OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

  I’m waiting for him to hit me.

  Actually, I’m betting on it.

  “He’s...not my boyfriend.”

  “Ah…” His fingers route to my cheek. “So, you’re just his little slut.”

  My gaze slams into his, and I want to punch that idea right from his skull.

  “I’m not—”

  “It doesn’t hide the simple fact that I saw you.” He applies more of his weight, but this time on my chest to drive home his point. “I observed everything. So let’s cut the shit and start answering some questions. Who do you both work for?”

  My brows furrow. “I...I don’t—” He grips the already stretched out collar of my shirt and pulls me off the cement and into his face.

  It’s then that I notice he’s not that old. Early thirties, maybe. His twisted face doesn’t hide the perfect shape of his jawline. The sharp edges that are hidden by dark stubble and the penetrating eyes that seem to want to drill into my skull.

  “You don’t speak quickly enough, and I’m already tired of chasing you around. We’ll do this my way now.”

  “I don’t like your way.” He surprises me when I hear a rich chuckle resonate off his chest, the only thing that has warmed my skin since being dragged from my house.

  “People normally don’t, sweetheart.” His weight lifts from me before I’m hoisted from the ground right along with him. “But they don’t live to tell about it.”

  My body collides into his, and for a split second, we stand there in silence.

  It’s enough time for my brain to conjure up that he might have a change of heart.

  That I’m not who he believes I am.

  His analysis is stifling and heavy. It no longer matches his eyes that I believed were black like my situation.

  They’re green with hues of dark specks—maybe hazel. They sprint along my face, searching for something, but his scrutiny quickly fleets as his palm tightens around my bicep, guiding me back to the spot where I ran from.

  People don’t live to talk about it.

  My somewhat calm moment is interrupted by his words replaying in my head. I dig my heels into the ground, but it does nothing to deter him.

  He’s tall, big and wide.

  The muscles in his back ripple underneath his shirt and his inky hair only adds another intimidation element to him.

  We reach his area; he pulls me forward, just to trip me up onto my knees. One of my palms saves me from face-planting, and the other is still within my stranger’s grasp. Something tight wraps around it before I’m peering over at him, hunched down behind me.

  Without sparing a glance, he straightens my spine by hauling me upright before tying my other wrist.

  Standing, he towers over me then leans in to lift me under my armpits and flips me onto my butt.

  He reaches out, the pad of his thumb brushing a piece of wavy blonde hair out of my eyes. It’s then that ours meet for the first time without using his body as a vice or anchor.

  He’s beautiful.

  In another circumstance, I’d stare at him—from afar—and admire his face’s sharp features—the handsome, ruggedness of his kind characteristics when he’s not glaring.

  However, his stares are penetrating like he sees me, and I feel small under his watch. I’ve never been gaped at with such intensity, let alone curiosity. My cheeks stupidly flush under it when his velvet-looking lips set in a fine line.

  “This won’t take long.” His palm finds my chest before shoving me backward onto my spine. My weight crushes my hands as a thick cloth promptly covers my face.

  Then the surprising slash of cold water filling my mouth and nostrils.

  She’s gagging.

  Trying to spit on the remaining water from another bucket as I pour it over her prominent features. With each one of her inhales for air, it only sucks in the fabric covering the holes that she needs to obtain it.

  I’d feel bad if I was normal.

  I would give her leniency if I was a man with any sort of empathy residing in my soul.

  But the woman lying before me tried to drown my sister in the lake that resides in front of Reagan’s house. Only yards away from my nephew, Huck, as he played with his toy tractor in the grass.

  If I hadn’t gone up there that weekend, I wouldn’t have heard her screams for help.

  She would’ve died.

  Her husband, Wade, would’ve found her face down along the water’s calm edge when moments, minutes, or hours beforehand, my sister was struggling for her life.

  My nephew could’ve been kidnapped, killed, possibly drowned himself with the merciless way Reagan’s head was held underwater. Her hands desperately trying to reach for her attacker, water sloshing all over but to no avail.

  Her lungs would’ve held too much water with no hope of being revived by the time—

  The little blonde leans up, using her stomach muscles to try and move the towel on her face by slinging her neck from side to side.

  Too bad that’s not going to work.

  Kyson has a hold of her head. The fabric’s wetness is sticking, making a suction cup effect on her olive skin.

  Shit was so soft under my rough digits that I almost forgot why we were here for a moment.

  Blue eyes that sucked me in when I got a clear view, rendering my ass speechless with how they glimmered. She had an effect on my dick alright, but not because she screamed.

  Nah, this bitch is ruthless, and that would be too easy.

  Even if they did gloss over with bogus innocence.

  If she were vindicated, she wouldn’t have had Hollis knuckles deep inside her pussy.

  The way her head lay back along the couch, letting him get them both off as a porno played off the TV.

