by Hazel Grace
Air is knocked from my lungs at Bishop’s shot to my kidneys, leading up to his famous uppercut. My teeth feel like they just shattered as I stumble backward before digging the balls of my feet into the grass to stop.
Peering up, I notice the red mark forming on his cheek as I motion him with my hand to come for me again—he does.
If I know anything about my buddy, he can not fucking stand taunting. He’ll sit still all day and wait for the first punch, but after that, it’s game on, say your prayers, and hope to God that he calms down in time before he kills or makes you brain dead.
Bishop swings, connecting with my nose before I’m cowered over and ram my shoulders into his stomach. He falls back, and I go with him, push myself off his sternum to sit up, and issue out a cheap shot to his jaw.
Meaty hands grip my T-shirt before knuckles belt into my gut. It only sends a rush of frenzy throughout my body at his bullshit move, and I’m rapidly throwing punches into his ribs.
“Get the fuck off me!” he bellows, finally flinging me off him. I hit the grass on my side, but Bishop doesn’t move, and neither do I.
This isn’t our first nor our last brawl together, and we normally end up like this—at a stalemate because I don’t want to hurt him, and he doesn’t want to rip a limb off.
“You can’t play possessive boyfriend when she’s not yours,” Bishop finally says, looking up at the blue sky sprinkled with clouds. “Your job is to protect her, not boss her around.”
“Still missing the part where any of this is your fucking business,” I deadpan.
“When one of our own tells me that he was actually afraid you were going to leap over the couch and take him out. Then it’s my business.”
“He’s becoming a bitch.”
“Says the bitch who’s throwing a bitch fit over a prior detainee. Cool it, fucker.”
“He’s fine.”
“And since Reagan told me to keep an eye on you, there is—” I push myself up to stand, already past done with this.
“You having secret conversations on the phone with my sister is going to really get yourself fucked up if you don’t stop.”
Bishop doesn’t move, still flat on his back. “Then you need to stop.”
“Stop, what?”
“You need to let her go. She’s innocent, she didn’t do what you thought, you fucked up. Nothing you do is going to make up for that.”
“Man–” I shake my head, trailing my gaze to the house. “—I thought we took an oath to protect the people of this country.”
“We did,” he replies. “But not babysit them.”
“She was picked up by dudes in tinted out SUVs,” I retort. “What do you think that was?”
He shrugs, picking at a piece of grass. “It could’ve been what you thought, that she was Hollis’ chick. Maybe they thought it was the Bianca bitch. Regardless, let’s go to that strip club, find the girl and wrap this shit show up.”
My nostrils flare, and my inner thoughts bust at the seams.
He’s right, I’m not obligated to her in any way. We don’t play nanny and housekeeper to people.
Except none of us have ever done this before. Tortured an innocent and kept her alive.
My eyes widen at the thought. “You want to kill her.”
Dead air ping pongs between us, and my heart begins to seize. Even though Bishop would never act alone without consulting me first, it still sends goosebumps riding up my spine.
The fucker is scary. He doesn’t like to toy and fuck with his missions, he just likes to hear them scream.
Stormi hasn’t won him in any way like she has Mills. She’d be easy to get rid of, he wouldn’t have second thoughts, and there’d be shit for me to fix.
“Touch her,” I growl. “And I’ll fucking strangle you.”
Bishop moves, getting onto his feet as he glowers down at me. “Would love to see you try, rookie.” He takes a menacing step in my direction. “You better keep your puny threats to yourself, or I’ll burn her alive in front of you and piss on her ashes.”
I bite my tongue, not because I don’t want to counter back with something, but I want to hit him again.
And again.
And again, until I chip away at his skull with my knuckles.
“Get ready to go to that strip club tonight,” I vouch instead. “I’m geared up for some fun. And you need to get fucked.”
Fun meaning my tool bag in the back of my truck and someone’s flesh.
