OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

  Stormi is a damn idiot for jumping that high. It’s gotta be a good fourteen feet.

  “Well...is she comfortable? You’re not a people-person.”

  “We just went to Walmart yesterday, I let her pick out clothes, her own cereal, I picked out her underwear and—”

  “You did what?!”

  She could’ve broken her damn neck. Then I’d really never be able to live what I did to her down.

  “Marty.”

  “What?”

  “You bought her underwear.”

  My brows furrow, still studying the distance between the second-story window and the ground. “Yeah?”

  “Marty,” Reagan exhorts. “You seriously didn’t.”

  I squint my eyes at a broken branch above the one she must’ve used for support. “I seriously did.”

  “Why would you pick out her fucking underwear! Do you think that would make her feel comfortable?”

  “Is your brother buying that woman panties?” Wade asserts in the background like this is his dumbass conversation. I roll my eyes, not giving a shit what his opinion is.

  “Yes,” my sister exposes. “Because he’s a freaking idiot.”

  “I wouldn’t care if she bought me boxers,” I defend. “It’s not a big fucking deal.”

  “It is a big fucking deal. It’s a huge fucking deal because you just don’t buy a stranger underwear unless you’re a fucking creep, and you’re getting there, Marty.”

  Whatever.

  “Are you done?” I seize. “I’m glad I called to make sure you were alive just to have this enlightening conversation.”

  “Oh, we’re not done,” she assures me. “I’ll call you tonight to make sure you didn’t buy her a bra or cat slippers to—”

  “Love you, Tsarina. Bye.” I hang up, her words slithering through my brain, and a growl leaves my chest.

  I am a creep.

  And a fucking moron.

  As much as I don’t want to admit it, and a lot of other fucking things that have happened, my sister is right—I haven’t been with a woman exclusively in a long time.

  But honestly, who fucking cares?

  I’m not about to get married and spawn off a bunch of kids. Reagan has Huck and the new baby coming, it’ll do for any baby fix that my brain never has.

  The closest thing I’ve had to a relationship was a redhead named Zoe in New Orleans three years ago.

  I took her out to dinner, we went to the bar and the movies once. When I wasn’t hunting down the few terrorists who took up an interest in Mardi Gras with Bishop, she and I would fuck, drink and smoke.

  It must’ve been the atmosphere and the plastic gold and purple beads. They made a debut of my using them to make my target’s choke on. It made for an intense need to want to screw Zoe after each kill.

  So, taking a woman shopping. Yeah, that’s never happened.

  My plan was to just get in and out, especially after that pretty boy who thought he was going to get a pass on Stormi’s body.

  I was on edge the whole time.

  I wanted to go back and find him because all I needed was ninety seconds. A minute and a half to make him regret ever “helping” her with another pair of jeans.

  It wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart or that he wanted to win Employee of the Month, it’s because he saw an opportunity—my fucking opportunity.

  Granted, it’d never go that far. We’ve already established that Stormi staying with me is to keep her safe and out of the way of any more eventful truck-flipping or my losing my shit when someone takes her from me.

  I just want this over. I know she does too, and things will eventually need and go back to normal.

  Which brings me to my next objective for the day—this Bianca bitch.

  I’ve let Stormi skate around for a few days without obtaining any answers, and it’s time I get them. I need to know, my sister is on the other side of the world practically hiding from these fuckers, and it’s time.

  Marching back inside through the front door, I’m greeted by the sound of bacon sizzling in the kitchen. The soft clinking of pans from my cabinets ring through the foyer, and I gradually round the corner to find Stormi in the black leggings that she picked out yesterday and an oversized light pink shirt. Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a lazy ponytail exposing the back of her slender neck as she stands over my countertop, stirring something.

  I park my shoulder against the doorframe, letting my eyes roam freely and without judgment over her body.

  I was right yesterday when I said she needs to gain some weight. That she’s lost a lot from my time with her and filling her out will—well—she’ll be more stunning than she is now.

  She’d be better suited and irresistible with a guy like pretty boy. A woman like Stormi wasn’t made for me. I’m too overcast, and she’s too bright.

  And too fucking cute in my fucking kitchen right now.

  On, cue, she peeks over her shoulder, and, to my fucking surprise, she smiles at me. My heartbeat slows, and my cock stirs as her baby blues glimmer brightly off the sunlight beaming in.

  “Good morning,” she greets, turning her body to face me and taking the glass bowl of what she’s mixing with her. “I hope you don’t mind that—”

  “I don’t mind,” I quickly chant, pushing off the wall and striding towards her. I nod to the bowl. “Whatcha making?”

  “Pancakes.” She beams like it’s an accomplishment. That she’s never been able to do something that simple before in her life.

  I force a smile, feeling my gut slowly knot, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m starving or if my guilt is gradually making a meal out of my stomach.

  “Great,” I reply, stopping outside of an arm’s length from her. It’s not safe for either of us when she looks like a damn snack right now that needs to be—

  Her immediate frown halts me from my progress on that fantasy. “I should’ve asked first, do you like pancakes?”