  The moment my foot busted through the lock of that front door, my immediate focus fastened onto her.

  It didn’t stop the ideas traipsing through my mind, which clearly didn’t need to fucking be there.

  I’ve never seen an angel—because that’s what she looks like—getting turned up by a fucker who belonged in the sewers. How Hollis was able to con this chick into spreading her legs for him is beyond my comprehension.

  Not only did it crank up my curiosity, but it’s a playing thought in my brain while she’s under me.

  How did she taste because she smells like a field of flowers and cigarette smoke? How soft is the rest of her because her face was like the silkiest skin I’ve ever touched or sliced into.

  My mind quickly forgetting that this woman was a killer.

  She was under me, alright.

  Although I can’t say I don’t love my job. I do, maybe a little too much. My blade running down her cheek was the sexiest shit I’ve ever seen. No assignment has given me a hard dick or the urge to lick the column of someone’s neck.

  Scratch that, I want to bite into it and listen to her scream, moan, cry—fuck, any sound she makes seems to get a reaction out of me.

  But we’re talking about an enemy here, one that hit too close to home. And while she struts around taking on her own jobs, she met her match with this one.

  Except I kill in the first round, and my methods are more bloody. A little more meticulous and sporadic, depending on how I’m feeling that day.

  I like to think of it as art, cutting and boring into people with different objects. Mastering the skill of getting people to talk because that’s what I do.

  And I do it very well.

  “I need a name, sweetheart,” I urge, tossing the empty Home Depot bucket to the side and ridding myself of fantasies that have no right forming against my better judgment. “Who hired you?”

  She’s in the middle of a coughing fit. Struggling to catch her breath and stop inhaling the water that’s now saturated into the towel.

  Kyson meets my eyes, and I jerk my head for him to take off. The blonde’s newfound freedom is quickly taken advantage of as she turns her neck to the side to get some sort of relief.

  When Kyson is no longer in sight, I
rip off the cloth, letting her have a quick second of comfort while I check my watch.

  I don’t have much time left here.

  The cops roam this area at this time of night because the gangs and drug dealers of Venna start to creep out from the shadows. My abandoned car parked in the alley of a deserted building—sounds like unwanted company that I don’t need.

  “Come on,” I compel impatiently. “I don’t have all fucking day.”

  “I don’t...I…” She gags again, and she’s absolutely worthless right now.

  So much so that I’m ready to start cutting her fingers off with a set of wire cutters.

  But, again, the limited time doesn’t leave enough for that either.

  “You know Hollis. How long have you two been working together?” She’s still fighting for air, rolling onto her side to possibly throw up.

  Even looking like a drowned rat, the blonde is fucking perfect. Her skin is unblemished and smooth, her eyes are stunningly vibrant. Through her baggy jeans and shirt, I felt curves.

  Another gasping-coughing fit, and I examine her again while I have the chance. Close up, she looks smaller than how she did at the lake, which makes me believe she’s a fucking junkie.

  My eyes flick to her forearms then up, but there are no needle marks, so she must enjoy snorting or popping pills.

  Regardless, she’s small, which is great for Hollis because it was easy access for him to do precisely what I found him doing to her.

  His hand was shoved so far down her jeans that I could smell her pussy on his fingers.

  Then there’s the fact that he was fucking around when hours beforehand he was the getaway vehicle from my sister’s attempted murder got him. That got him tagged by the butt of my shotgun.

  Too bad she’s soon to be dead weight with answers still clogged in her throat that I desperately need.

  Without her cooperation, I’m just as useless, unable to protect my family from any lurking threat that might still be out there. And if I don’t know which direction to start, I’m fucking screwed.

  It’s not an option.

  And now, little Miss I-like-it-get-off-when-men-are-only-yards-away wants to act shy. And being quiet and apprehensive isn’t going to fucking help her right now.

  She put her hands on my sister.

  My fucking family.

  The only piece I have left since Mama died two years ago from cancer.

  This bitch is going to die, but not before I get answers first.

  “Enough of the coughing bullshit,” I snap, fighting through memories that I’ve backlogged in my brain. “I’m counting to ten, and then you’re going to start spewing out the shit I need.”

  I start my countdown in my head, which slowly turns into thoughts of my sprinting in Reagan’s direction, my heart slamming into my chest as I watch her being drowned. I’ve had things and people taken from me, just like anyone else, except I can’t say that the aftermath was anything but unconventional and accepted by society.

  My sister won’t be one of my grievances.

  I won’t allow it while I’m still breathing. She has been everything to me since I was ten-years-old. The reason why I try to be a better man. Someone she’s proud of.

  We’re so incredibly close, the thought of her leaving this world without me makes me want to go on a killing spree.

  And one of her attempted fucking killers...is lying right in front of me.

  Which means I’m going to be the last person she sees before she takes off to hell.

