OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

  But she was too pretty. Too noticeable and not at all a passerby.

  They picked her up like a bad scent. Noticed that she didn't belong and made a scheme all of their own with one message, to tell whoever sent her, that they'd kill them and everyone else associated.

  Not one of us in B723 was afraid of the Irish mob. It was like playing with a basket of kittens compared to the shit we've personally or professionally have done or gone through in our careers.

  It was the terror of losing one of our own that we weren't ready to deal with.

  I've never forgiven myself or her for that day. Emmy Lou was a lot of things, but physically tough wasn't one of them. She should've known better, and I blame my poor judgment of giving in.

  "Her cuts and lesions need to be cleaned every day," Lucien directs. "And the lack of stitches...speaking of doctors, you're not one."

  "Hence why you're here," I retort.

  "They need to be done."

  I shake my head. "No, she'll never let—"

  "Do you want me back here in a week to amputate her leg or..." I close my eyes, giving him my response. "I can knock her out and do it while I'm here."

  "With what?"

  "With FDA certified shit. All she has to do is take a sip of water and voila, she's out."

  She'll love that.

  I nod, cracking my eyes open so I don't look like a little bitch who's worried over a measly girl.

  The last thing I need is Lucien questioning my sanity anymore than he probably does already. Besides, she's not anything but a mere blip on my timeline.

  Granted, I'm not totally humanless.

  I feel.

  I love my sister and nephew. Wade is a douchebag, and no one will kill him but me if it ever comes to that one day. Then there is my B723 family, so I'm capable of feeling something for people.

  "Do what you need to do," I chime as my front door flies open.

  Bishop and Mills file into my living room, their heavy boots thudding against my hardwood floors as my shoulders sink.

  "What did you do, kill her?" Bishop monotones then gestures to Lucien with a salute to his forehead. "How's it going, Devil Doctor?"

  Dressed in jeans and a black leather jacket, he plops down next to me, knocking into my body because he doesn't care.

  "What's up with the chick?" Mills presses, stopping at the side of my couch while Bishop plucks my Coors Light out of my hand.

  He just amped my irritation—they both did.

  Mills and his worry of a girl that's none of his fucking business and Bishop with the mindset of "what's mine is yours". I didn't call them here, they took it upon themselves to show up, and they're about to take their asses right back where they came from.

  "Get out of my house," I grumble. "The girl is fine."

  "Obviously not," Bishop retorts, lifting my bottle of brew towards the doc. "You needed some extra help."

  "She's fine," Lucien reinstates. "I need to go up and fix some...mistakes that were made." He cuts his eyes to me. "I'll be about 30 minutes."

  I push my cheek out with my tongue to keep from telling him to go fuck himself on the way up and give him a curt nod of my head.

  I don't need reminders of her condition, asshole.

  Once he's out of earshot, the room settles into the background noise of my TV, and I'm being stared at by two different pairs of eyes.

  "She's in the house," Bishop acknowledges with gratification in his tone. "Did you stab her while you were fucking or something?" Mills steps forward then.

  Bad fucking move.

  My chin rises, securing onto my brother who has taken a very obvious fixation to her.

  Yeah, he won't be getting a piece of that or play Superman to her damsel in distress because I'm the unconcealed villain in this story, and so is he.

  He was the one who blasted through the front door and shoved the butt of his sawed-off shotgun into her father's gut. He broke some dude's nose and busted a chair or two. Then he yanked old pops out, so technically, he kidnapped him.

  "Did you?" Mills presses. He puts in an effort to keep his face somber, but his eyes, the ones that are digging daggers into my forehead, they give him away. They convict him of catching feelings for what's mine.

  "Since when do we talk about our sex lives?" I cock my head to the side, daring him to keep pushing this. To keep showing that he cares—plain and simple. She's not his problem, nor should she be a thought for him.