  “Love them.” Smoke starts to rise from her pan behind her. “Your bacon is burning, sweetheart.”

  Her eyes widen before she hastily pivots around and tends to her searing bacon. I crack open the window over the sink to keep the smoke detector from going off and let some of the warm breeze fill the space.

  Hopping up onto the countertop, I dangle my legs over the sides and continue watching her cook me—us—breakfast.

  “Do you want milk or orange juice?” she asks me, flipping over her bacon.

  “Milk.”

  “And do you want blueberries in your pancakes or plain?”

  “We have blueberries?”

  She gives me an exaggerated smile as she glances back over at me. “I may have slipped them in our grocery cart yesterday.”

  A deep chuckle rumbles from my chest. “What else did you sneak?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I hate surprises.”

  She shrugs, flipping over more bacon. “Life sucks, doesn’t it?”

  Right.

  “Sometimes,” I deadpan.

  “But not—” She looks over at me, her pink lips curving. “—if you have pancakes.”

  I swear to God I could get used to sitting here with her barefoot on my tiled floors. I could listen to her talk all fucking day about shit I don’t care about just to hear her speak to me without any fear in her tone. I can imagine her here, in this house, making breakfast and in my bed with her hair splayed all over my arm.

  In a perfect world.

  But we don’t live in one of those, do we? And I didn’t court her and win Stormi over with my charm or my dick. I stole her from her life, her home, and her present for the moment.

  Stormi continues her work on making breakfast, opening up the plastic container of blueberries, and doing her thing.

  This woman doesn’t understand how her innocent look makes men want to conquer it. Take hold of it and manipulate it to fit their specific needs and desires. She’s like a walking and talking piece of clay that
can be molded into the perfect sexual fantasy.

  And some might just want to protect her from the evils of the world because they don’t want her to suffer through them.

  Them being me.

  She hits the whisk along the edge of the rim of the bowl, getting all the excess batter off. “What were you doing outside?”

  “Observing your escape plan.” She freezes before her shoulders start to tense. Slowly she turns back around to face me. “You owe me a new tree.”

  Her face crunches. “A tree?”

  “You broke a branch.”

  She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “You owe me an apology.”

  “For?” My brow perks, and she continues making breakfast.

  “Being a jerk yesterday.”

  “I’m always a jerk.”

  “Can we keep it down to a minimum?” She asks. “I’m getting whiplash from it.” I scoff through my nose but can’t help the rumble in my chest as she pours her batter onto the skillet she has ready.

  “You’re not the only one getting spun around, sweetheart,” I convey.

  “How so?”

  “Because you still haven’t told me who Bianca is.” She drops the spatula into the bowl but doesn’t face me this time.

  She waits.

  Waits for me to speak. Ask questions. Admit that I need to take care of this before it eats me alive, and I won’t be able to protect Reagan and her family.

  That I need to safeguard her.

  That I want to. I owe it to her.

  “I need details,” I say in the most gentle voice I can manage. “Did you see her that night...when I showed up.”

  Stormi bows her head before inhaling a deep breath. Then she turns, facing me and wearing the bravest face I’ve ever seen on her features.

  She wants this done too. She wants to get rid of me and forget.

  “I saw her,” she mutters. “For a second.”

  My brows knit together. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Slowly, her head cocks to the side, eyes piercing through my forehead because the answer is clear—I didn’t want to listen.

  However, the mention of another woman in the house may have tipped some sort of rationality within me.

  Maybe.

  “Who is she?” I press, keeping my ass grounded on the countertop.

  If I move, I’ll want to get closer to her. And if I do that, my hands will act on wanting to pull her within kissing distance.

  “I don’t know much about her,” Stormi replies. “Just that she comes to the house sometimes, flirts with my dad’s friends, and they...”

  “They what?” Her face turns a bright shade of pink as she averts her focus away from me and to her cooking pancakes. “They screw around.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Hollis...who is she to him?”

  Stormi picks up her spatula and flips over a flapjack. “They mess around together.”

  “And...did she come back with him? To your house?”

  “I don’t know, I was in my room. My dad called me out to grab more beer and Hollis...he came up from behind.”

  So much for staying on the counter because my feet hit the hardwoods and stride in her direction.

  I don’t miss that she cowers back slightly from me, tucking her face back into her chest.

  It does crazy-ass things to my body.

  At one point, I wanted her to recoil and fear for her life when I was part of the equation to make her do things I needed to be done.

  But now it feels like a slap to the face, though, I can’t blame her. I’m not easily frightened; however, we haven’t had the same life.

  My index finger brushes under her chin, and I tip it upwards, coaxing her to look at me.

  My God, she’s fucking flawless.

  “Do you want me to give you a cheap shot on him?” I convey. “One open-palmed slap. A kick to the balls. I’ll let you borrow my baseball bat if you think—” She chuckles, real and melodic. Like a beautiful tune that only she can make.

  “No,” she finally says. “I don’t need that, but thank you.”

  “It’s therapy, sweetheart. You’re still pissed at me. I still have an ear-full to hear, I’m sure.” She looks heavenward. “Is there anything else you know about this Bianca broad? Where she works or the car she drives?”

