OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

  He should’ve started with that instead of growling in my face and yanking me from my home.

  Taking a right off the stairs, I find the kitchen barren and not at all what I imagined in my head. I’m starving with a twinge of disappointment, but my appetite is to see Marty first before I stuff my face after burning off every calorie in my body from last night.

  Striding outside, the backyard is the same, quiet in its normal way with no signs of the man who sends my body on a high. I round the house to find that his blue Chevy pickup is still parked on the gravel, along with Mills’ red SUV. I wait to hear Mills’ voice or chuckle, his always constant teasing of Marty generally around, but nothing.

  The morning heat is a little more festering today, which leads me to believe maybe they went swimming?

  No, Marty tries not to spend as much time with Mills as possible. Unless he wanted to drown him.

  Scanning the yard one last time, my eyes catch a figure emerging from the thick woods. My heart slams into my chest in one solid beat, skidding and skipping in the next, as I back away towards the house.

  But when it catches the sun’s rays, I’d know the chest of that man anywhere.

  My lips curl as I march in his direction to meet him.

  However, the closer I get, the more I realize how stiff he is. How his arms that sway on the sides of his body are determined, his shoulders squared off in annoyance, but his eyes, they don’t stray from me.

  Instead, he beelines right for me, warming my chest but making my stomach do flips in return. On instinct, I stop, feeling a twinge of alarm through my frame.

  He’s not the carefree man that was with me last night. I can see it in his posture, the way he ambles in my sight warns me that nothing is like yesterday.

  And then I see it—the blood.

  Crimson red splattered all over his face, his shirt and sweatpants. It’s like a punch to my ovaries, the biggest reality check of them all.

  He’s a trained killer, and I have an inkling that’s not his blood on his t-shirt.

  I’ve seen the way he fights.

  I’ve experienced the unrehearsed rage coursing through his body. The haunted creature that lives under his skin that doesn’t like to be taunted.

  “Marty,” I mutter as my body begins to tremble with the authenticity of the man who just stopped in front of me. His detached hazel eyes watch me as I say, “What did you do?”

  I can’t and won’t stop staring at Stormi as she peacefully lies next to me, softly breathing in my arms. Her blonde strands splayed all over my bicep and tattoos, sleeping like the angel who just got fucked by a monster who’s had a hard-on for her since day one.

  I’ve come full circle, not even realizing it until she was a bundle of exhausted nerves and muscles in my clutches.

  The lake was the reason I went looking for Stormi in the first place. Every glimpse of the crystalized-looking water always reminded me of that day. It drove me to do crazy shit and accuse the woman at my side of attempted murder.

  Now it’ll pose something different entirely.

  I’ll recall every curve and dip of her body as I replay her mewls and moans that sung into my ears. Only fueling me to thrust, kiss, and produce every good feeling I could for this woman.

  I’m stuck, comfortably so, metaphorically and physically, and I don’t mind it.

  I prefer it.

  In her kiss was my revolution to feel something other than hollow and anger. I guess I never fully calculated it for what it was. I hid behind B723, made sure my sister was well taken care of, and everything else took a backseat.

  I took a backseat.

  Stormi suddenly moves and curls closer to my chest, turning onto her side to face me. Her head nestles into the crook of my shoulder, and she feels like home.

  A safe place without walls and restrictions.

  A spot where I could just be me, and she’ll always be her.

  Where I can kiss her whenever I want, and nothing outside lies there to disturb us.

  It’s a dream, a fantasy, but regardless Stormi is salvation that I’ll gladly swallow down and learn. A gentleness that doesn’t exist unless it’s involving Huck or Reagan, and even then, I’m somewhat rigid and impassive at times. I guess my job never leaves me when I go home as much as I try to keep it away from here.

  But somehow, it found me.

  My sins followed me back, and even through the anger and hostility, Stormi became the beacon in the lightless tunnel of my existence. I’ll always owe her, and I’ll happily do it every day if things could stay how they are now.

  The obnoxious ringing of a notification sounds off on the floor from my phone. Glancing over at the bedside table, it’s well past two in the morning as I carefully slide my arm out from under Stormi’s body.

  I snatch up my pants, surprised that the fucker still works since I was only balls deep inside Stormi for over fifteen plus minutes in the lake. I should write Samsung a review.

  Powering it on, a “movement” notification displays on the screen, prompting me to open my security app for all the cameras surrounding my cabin and Reagan’s.

  And there are three blacked-out SUVs parked down the driveway of her house right the fuck now.

  My body remains frozen as I examine where they’ve stopped, close to the road where they wouldn’t give away any sound of their tires on the gravel. My regard flicks to Stormi, still curled up where I left her and vulnerable to everything in my world.

  You need to go, she’ll be fine.

  I don’t fully believe or want to chance breaking away from her when tonight was more than I ever imagined in my head. I didn’t even get to wake up with her and crawl between her legs to show her how much I loved listening to her come.

  Forcing myself to move, I sprint to my own room, hauling open my dresser drawers and pulling out sweatpants, two Glocks, and a blade. My heart hammers into my chest as I put on my pants and haul ass down the stairs and out the front door.