Walking off, I stride into the house. Mills is in my kitchen, fucking eating again—the animal—and I take the steps to my room two at a time.
I need some fucking space and a minute to breathe, to think.
Bishop isn’t way off.
I’ve just let my remorse eat and prod at me to make sure that nothing else happens to Stormi. And I can’t do that if I let her go to whatever vices are out there possibly waiting.
A soft body bumps into me as I reach the top. My arms immediately go to balance the person that I already know is now next to me.
My jaw hardens as I peer down at Stormi, whose eyes went from casual to casted down in something else.
“What happened to your eye?” My hand comes up to my cheek that throbs now that I think about it.
“Nothing,” I atone, feeling the puffy and sensitive skin.
“Like you tripped-on-your-feet type of nothing?”
I adjust my bruising jaw. “Like Bishop and I wanted to fuck around with our fists kind of nothing.”
Her eyes slit. “Why?”
Why am I talking to you about this?
My palms find her shoulders, and I spin her around before giving her a slight push in the direction of her room.
It’s the only thing that stands between us and where my negative energy can’t get to her. Where the blackness can’t overcast her because we’re too different people, on other sides of reality, and I shouldn’t loom over her.
But I want to.
I yearn to soak her in because it feels good. I like how her eyes soak away the sinister thoughts and give me a sense of hope. I’m not sure of what, but the feeling is addicting to the point where my usual calculated moves are scattered all over the place.
“Get along now,” I order, waiting for her to take the rest of the steps on her own.
Instead, she stumbles a few before pivoting back around to face me.
“That’s stupid,” she states through slitted eyes.
“That’s what boys do, I guess.” I shrug, not giving a shit what she thinks about it right now.
I need to re-draw the lines in my fucking head about the limits of our “relationship”.
She’s a guest.
I’m not going to throw, what Bishop so kindly called a “bitch fit” over her hanging out with Mills. She’s going to have to anyway tonight when Bishop and I hit up Dougie’s looking for Bianca.
She juts her hip out and places her hand on it. “Did you win, at least?”
“Stalemate.”
“Bishop kicked his ass,” Mills yells out from downstairs. My head cranes back at just the sound of his voice.
“You need some ice,” Stormi says before I can open my mouth to address Mills and his ass walking out of my house. He can go stay at Reagan’s before he has to come back and watch her.
“I need some tacos, sweetheart.”
And pussy. But not yours. You are fucking off limits for me.
“Tacos?” she repeats.
“Yeah—” I lift my shoulders and angle my face back to her. “—who doesn’t like tacos?” She blinks, and my nose wrinkles. “Oh, hell no. Do not tell me I’ve been hoarding a woman who doesn’t like Mexican food and thinks that skim milk is real milk.”
“Ew,” she retorts, brows furrowed. “That’s disgusting.”
My eyes slit. “Which one?”
“Skim milk.”
“Perfect.” I bring my hand to my chest. “Damn, I thought I was really going to have to kill you.” She rolls her eye
s and hits me with an exasperated look. “Too soon?”
“You need a lesson in how to talk to people,” she asserts. “Unless you’re bipolar or something.”
“I’d rather them just talk to me and answer my questions. I’m very good at it.”
“Mhm.” She sounds unimpressed, shocker.
“Are you gonna bring some of those strippers home?” Mills again. The stupid, annoying ass. “I wouldn’t mind getting an early lap dance for my birthday.”
I have so many comebacks I could say right now. Like, not unless he wants to electrocute Bianca to get a dance, then I’m all for it. Or Bishop making her boogie down on a pit of fire outside, that’d be interesting as hell.
However, I’m trying to shield Stormi from shit, not letting her into every detail of how I’m going to handle this.
Those fine lines I’ve been talking about.
She’s normal, I’m not.
She lives a boring and ordinary life. I live one that consists of stalking, hunting, and taking people out.
And she knows enough already.