  "Since when do we call Lucien to fix up our victims?" Bishop emits. "Unless..." He cranes his neck to look at me. "You fucked up."

  Mills's eyes widen, and my jaw ticks.

  "What difference does it make?" I mimic Bishop's movement, fixing him with fake confusion. "Did you need a play by play?"

  His lips curl over the neck of my bottle as he takes a sip, knowing that I'll answer directly when I fucking feel like it.

  "So..." Mills finally takes a seat, resting his elbows on his knees. "She's not guilty?"

  "What makes you believe that?" My gaze trails to him.

  "She's in the house." I guess that would be the one and only clue they'd need to bring them to that conclusion. If we were still enemies, she'd be in my bunker, under six feet of dirt or with a bullet to her head because I didn't feel like digging the hole.

  They're going to find out anyway...

  "I believe we grabbed the wrong girl," I deadpan. Bishop lets a deep chuckle escape his lips while Mills hits me with a very displeased furrow of his brows.

  "You're fucking kidding?" he chides. "You said you watched her walk inside that house."

  "I did."

  "And?"

  "What the fuck do you want me to say?" I shoot back. "Reagan said it's not her."

  "Reagan?" Bishop echoes.

  Geezus fucking Christ.

  "The girl stabbed me with a knife and got out of the bunker. She ran into Rea, started a downward spiral of truths and shit. So, now, she's staying with me."

  Another flood of quiet ping pongs between us.

  I've never fucked up this bad before. None of us have, and, of course, it was me that did it first. I swear my money would've been on Mills and his forbearance.

  "So," Mills begins. "We find the other girl and—"

  "Who's we?" I cut in. "I got this. It's my fuck up, I'll clean it up."

  "That's where you're wrong." Bishop smacks the back of my head. "We need to find out who spun you two in the middle of the road. Why those dudes wanted your little blonde in the first place."

  "Something doesn't make sense," Mill adds in. "How would they know where she was?"

  I shrug and lean back. "No fucking clue."

  "Is she, like, dying upstairs or something?" Mills again.

  I'm going to fucking kill him if he doesn't stop focusing on Stormi.

  "I need to find out if someone escaped that house when we showed up," I state instead, ignoring him. "We need Hollis to talk more."

  "The dad is useless." Bishop finishes off my beer and loudly places it on the coffee table. "And a waste of space. Let's get rid of him."

  "Killing him is off the table."

  Because I can not do another single bad thing to that blonde upstairs.

  "Why?"

  "What is this, question hour?" I signal to the kitchen with my hand. "Why don't you go grab me another beer since you're making yourself at home."

  "I'm a guest."

  Why do I fuck with these guys?

  "I'll get Hollis to talk," Mills fills in, eyes trained on the floor. "Make sure we execute the right move this time."

  I don't miss his cheap shot even though there is no malicious tone behind it. Also does nothing to calm the ideas of his fondness for my captive now turned temporary roommate.

  "Don't touch the father," I order. "Bishop, since you have so many pending questions, when Mills gets that fat fucker to talk, find out if there is another blonde in that house. I know what I saw."

  "Why don't you ask the one upstairs?"

&nbs
p; "I will when she's feeling better."

  "Wouldn't she have mentioned it already?"

  I shrug. "I would've thought so, but..." I let my eyes hit the side of Mill's head. "We were busy."

  Petty always runs deep between us for some fucked up reason, and I could never figure it out.

  Maybe it's because Mills was a monster with more humanity than I ever had. Or the fact that he was easily loveable and the only things that loved me are the tools in my bag, Mama, and Reagan.

  Mills recognizes my shit remark with a huff and kneads his shoulder. If he doesn't have anything to hit me with verbally that isn't going to make a mark, he'll wait. He's patient like that.

  "So, you're going to keep the girl safe here while we figure this all out?" Bishop props his ankle over his other knee. "That should prove to be interesting."