  I don’t want to leave Stormi alone. I don’t know if they know about her.

  I’m not aware of shit—how many guys are out here, where they are, what kind of weapons they’re carrying. My head screws on tighter, focusing on my mission—kill the threat.

  Always the threat that might cause damage. The peril that can wreck some kind of havoc that has to be stopped.

  And in this circumstance, it’s Stormi I’m deathly afraid of getting hurt this time.

  My sister is far away and safe on the other side of the pond.

  And nothing will come within a football field of the bundle of fuckable blonde in my house while I’m on the ground running.

  Flying off the front porch, I dash through the yard and into the woods, trying to shove my worries about Stormi aside.

  If I can get to them first, they’ll never make it off Reagan’s property.

  I don’t care if there is an army out there waiting, they’ll all be slaughtered before they lay eyes on what’s mine.

  The summary of the gorey story is as follows:

  I killed the first fucker that was the lookout. He obviously sucked at it because there I was, stepping behind him and slitting his throat in one clean slice.

  The second was a burly asshole who appeared like coffee and donuts were his food group of choice. He vibed me as an old cop that decided the payroll wasn’t enough on the good side, so he turned the tables on a new career.

  He got shanked in the throat. His sharp gasp got his neck snapped next.

  Douchebag number three was a kid, probably a recruit. I wanted him alive. The newbies were always the fucking easy ones to get information out of. So he got choked out so that I could come get him later.

  Then it gets complicated.

  Ass clown number four and five dart out of Reagan’s house a little faster than planned, and when they did the “deer in headlights” thing when I came into view, I reacted.

  My first shot missed the guy on the right from the lack of light—because why would
the moon cooperate—and I took cover behind Wade’s Mercedes Benz.

  They returned fire, which brought out dickhead number six.

  Three SUVs with only two dudes in each—something didn’t feel right. And my apprehension prompted me back to Stormi and how only a thicket of trees and brush kept anyone from taking her from me.

  A full round of bullets smash through the glass of Wade’s ride—the bullet holes are going to make him look so badass when he goes into the office—as I make my way towards the hood.

  As they focus their aim on the trunk where I disappeared behind, gunshots are going to get the attention of anyone else nearby. Anyone who might have not stayed around Reagan’s house and proceed en route to mine.

  Since I have nothing to lose, because ass clowns number four and five are wasting good ammo on Wade’s paint job, I get the perfect vantage point and take out both in three shots.

  Old man number six, his aim blows balls, so he’s a one-shot stop and then crickets.

  My eyes trail to the woods leading home, and I impatiently wait. If there is anyone in there, they’re going to come out and head this way towards their buddies, but my ass has to move.

  Reaching the side of the house, I get within the edge of the wood line and bide my time, praying to anything higher than this situation that no one has breached the inside of my house.

  And just when I’m about to move because I can’t take the unknown any longer, sure shit, two figures cautiously break from the darkness.

  I circle around to get behind them, watching my step to not snap any sticks or branches as they cautiously walk to their fallen buddies. One points for the other to check the side of the house while scoping the area for me, giving me only a small window to make my next move. When in range, I chuck my blade into the bigger guy’s back and barrel-run into the other.

  Knocking him to the ground, I reach around for my Glock and yank on the trigger towards the dude I literally just backstabbed. The bitch underneath me is smaller, easier to carry, and became my newest member of my torture games.

  Fast forward to now, and I’d rather be back to the vortex of adrenaline, worry, rage, and intent focus from last night instead of catching the fear in Stormi’s blue eyes as she slants her head up to me.

  And the fucked up part...is that I want to fuck her right now as she asks me what I did.

  I did it for her.

  I did it for my sister and her family.

  I did it for me so that I knew that when the time came, Stormi would be safe.

  Because who the hell am I kidding?

  I’m making this whole thing a mess in my head. I could take last night and file it away to keep forever, but I could never keep her. No matter how brightly she shined, it’d never be enough to keep my darkness well lit for her to find her way.

  For her to be happy and safe.

  My life wasn’t rainbows and fucking daydreams but late-night fucks and havoc. I’d kill her. I would massacre everything about her.

  Stormi moves again towards me, even though she appears like she’s about to fall to her knees and cry right now. My chest pings in an uncomfortable stabbing sensation, and I want her to go. That annoying ass pricking at the back of my neck implores me to wrap her up in my arms and tell her everything is going to be fine.

  It is, just not with me.

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t extract a peaceful side of me for long.

  Everything is violent, whether there’s blood or not.

  This is who I am.

  Who I’ll always be.

  I’m friends with the monster, and he has me roped in a bond that leaves no spot for her in my existence.

  “Marty,” she repeats, her voice cracked and strained from a sob that wants to break from her throat. Her blue eyes gloss over in denial and realization, and it might as well be a kick to the balls. The curling and knotting in my gut is forming so tightly that I’m ready to go kill the other fuck in my bunker right now.

  Seems as though the younger one has a better pain tolerance level of having his fingers snipped off.