  She thinks for a moment before saying, “I think she works at a strip club called Dougie’s. She left a shirt in my room with that on the front when she stole some of my clothes.”

  “That works.” My eyes trail over to her pancakes. “Go sit, I’ll finish up breakfast.”

  Her face falls then. “Oh, but I like to flip them.”

  A smile cracks at my lips as I step away to let her finish her cooking, but it fades away as quickly as it came.

  This woman isn’t going to leave marred and broken by the time she makes it out of here.

  I am.

  Judge Judy’s voice rises in pure annoyance as she snaps at someone in her courtroom about fessing up to what’s really going on.

  While my focus remains glued to the screen, another pair of eyes are on me, inches away, silently stealing glances as I try to just relax on the couch and get lost in someone else’s minor problems.

  Mills sits next to me on the couch, ping-ponging his attention between me and the show. His bulky frame and stoic expression starves the room of tranquility that I believed I’d procure when Emric told me this morning he was taking off today.

  “You can stop staring at me,” I pipe up, watching Judge Judy throw her hands up. “I’m not going to evaporate out of thin air.”

  Mills shrugs. “I’m just making sure you don’t shank me or something.”

  Pressing my lips together, I suppress a chuckle.

  It’s not funny.

  But it’s humorous that a bunch of tough killers think they need to “watch” me. Apparently, I need a babysitter. It’d be naive of me to think that Emric would leave anything to chance with my escaping again. It hovers in the air still like a thick cloud when I know he’s on the lookout for any potential jailbreaks.

  Although, I can see that he attempts to give me space, to not linger over me for too long, but any unscheduled noises has him on edge and running into the room I’m in. He almost scared me to death when he burst through my room the other day when I accidentally slammed the dresser drawers too hard.

  “How can she even prove that they had that agreement?” Mills voices, gesturing to the flat screen. “It’s a he said, she said.”

  “You missed the part where the girl said that she has a text message,” I reply with my arms crossed over my chest. “Where he said he’d pay her back.”

  “It’s vague.”

  “It’s around the same period she let him borrow the money.”

  Mills scoffs, clearly, the only one in this room annoyed by the TV show. “You hungry?”

  “No, thanks, I’m fine.”

  “You want a snack?”

  “Nah.”

  “Ice cream?”

  “Nope.”

  “You like chocolate?” Slowly I crane my neck to look at him, eyebrow perked. “Bossman said you had to eat lunch.”

  “Then, I can make it myself.”

  His brows perk. “Before he got back.”

  “And when is that?” I press.

  Mills shrugs then scratches his forehead. “No clue how long it’ll take before he—” He lets his sentence drop off.

  And apparently, I’m not allowed to be privy to what Emric is doing.

  Returning my focus to the TV, I settle back into the show.

  “I’m sorry that you’re still mad at me,” Mills offers, after a beat. “I tried everything I could to make it...somewhat better.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Literally.

  “I know, but—hey, better accommodations, right?”

  I tsk. “Yeah, being shacked up with the man who tortured me was exactly what I wanted to do when he found out I wasn’t
to blame.”

  “Guess not,” he mutters, sinking deeper into the couch. “I know you don’t see it, but he’s really not that bad of a guy.”

  “Good for him.”

  “I mean, he’s an asshole, don’t get me wrong but—”

  “Can we please stop talking about him? I just want to sit here.”

  “Sure.” He stretches out his legs and crosses them at the ankles at the end of the commercial, and the show comes back on with a new case.

  We get lost in a case about a man complaining at a fast food joint about not getting his dressing for his salad, then goes back a second time, snatches the food out of the employee’s hands, and slams the door in his face. His car ends up being vandalized and wants the damages to be paid for.

  “I would’ve blown up his car,” Mills conveys during another break, rising from the couch then towards the kitchen. “Prick.”

  “That’s a little extra.”

  “Big deal, they made a human error.” The sound of the pantry door closes in the kitchen before he reenters the living room. “His fat ass doesn’t need the extra calories.”

  “Mills, he paid for it.”

  “Then, he could’ve gone back to get it.” He plops back down next to me and rips open a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos.

  “Maybe he was already home.”

  “He doesn’t have any salad dressing at his house?” He pops a chip in his mouth, directing the bag at me to take some as well.

  I roll my eyes. “That’s not the point.” Shoving my hand inside, I grab a few.

  “Entitled assholes,” Mills broadcasts, reaching for another chip. “The dude is just a dickhead, and they just showed him that you can’t be like that.”

  “They slashed his tires.”

  “He’s lucky that’s all he got.”

  “Then what would you’ve done because unless you have bombs lying around your house, I doubt you’d be able to blow it up.”

  Mills smiles, and it’s the first time I’ve seen it.

  He’s the boy next door. The possible football player in high school. The guy who got all the girls which took no effort on his part. His grayish-blue eyes are unique and hypnotizing, forging a need to look at them longer than necessary.

  But he’s not a jerk.

  Somehow I feel like he’s the guy that would beat the bully up and have no problem hanging out with rejects like me.