  "I'd sell tickets," I remark. "But I have a feeling it's going to be a very one-sided conversation between us." Mills's lips curl slightly, happy with that fact.

  Yeah, he has a crush on my little victim.

  "Why are you here?" I ask, changing the subject.

  "Captain said you called Lucien, so we figured we'd come check it out," Bishop fills in. "Besides, I love seeing how irritated you are when she doesn't answer any of your repeated questions."

  "You're sweet," I coo sarcastically. "And if you think you're crashing here, just know it'll be outside."

  "Only staying for another beer and the verdict from the Devil Doctor to make sure everything is up to par." He picks at my shirt with his thumb and index finger. "And it looks like you need to change, shower, and get looked at yourself. She got you good."

  Bishop rises from the couch, striding towards the kitchen to grab his beverage and leaving me with the more bothersome of the two.

  "Damn," Mills muses under his breath. "Sounds like she has some gumption after all."

  Who the fuck says gumption?

  My mouth twitches. "I can offer you up as target practice if you'd like, brother."

  "Only if she's into that sort of thing." He rises, not bothering to scowl or smugly smirk at me.

  He found his verbal attack.

  And he hit the mark.

  I remember rough skin brushing against my forehead. His scent; weed, and something that smelled like the ocean. I recall the tresses of my hair gently being pushed away and my batting at the intrusion.

  It’s cryptically quiet when nothing but loud music and haughty laughter normally seep under the crack of my bedroom door.

  The mattress I'm on is too comfortable.

  The air is too fresh and clean.

  The sound of crickets and birds were minuscule at best at night; only leaky exhausts and car alarms were my only lullabies besides what I could hear in the good earpiece of my headphones.

  Sleep began to evade me on and off, reminding me then that I wasn't home.

  I was in my tormentor’s home.

  He won't let me go. He bathed and dressed my wound, brought some weird man in to check me out.

  I wanted them both gone.

  I prefer to be left alone.

  Now staring at the window, the sky is cloudless, painting that infamous "sky blue" color over the flowering tree that gently brushes against the glass. The pink buds remind me of how beautiful it is outside and welcomes me there, but I'm far from where I aspire to be.

  I'm a prisoner that isn't being tortured this time; however, I'm still being "kept".

  That’s the problem.

  My reality is still being confined. I’m still near him. I’m not back in a place where things are familiar, where I can go down streets I can navigate. I have no clue where I am or how far away home actually is.

  Granted, a very tiny piece of me is grateful for the experience.

  Because, for the first time in my life, I feel like I can do anything. That I can stick up for myself, go off and do wonderful things that I only imagined in my head for brief periods of time. Now they demand to be done because I’ve been given a second chance, thanks to Emric’s sister.

  I want to live by the ocean. To have the consistency of the waves always crashing along the beach. To hear it’s different melodies depending on its mood and the way Mother Nature wanted.

  I almost died by water but want to go set up roots there, make sense, right?

  As crazy as it sounds, I connected with it, I guess. As long as I’m not there against my will, I think it’d be a great beginning to the new “me”. To discover more things about myself because I have a feeling that I’ve barely scratched the surface. I downplayed myself my entire life just being timid and secluded in a world with so many possibilities.

  Not anymore and not with this second chance.

  Except a broad man with tattoos and a voice that can spew out the most terrifying things stands in my way.

  However, he also speaks with velvet laced in his tone. Like he actually cares about what happens to me.

  He knocked on my bedroom door this morning, but I pretended to be asleep, not wanting him to tell me that I had to eat and check my bandages.

  He’s done enough.

  I know that I need sustenance, but it can wait for a while longer. The quiet within the house is welcoming over the chaos that I always lived in with Dad's buddies.

  I wonder what Emric is going to do with him.

  As much as Dad’s words hurt me, what kind of a daughter would that make me if I turned a blind eye and let Emric handle him. His way of administering orders and mine are two completely opposite things.

