything I say when I need you to, and thanks for being a shoulder to cry on when I need one.

  Everything I say below pertains to you ladies as well.

  To Yvette Pavlock, Bobbie Jo Malone Kirby, Lisa Chamberlin, Sandra Saenz Cortez, Mina Tomaro, Melissa Puckett, Ellie Smith, Lola Stark, LaStephanie Kannady-Foster, Shey Houston, Amanda & Crystal Cantu, and Amanda Brown: You girls have helped me in so many ways, whether sending me jokes, sharing laughs, sharing my work, bringing me bumper stickers from the Queen of all Men Alpha, inviting me to Thunder from Down Under, inviting me to lunch or dinner, listening to all my insanity, and sticking by my side through all my doubts and insecurities. I can go on and on, but I think you get the point. Each one of you holds a special place in my heart.

  To Jenny Aspinall and Gitte Doherty at TotallyBookedBlog: As always, you ladies are simply amazing. Thank you for being the wonderful women you are. Thank you for supporting me and for always being honest with me. I adore you.

  To Becky Johnson at Hot Tree Editing and all the betas that helped her: You girls rock! I can’t wait to continue working with you on my next books.

  To Genevieve Scholl at Big Bang Book Services: Thank you for stepping in last minute and helping me out when I was in need. I can't wait to work with you on my next books. I will forever be grateful.

  To any and all bloggers out there, no matter how big or small: You seriously make the Indie World go 'round. You should be paid for all your hard work and all your support of the little people like me. I try to follow every single one of you, whether you have read, not read, liked or disliked any of my books, and I will continue to do so. I'd like to name each and every one of you, but I don't think this acknowledgement would ever end if I did. You’re treasures.

  Now, to the most important people, the people who constantly make me cry happy tears...To my readers/followers/fans/friends: I love you all from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for your constant hardcore support of my work and me as an individual. Thank you for every "like", every follow, every comment, every share, every review, every personal message, every direct message and every email. Thank you for taking the time out of your day to contact me at all. I wish I could come to your home and personally hug each and every one of you.

  I’m truly blessed to have met so many wonderful people throughout the book world.

  xoxo

  Lynda

  Mistakes.It all boils down to one…little…tiny…simple…single word.

  Mistakes.

  Plural.

  As in, more than one.

  So, what exactly are mistakes?

  And are mistakes always just that…

  Mistakes?

  Or, are mistakes sometimes words spoken or things done that a person knows might be wrong, inappropriate or just something that shouldn’t be said or done, but they end up saying or doing whatever it is anyway, only later to call it a "mistake" in a moment of regret?

  Or, are mistakes sometimes situations or words spoken that you really meant to say or do, only to later call whatever it is you've said or done a "mistake" out of fear?

  Adam and Mia, each on their own, have made a number of mistakes over the course of their lives which, in and of itself, has taught them to grow as individuals and become better people...or worse people, depending on who you ask.

  But together…trying to count the number of mistakes they’ve made as a couple, would be like trying to count the number of times I say the word “fuck” in this story.

  Try it. Count them. It’s a lot.

  Therefore, as a couple, they’ve made a fuck load of mistakes, and the emotional war between mistakes and regrets between the two of them is, more often than not, overwhelming.

  Prologue

  Six Years Earlier

  Adam Bryant

  Twenty-Four Years Old

  She wasn’t here.

  And she wasn’t coming.

  And I fuckin’ needed her here. I needed her with me.

  I knew Mia hated me and I didn’t blame her, but she loved my mom. She was supposed to be here. She should be here. For everything that she’s done for my mom over the last year and a half, Mia deserved the spot at my side. Shit, she deserved the whole fuckin' row to herself.

  God, I felt sick. Gutted. Tired.

  When was the last time I ate? Two, three days?

  I heard people chatting softly around me, possibly talking to me, but I couldn’t concentrate and I couldn’t care less about whatever the hell it was they were saying. Everything was a blur. Since I’d arrived, family members that I hadn’t seen or heard from in years started giving me their condolences, a
pologizing for my loss, and it took everything in my power not to tell them to go fuck themselves.

  They didn't deserve to be here. They hadn't helped.