  “Get back inside, sweetheart,” I order so that I don’t take the chance of my body betraying me and brushing up against her. It’s getting too reckless with thinking it can just take without consequences at the end of all this.

  “What...happened?” She slowly takes another step, her eyes studying, trailing, and scoping my frame.

  It cranks on the knob for my temper to kick in. I don’t need her asking me questions. I don’t have to explain how I just slaughtered eight dudes on my sister’s property and another in my bunker.

  “Shit,” I deadpan. “I need to take a shower.”

  I move, taking the chance of body parts grazing against the softest ones I’ve ever felt when her arm lands on my forearm and—as if on command—I stop on demand.

  The fuck?

  “Is this your blood?” For a split second, I appreciate the gentleness of her words. That she cares if I’m hurt or in need of some sort of aid. But, again, the questions.

  “No.” I step away from her. “It’s not.”

  Her jaw pops open, and I want to brush my fingers over the plush flesh of what I wanted next around my cock, but—I mentally shake my head.

  I’m not doing this right now.

  Let the record show that karma is a bitch, and the reality check it just slapped me with is noted.

  Nothing good ever lasts forever, and I can keep her safe from anyone...even me. She’s not built for this.

  The fucking problem is that she’s perfect for me if I didn’t like to fuck people up in unconventional ways because it’s therapy.

  Striding for my house, I haul open the back door and make my way to the bathroom upstairs. I need to clear my head, wash the blood off, and relieve Mills in about an hour with promises of making him a sandwich or some shit.

  The only things I should be thinking about is how long I’m going to wait for the young kid to talk before I rip his tongue out and what I want to eat as well.

  And even then, I can’t bear to be in my own house when Stormi is having a civil war in her head that I can feel because that’s what she’ll do. It’s what any normal human being with a brain would do.

  I’m not ordinary, we’ve already established that.

  A soft graze brushes my back, sending a swell of electricity through my body and whipping me around as though someone just tased me.

  Stormi shows up in my line of sight, stumbling back at my jerky movement, and my hands snatch onto her biceps, so she doesn’t break that pretty neck I’d like to run my lips and tongue down.

  “What are you doing?” I growl, not bothering to hide my annoyance. She couldn’t have just waited until we were up the whole flight of stairs before touching the man who is becoming more unpredictable as the hours go by.

  “I—” It might be the furrowed brows I’m displaying and the shitty-ass attitude, but she doesn’t finish, nor does she need to.

  I’ve shell-shocked this woman when I should’ve just listened to Bishop in the first place. She’s just being reminded that I’m not someone who is going to have a 9-5 job and make babies with her.

  I’d love to make babies with her.

  Wait...what?

  I take another step up the stairs still staring at her, but now like she’s about to change my whole life and demand I make adjustments to it.

  That through those powerful little pools of her eyes she’s going to stupify me to do her bidding of how she’d want our life to be.

  Mine’s set, I’m good. I like what I do, and I’m not altering shit.

  Fuck no.

  I’m not her keeper. She doesn’t belong here. There’s no way in hell she’s not going to get her feelings hurt. And I loathe the fact that Bishop has been right this whole time. Once I found out she was innocent, that should’ve been it. Give her a threat dangerous enough to keep her mouth shut and send her on her way.

  “Were you coming up to bitch at me, Stormi? Or did you
have something else you wanted to say?” Her speculation drags across the blood spotted and scattered over my chest, and it feels judgy.

  When she comes back with nothing, I shake my head and make my way up the rest of the stairs.

  That should be it, I haven’t treated her like this since I thought she was behind Reagan’s attempted murder.

  That usually made her shut up.

  However, this woman has the balls to whirl me around seconds later by my forearm, and I let her, finding her again with more determined features on her face.

  “I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” she states with puckered brows.

  “Was that it?”

  Her frown deepens. “No. What happened?”

  I pry my focus from her, not wanting to get distracted from her disheveled hair and glowing features protruding what we did hours ago.

  She’s already a fucking complication.

  “Three blacked-out SUVs showed up at Reagan’s house last night to finish the job. I showed up, got two guys down in the bunker—one of them is dead already—and I’m getting information out of the other one.”

  She stares at me like I’m a psycho.

  I am, I guess, in a way short-circuited and screwed up, but I didn’t ask for her opinion on my personal behavior.

  “You never answered the ‘are you okay’ bit?” My attention falls back on her, and she mirrors a mother that’s about to smack the shit out of her teenage son.

  It’s kinky, but current day, blood on my skin, I need to clear my head, she’s driving me nuts right now—need I say more?

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” She steps forward, softening her forehead and regarding me now with a sparkle of worry. “You have to stop this.”

  I perk a brow. “Stop what?”

  “This—” She waves a hand in the air. “—this torture stuff.”

  And here we fucking go.

  “It’s what I do, Stormi,” I ground out. “Do you think me asking nicely is going to get me what I require from these men?”

  “No, but—”

  “Then don’t offer your point of view or start issuing out orders for me to do shit. Especially since this isn’t any of your business.”

  She drifts back as though I just backhanded her.