  I’m aware that I have to ask, I’m just afraid of what he might say and that there won't be anything I can do about it.

  A robin lands on one of the tree branches with a small twig in his beak. He’s making a new home, just like me. A little nest to bundle in and find some sort of peace in an always-changing world. Way up where nothing can touch or harm you. I crave the same thing.

  “You’re finally awake.” I snap my eyes closed and inwardly growl at the voice behind me.

  How did he freaking know?

  I didn’t notice the vibe of the room change the moment he walked in, causing my body to stiffen.

  “I brought you some soup, I need you to try and eat today.”

  I could shoot fire at him with the way my body still burns inside. The next best thing would be to knock the soup over onto him.

  It wouldn't be as painful but would still do the trick.

  His weight hits the floor around my bed—determined, massive, deadly.

  And when he begins to round my personal, yet temporary area, I mutter against my bicep, "Go away."

  “With you? Why, sweetheart, you should’ve asked sooner.” He stops in front of me, blocking my view of the outside just to replace it with his gray t-shirt and dark jeans. “I definitely would’ve said yes.”

  I don't look up. In fact, I have a perfect view of his crotch and thighs that would stomp me into dust.

  Surprised he never tried that.

  Slowly he lowers himself on his haunches, giving me a new view to study.

  He hasn't shaved, his dark hair lining his perfect jawline and upper lip. His black baseball cap is covering his matching hair, but his hazel eyes look lighter today. Maybe it's the lighting of the room, but they look softer and...worried about me.

  “How did you sleep?”

  “I had to keep shooing things away from my head,” I deadpan.

  His lips hoist a tad. “So, like shit.”

  No response is needed because he's smart enough to fill in the blanks.

  That and my mouth is starting to dry at his intense stare. It's different from the one I've become accustomed to. His brows are relaxed, he's not throwing daggers at me with his eyes, and his nose isn't twisted in pure repulsion.

  I'm not a fan.

  If it wasn't for his unpredictable nature, maybe I'd get to linger on how handsome and breath-taking he is in a way that I could appreciate.

  Except I just can't cast away that he’s to blame for m
e being further involved in this Sherlock Holmes mystery of who tried to kill his sister. That he's scarred me mentally from ever seeing the world as anything but beautiful and full of possibilities.

  I'm too equipped with knowing this darker side, saw enough already, and I'm afraid it'll always hover over me like a black cloud.

  “Can you eat a little bit?”

  I weakly jerk my head to the bedside table. “You can leave it there.”

  He does, then disappears back the way he came. My body sags the moment the space he was just standing in opens, displaying that my little bird friend is now gone. Not only was it my source of entertainment, but I enjoyed watching it come back and construct his little abode.

  Another blanket is suddenly laid on top of the one I already have, and I roll my eyes.

  This does nothing.

  It doesn’t make me veer off in the direction of forgiving him. It won’t make us become close friends over a very strange predicament.

  His presence only makes me want to run faster, farther away. Make him such a distant memory that when I have kids and grandchildren, he won't even be a floating memory to pluck from my brain as a story.

  “Just a few spoonfuls, so I know that you ate some,” Emric voices, showing back up in my line of vision. “And then you can finish it later.”

  I flick my eyes up to his this time. “Why, because you don’t trust me.”

  He frowns at me.

  Good.

  Not only did he make me scared for my life, but he's still holding it within the palm of his hand. He won't give me what I deserve. What I should have. He won't extract himself out of my life because he's selfish and stupid.

  Emric lowers down again to align himself with me, but nothing he says is going to do a lick of good. There is no taking back what he did, the memories and fear. It's all locked inside my head now.

  “I’m sorry,” he concedes. “You were a case of mistaken identity I guess.”

  “You guess? Didn’t I…” Tell you.

  A million freaking times.

  I pleaded and begged. I cried so many tears when he left me that I could fill a small pond. I thought about death more times than I ever should at my age because he mistook me for someone else.