  Mia had been the only one.

  I hated funerals. But who didn’t, when it was being held for one of their own?

  I bent, put elbows to knees, placed my head in my hands, and let the tears I’d been holding in escape. I couldn’t hold them in any longer and I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought. I didn’t give a shit if anyone saw. I’d just lost the woman who meant everything to me. The woman who gave birth to me with no man at her side; the woman who struggled to raise me on her own; the woman who was always there for me; the woman who never doubted me and never once judged me.

  Mom.

  Fuck.

  My heart.

  Mom had been sick, diagnosed with Type II Diabetes at the age of twelve, and she’d suffered with the disease her whole life, the ups and downs, sugar too high, sugar too low, insulin too strong, insulin not strong enough, eating too much, not eating enough, diet not right, and on and on.

  And then, one morning mom woke up and couldn’t see.

  “Everything is black,” she’d cried. Blind. Because her kidneys had failed. She’d been rushed to the hospital, but doctors were only able to save one eye; the other destined to see nothing for the rest of her life.

  The next step was dialysis. Three days a week, also for the rest of her life, unless she received a kidney transplant and that list was never ending. Mom started on homecare at first, but when that got too rough, it turned into Dialysis Center visits…visits that Mia had eventually taken over taking her to.

  Even when I had been kicked out of Mia’s life.

  At forty years old, Mom had her first heart attack, which then led to triple bypass surgery and more ups and downs ensued for the next nine years.

  Now, here I was. At my mom’s funeral. She was only forty-nine years old and I was at her fuckin’ funeral. And the only other person I’d ever loved in my life, the one I needed most, hadn’t even bothered to show up.

  Why wasn't Mia here?

  Why the fuck did I let her go?

  I shook my head, ashamed.

  Mia had needed me and I hadn't been there for her...and this was my payback.

  It had to be.

  But this wasn't like Mia. Mia never would have given my mom up - not that I ever would have asked her to - but Mia had needed my mom just as much as my mom had needed her. Mia wouldn't just not show up because she knew I’d be here.

  So why the fuck wasn't she here?

  I know Mia knew. The damn clinic had called her, before they even called me. I’d left her message after message, begging her to call me, telling her that I needed her, but she hadn’t bothered to pick up or return a single call.

  I touched the ring on my left hand; the one I refused to take off.

  Sick. Devastated.

  I was so fuckin’ devastated I couldn’t see straight.

  “Hey, Adam,” a voice said softly and my whole body solidified. That voice. The cause of all that was fucked up in my life. The voice that I never should have heard in my life.

  Somewhere deep down, I knew my problems weren’t her fault, and I felt bad for her, but I hated her just the same.

  I looked up when I felt her hand hit the back of my neck, touching me in a way a person touched someone they loved. Then, she sat down next to me; on the side that was supposed to be filled by my wife.

  By Mia.

  “Don't touch me,” I ground out and her hand jerked back like my skin burned her.

  “I’m sorry...I heard some of the guys talking at the diner...you helped me. I owe you --” she rambled as tears filled her eyes and I felt like an asshole, but this wasn't the place to have this conversation.

  I stood, towered over her and ordered, "Outside."

  She nodded and quickly stood. People stared at us and I glared back. None of this was any of their fuckin’ business.

  I started as soon as we made it outside. "Breena, this is my mother's funeral. We're not friends. I'm married. This is my life and you have no place in it.”

  Breena's eyes hit the floor and she shook her head. “I'm sorry. I don't know why I came. I guess I just wanted to be here for you, in case you needed someone. I just..." she paused and took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. For everything," she finished softly, her tone laced with guilt, and I squeezed my eyes shut.

  I did need someone, but it wasn’t Breena.

  When I opened my eyes, I sighed as I caught Breena watching me wearily. "You're a good person, and I know your intentions were in the right place by coming here, but there will never be anything between us. Do you understand?" I asked in the nicest possible tone I could to soften the blow.

  Her shoulders sagged and she glanced away, before nodding. "I understand," she whispered.

  Then, out of nowhere, she threw herself at me and hugged me around the waist. I held my hands in the air, not knowing what to do.