“Are you...” Stormi’s face pales as she begins to fiddle with her fingers. “Are you going to...Dougie’s?”
Big-mouth Mills does it for the second time.
“You’re not going to see her, sweetheart, I promise.”
“Yes, but—” She glances downstairs, and I know the ideas and scenarios are running out in her head. Stormi doesn’t want to be the rat that gets the mouse killed.
Makes no sense but whatever.
Bianca so kindly let her take the fall, but I’m not surprised. It’s every man for himself out there, especially when you’re taking the life of a loved one. I’m in it every day, in the business of payback and offing the men and women who want to cause chaos and destruction of the country.
“Will you do me a favor?” She nods without hesitation, which pleases me a little too much. “Will you make me some tacos?”
Her pretty features soften. “Yeah.”
“And vanilla cupcakes?”
She tsks. “What did you do that deserves cupcakes?”
“I didn’t kill Mills.”
“Like you seriously could,” he answers back.
“Stay the fuck out of my conversation, douchebag.” Stormi’s hand falls on my forearm, and my body goes up a hundred degrees.
Now I know what Bishop’s victims feel like.
“Be nice,” she mutters. “He’s just messing with you.”
“Do I get my cupcakes if I do?” Pulling her hand from me, her smile grows wider.
“You’re impossible, Emric.”
“Only if I’m not getting my own way.”
“And a child.”
“Soooo...yes, to the cupcakes?”
“We’re not making you cupcakes.”
“Shut up, Mills,” Stormi retorts off a chuckle. “I’m trying to protect you up here.”
“My bad,” he bellows back as I impose closer to her. Her head follows, tilting up to meet my gaze as we’re inches from being chest to chest again.
Each time is worse than the last, no matter if we’re fighting or just talking.
My lips sting to touch hers. I practically drool at imagining how she tastes when I’d dip my tongue in and see how innocent she really is.
Either way, it doesn’t matter, the end result is still the same.
Stormi within my possession to entertain myself and my cock. Less bloody, less apprehension when it came to me. I just want lust—urgent and powerful fucking between the both of us.
“What about me?” I press. “Who is going to protect me?” Her breathing hitches, and she makes the mistake of glancing down at my lips.
It takes every ounce of will-power known to man to keep me from not plucking her from her spot and into my space.
“You don’t need protection,” she dodges under a whisper. “All you need is a bucket.”
“Too soon, sweetheart.” I tap her nose with my index finger as I bend slightly over her. “But you’re not wrong. Remind Mills of that when you’re with him later.”
“I want to go with you,” she mutters, holding my fixed stare.
“What?”
“I know what she looks like. I can help.”
I shake my head. “Mhm, no, too dangerous.”
“What’s more dangerous than you?” She inches closer to me, causing my whole body to lock in place. Her new shampoo of some tropical shit fills my nose, the want to touch her taps at every nerve in my body, and I should take a counter step back.
But I don’t.
I want to see what this woman does. I long to know how much innocence lies only skin level and if there is anything else more precarious underneath.
“You’re not going,” I transmit.
She presses her bottom lip out in a pout, appearing disappointed that she has to stay in the house with Mills.
Fuck, she’s going.
I never thought I’d end up in a strip club unless it was for a bachelorette party and, even then, I don’t think I would go.
I feel completely out of my element here, but with the jello shots that Mills keeps passing me behind Emric’s back, I’m beginning to mellow out.
No longer am I caught up on how little of an effort I put into my attire compared to the men and women who were dressed up and appeared like they spared more than a few minutes in the mirror.
Me, I strode in here with my white tee, black leggings, and my hair thrown up in a ponytail.
Not that the boys cladded themselves in anything better—they didn’t need to. Each stood out on their own, striding through the club with zero cares in the world while the whole scene took notice—especially the women.
