The rest of his classes were a blur.  Gym came after lunch, and he spent his last hour in Economics.  Though Adam was quite active, he wasn't always first pick in sports.  He was skinny, not athletic like all the heartthrobs the ladies gushed over.  His faded Def Leppard t-shirt hung loosely off his shoulders and gave no evidence if there were any muscles to be found underneath.  He never styled his hair or dressed any particular way, at least, not anything outside his usual misfit self.  His skin was pale and no matter how long he spent in the sun he would forever sport a dungeon tan.  The only thing he ever bothered to do with his appearance was to stretch out the piercings in his ears so he could wear plugs.  Peter “acquired” a tattoo gun when they turned eighteen, and they of course gave each other god-awful tats.  He was not proud of it.<br/><br/>He'd never had a girlfriend, either.  It didn't bother him, though.  He'd always been a bit of a loser, and long since made peace with it.<br/><br/>He couldn't have left school faster.  He shred across the student parking, and lit up a cigarette after falling into a steady balance on his board.  He would need to make a stop at home to get his guitar before he met with Peter for auditions.  If there was anything he hated more about his day, it was being at home.  “Home” was a tiny flat in the trashy part of town, the kind that didn't allow pets but everyone kept one anyway.  Every time he walked through that door, he was reminded of why he avoided it so much.<br/><br/>“Adam!” his mother came stumbling at him from the kitchen and wrapped her arms around his waist.  “You're home already, I missed you so much, how was school?”  It was noon and she was already drunk.  He recoiled as she kissed him on the cheek with her rancid whiskey breath, her hair ambushing the side of his face with sticky, excessive hair spray.<br/><br/>“It happened,” he answered dismissively, brushing past her and trying to access his room as quickly as possible.  He paused before his sister's room, peering inside and frowning.  “Where's Dani?  You were supposed to pick her up today.”<br/><br/>“Oh she's alright, Paul is getting her,” she said, seemingly unconcerned by the fact that she was leaving her six-year-old daughter in the care of her abusive boyfriend.  Adam turned and collected his guitar case, slinging it over his shoulder, and then stormed through the flat again, much to his mother's dismay.<br/><br/>“Where are you going, Adam?”<br/><br/>“Like you give a damn,” he seethed, shutting the door loudly on his way out.<br/><br/>Once he reached Peter's, he let himself into the garage, where he was already tapping away at his drum set.  Peter knew better than to make any remarks about his home life, so he simply toyed with the percussion to Sammy Hagar's “I Can't Drive 55” while Adam tuned his guitar.  Now they played the waiting game, trying out different rhythms in the meantime.  Neither of them expected who was about to show up.