If any of you know who Adam Von Rothfelder is you know that he is an inspiring individual who is quite amazing. Not only do I find daily inspiration from him for my fitness goals but one look and the man became my muse to write an entire novel. Seems funny to think it’s possible, but this photograph of him inspired Sins of the Heart. Adam or Brad as I have called him, is quite the incredible hero. In real life, he’s no different. What an amazing man. I look forward to joining him a Drench Fitness for a well deserved work out. Until then, thank you Adam!
•Excerpt from Sins of the Heart, Trista Jaszczak
There have been days in the past few months since arriving in New York City that I want to regret coming here. Today has been an exceptionally…awkward day. I can’t seem to get my last few weeks at home out of my head. The endless fights with my parents on why I should never come to this “City of Sin” and that I was teaching my younger sister to grow up and lead an “impure” life. That’s the price you pay for being the daughter of a preacher. My four older brothers and one younger sister have all heard the ongoing lectures of how to lead a pure and simple life to keep the devil out of our souls and hearts. Our house is so pure and good that my mother won’t even allow us to call deviled eggs, or any “deviled” food for that matter, by their name and instead we call them “angel eggs” and so on.
It’s amazing how I grew up in that house with such a love and knack for fine art. I’d always loved painting and when I had the chance to come to New York to attend a school for fine art, I jumped at the chance. What 18 year-old artist wouldn’t? Of course, had known the fights it would cause or the guilt I feel now, I might have changed my mind. Today on my way to the subway I received a phone call from my mother, crying and begging me to return home, asking when I would be finished with my “silly art.” I’ve told her, like every time she calls like this, that I’ll never be finished with my silly art and I’m not coming home until I’m good and ready. But, that doesn’t always cure the guilty feeling that I have after the phone calls. She always manages to make me feel as though I’m doing something wrong and that I’m going to hell. I let out a long sigh and realize that I have been holding my breath. Why can’t they just be like normal parents and give me the “are you eating well? Do you have enough money? Are you being safe?” speeches that every other kid in college gets. I run a hand down my face and push my hair from my eyes. Today I’m covered in paint and plaster. A very attractive combination in my loose fitting jeans and baggy tee shirt. I’m not exactly a fashionista, which is why my roommate Hannah keeps tormenting me about letting her make me over. She always tells me that it’ll make me feel better so today I might actually give in. I run my hand through my hair and brush out a few more clumps of left over plaster that falls to the ground in a cloud of white dust. I blow my hair up and out of my face when I’m knocked forward. I land hard on my hands and knees and groan when I feel that my messenger bag is being tugged from me. This is not happening. I tighten my grip and work to stand to face my attacker. I stumble back and slam against the large pillar and I let out another cry as my shoulder blade crashes painfully into it. I look to see a rather tall, dark haired man pulling another man away. The other man, obviously my attacker, has been fought off by a stranger. I look up and my eyes meet his silvery blue ones. His dark hair is short and styled messily and his face is covered in scruff. I swallow as I see that underneath his tight fitting tee shirt are tattoos lining one arm in such a way that every inch is covered. He checks behind us again and finally looks back to me, “Are you all right?”
I’m quite taken back by his appearance. He’s handsome, rugged and certainly not the type of man that my parents would allow me to bring home. I give him a silent nod.
“Are you sure?” He asks, “I can check you over, take you to the hospital, or call the police.”
“Check me over?” I ask, pushing my dark hair from my face, “Are you a doctor?”
He laughs and exposes a knee weakening smile, “No, I am a paramedic, though.”
My mouth drops, I hadn’t expected that.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asks again, running a hand through his hair in such a way that the sleeve of his tee shirt creeps up and exposes more of his beautiful tattoos.
I give him a nod, “Really, I’m fine, just a little shaken up is all.” I say, pulling my bag closer to me.
He nods and glances at me up and down briefly before smiling again, “You must be an art student.”
“Wow, how’d you guess?” I ask him, now realizing that I’ve been staring at him this entire time.
He steps forward, shoots me that knee weakening smile and reaches a hand slowly to my hair where he tenderly removes a small piece of plaster.
I laugh and nod, “Yeah, I’m a walking work of art.” I say, giving my long hair another good shake of the plaster. “I’m constantly covered in one thing or another from class.” I tell him.
He grins again, “I’m Brad, by the way.”
I smile, “I’m Hailey. Thank you, so much by the way. You saved my life.”