Bishop towered over both of them in a camouflage tee that was rolled up at the sleeves, showing off his structured muscles. Mills went for a more chic look with a fitted black polo and brown buttons that he kept one undone. His shady brown hair is carelessly pushed back, and he looks like trouble.
Fun trouble.
And I was going to get into some if Emric caught me downing a red jello shot after blue. I was quick to find out which was my favorite—red—and that was the kind Mills would grab me from the random trays floating. He’d tip the waitresses that give him a smile in short skirts and tops with their boobs hanging out. A damn tease when he said he wasn’t available for a dance or “special” drink.
Whatever that means, even though...I’m not that dumb.
And then you have Emric, the most captivating one of the three.
In an Oakland Raiders hat and black flannel, he keeps his eyes scanning the place with Bishop at his side. His brawny shoulders offset everyone else’s besides his broody buddy’s, commanding the room and every group of females as we walk by.
I hang back on purpose to see how he’ll react normally, learning how he is around ordinary people in a not-so-everyday place.
He’s the same.
Closed off, not in the mood for pleasantries, and emits an unapproachable vibe. Bishop and Emric together dominate the room while Mills hangs back with me, not needing to be like either of them because he’s an entity all on his own.
And while the two of them are in their, whatever it is you want to call it, Mills and I are downing shots and pink drinks like college students.
However, we need to watch how far off we step to obtain them.
The moment Emric notices that I’m not within his peripheral, his hazel eyes quickly locate me before flicking to Mills with a scowl. Then he returns back to his scouting for what Mills calls my doppelganger.
We’ve circled the place, I’m not sure how many times, while Bishop and Emric stop to ask people questions. And in the middle of swallowing a cherry jello shot, Bishop pivots on his heels.
“Alright, well...that was a bust. Time to go home.”
I drop the evidence of the plastic container before Emric turns himself, still scanning the area as Bishop shoves his meaty hands into his jean pockets.
Mills
shrugs, finding the center of my back with his palm. “Since we’re here, let’s go sit down and have a few drinks.”
“No,” Bishop retorts. “I want to get out of here before I need a tetanus shot.”
“And you could use a lap dance.”
“It’s getting late,” Emric chimes in. “Let’s go ahead and get Stormi home.”
“I want to stay,” I deadpan, feeling a new sensation of fluttering in my head.
Bishop shifts his weight, more than likely annoyed, and Emric stares at me blankly like I just told him I like to sniff white-out or Sharpies.
“This isn’t your scene,” he conveys flatly. “The later we stay the more—”
“I’ve been coupled up with you three boneheads for—how long has it been?” I cock my head to the side, not missing the way Emric’s eyes lock in on the column of my neck. “I think I’ve deserved some fun.”
“I think so too,” Mills agrees, earning him a glare from Bishop and Emric. “You only took her out once. Chick needs to let her hair down.” He playfully yanks on my hair, and Emric steps forward.
“Are you two fucking drunk?” His brows fall, studying me as though I’m going to rat my own self out and blab.
As if.
“Just a little,” Mills replies, pinching his thumb and index finger together. “Don’t worry, I made sure we rationed them out.” He knocks into my side with his elbow because we didn’t.
This dump that they call the “classiest strip club in town” looks like five decades of dust, and dirt was an add-on to the decor, but I do want to stay. Half of the neon in the parking lot wasn’t working, so that should’ve been my first sign on what to expect when Mills parked the SUV.
But I’ve already overlooked the chipped and faded mint green paint that lines the walls and the lack of space for all the people here. They’re definitely breaking the fire code for being over-occupancy, and all the ancient furniture would be a fire hazard. The hardwood floors alone are a risk, lifting upward in spots to where it’s like you’re walking on a century-old pirate ship.
Then there are the cages that are suspended in the air with dancers—yeah, I made sure not to stand under one of those because the chains look like they’re going to snap at any minute.
I bat my eyelashes at the man who appears like he wants to throttle me with his bare hands when really he should be directing that towards his buddy who started it.