  "I know you don't think you helped me, but you did," she rushed. "No one has ever done anything for me in my life. I just want to be your friend." She let me go, backed away and I stood there, stunned. "I don't have any friends...I never have. I don't want anything more from you. I'm really, really sorry about your mom, and your wife. Hopefully she’ll come to her senses," she finished with a sad smile, turned on her heel and walked away.

  I watched her go as I stood there in disbelief.

  When I finally decided to walk back inside, I was even more furious with Mia than before. Some chick I didn't even know came to give her condolences and show support, but Mia didn't even have the decency to show the fuck up.

  Well, I was done grieving the loss of Mia.

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  Adam Bryant

  Thirty-One Years Old

  Bitches be fuckin’ crazy.

  All of 'em.

  And this one was about to drive me out of my goddamn mind, and I hadn’t even seen the little redheaded terrorist yet. So, why I let her flip the switch on my nerves with one single phone call…I’d never know.

  I sighed as I exited the elevator and stepped onto the second floor, the floor I saw every damn day, because the division I worked in - Homicide - was located here.

  My gut was tight. I was pissed as hell and miles beyond stressed. I was also worried, and I wanted to kick my own ass for feeling that way about a woman who wanted nothing to do with me.

  When I stalked past the receptionist desk, caught her smirk, the noose around my intestines cinched to unbearable pain.

  Ulcer. I'm gonna have a motherfuckin' ulcer at thirty-one.

  I walked into the main open room, past the numerous brown desks and glared at all the gawking, grinning faces that belonged to the jackasses sitting behind them.

  I wasn’t a genius, but any moron would know that they knew, and I knew that they knew I had a wife. I also knew, just knew it'd been too much to hope that Mia would keep her yappy trap shut. When I'd called in the favor to my Lieutenant, I hadn't given him any explanations as to why I wanted her out of jail, mainly because I hadn't wanted him to know. I'd also assumed Mia wouldn't have wanted anyone to know about that tidbit of our history together, but I'd obviously assumed wrong.

  Now, I was screwed; especially when the shit talking started. My night was about to get worse.

  "Well, well, well! Looky, here. What happened, Romeo? Couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to keep her?"

  Garza…on my fuckin’ list.

  "Unh uh, G. I know what happened, dick was too small. What…couldn’t keep it up long enough to finish the job, sanchito?"

  Torres…also on my list…before Garza.

  "Nahhh, dick can't be too small when you don't got one at all. I bet it was all that natural she was rockin’. Red hair and big boobs…you know our boy here don’t do natural."

  Johnson…my partner...when I become a murderer, she’s at the top of my motherfuckin’ list.r />
  See what I mean, all of 'em women, all of 'em bitches and all of 'em crazy.

  I glared at Johnson specifically, my eyes letting her know that she'd just crossed the line into the danger zone, but do you know what she did?

  She laughed.

  "Shut the hell up, Johnson," I growled, and she threw her head back and laughed harder.

  I groaned.

  If it were any other time, I’d have let her have it every which way past Sunday, but the drive here had taken long enough and I was too anxious to get to Mia to waste my time going back and forth with her, or Torres or Garza...the two, evil, trash talking, blood sucking wenches that would eat you alive with a spoon, lick their lips and smile when they're done.

  "I don't know what the hell took you so long, Bryant, but that little redhead is fur-i-ous and I want her out of this building. She's been cursing you black and blue for the past hour and a half, boy!"

  I heard chuckles from the officers nearby and I glared at my Lieutenant of nearly four years, more than ready to rip his head off. I'd known walking in that he was going to give me shit, because that was his life's mission and, right now, it was written clear as day on his pudgy, arrogant face.

  Which only pissed me off more.

  I didn't usually give the Homicide Division Lieutenant, David D. Torrance, better known as Lieutenant, also known as my boss, outside of work known as D.D., a one up on me, but this situation was clearly already out of my control. He gave me shit, I gave it to him better and we both knew how to take the verbal attacks, which were, more often than not, ruthless.

  But I was not in the mood for his shit right now. Not only was I not in the mood to put up with his shit, none of this was any of his fuckin’ business, and I could see the questions lingering in his eyes as I moved close enough to stand in front of him.