  Leaning over, I brush away blonde strands off her face. Hair I won’t be forgetting any time soon or ever in my lifetime. And even though I’m on the verge of just taking the easy way out and shooting this bitch in the head, I can’t help but appreciate her beauty.

  Her hair being stained in red is going to look really vibrant off her skin and locks.

  “Alright, time’s up.” Hauling her to lie on her back again, I’m hunched along her frame. “Last time, I’m asking—” I reach for my knife that is tucked in my back pocket. “—how long have you and Hollis worked together?”

  “We don’t work—I’m not his co-worker,” she replies through globs of hair still on the other side of her face.

  I don’t want to push them away this time.

  I saw what she fucking looked like before I yanked her from her home and threw her in the trunk of my “co-worker’s” car. I’m not getting caught up in her shit nor her looks.

  She touched my sister. So I don’t give a fuck if she’s the hottest thing in the world right now. She’s still going to perish by my hands.

  “I watched you,” I seethe, feeling myself reach another stage of my temper. “I fucking saw you with my own two eyes.”

  Her blues materialize something I can’t put my finger on, and I loathe this chick. I don’t know what kind of bullshit she practices—witchcraft or some devil-worshiping crap—but my body actually freezes at her contemplating me.

  This isn’t a fucking game.

  The safety of my whole world is at stake, and this woman bats her eyelashes at me, and I’m starting to act out of character.

  Out of my element.

  “I’ve never seen you before.” Her defiance sparks the fuse to my anger, and it explodes.

  My hand flies across her face on instinct before even thinking about it, but I’m too in my feelings to give a shit.

  I haven’t interrogated a woman in years. She’d already have a broken nose and some cracked ribs if it wasn’t for her sex. At this point, though, she’s lost the right to be treated differently for being a woman.

  Male or female, she did what she did.

  She almost stole from me. She acted, for whatever reason, against my sanity.

  This naive act is old.

  Her sweet voice is grating on my fucking nerves, and I’ve run out of patience and repeated questions.

  I glance down at my watch again. “You didn’t see me because Hollis called you off Reagan Lockwood before I could reach you.” I loom closer to her on my knees. “And, sweetheart, I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you for over twenty-four hours.”

  Fear—it flashes across her face, and I bask in it.

  There goes that first layer of sweetness, and I’m waiting for the next one of desperation to start shining through. Next will be negotiations and then crocodile tears streaming down those creamy cheeks, searching for mercy that she never showed Reagan.

  When she and Hollis began to dip out in his truck, and I had to drag my sister’s limp body out of the water.

  I’m fresh out of free passes to give a shit.

  Reagan was still breathing, yes, cursing under her breath that she wanted Huck. Her motherly instincts kicked in when the two motherfuckers who trespassed on my sister’s property were already on M-56 before I caught up to them minutes later, impatiently keeping a safe distance.

  I don’t remember the ride, just the outcome.

  The stiffness of my fingers that wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. The blunt I lit somewhere along the way, leaving the stench of cannabis wafting through the air. Bishop called me, threatening me not to step foot into the house until they showed up.

  If they weren’t like brothers to me—I would’ve told him to go fuck himself and tell the others to hang loose.

  If it wasn’t for this job, I’d probably be a serial killer.

  “I don’t hang out with Hollis.” The blonde’s voice seeps through the last twenty-four hours replaying in my head.

  The discovery of my sister.

  The innocence of my nephew who could’ve been next.

  The anxiety that won’t cease from taunting me and the complicated fact that I don’t know who ordered this hit.

  “Please,” she begs, unease lacing and twisting in her plea. It makes me wonder what kind of dire requests my sister asked for while this bitch was ignoring them.

  Now she wants leniency.

  A break.

  Compassion when a young child would h
ave lost his mother as I did.

  “I work at a library,” she continues. “I don’t do any—” Her blood-curdling scream echoes off the concrete walls as the blade in my palm drives into her thigh.

  I don’t flinch, nor does she focus into my sight except for in a blur of color.

  A broken sob escapes her lips next, enhancing my brain to wrap this up.

  My go-to is wire cutters; clipping people’s fingertips off seems to produce answers, but something about her tone halts me.

  Nice time is over, let’s end this.

  It was always going to come to this. I wouldn’t be able to not hurt her because of what she’s done.

  What she would’ve finished had I not been there.

  I lost Mama. Now almost Reagan.

  Huck would’ve grown up without a mother. Wade wouldn’t know what the hell to do. I’d be alone because they were all I had. The two women in my life that kept me grounded for the most part.

  One is gone, the other is...

  A wave of panic rushes through my head, and I quickly shake it away.

  This isn’t the time for that.

  She’s alive.

  My squad is everywhere. Outside Reagan’s house (she won’t let them in), and they follow her wherever she goes.

  She’s breathing. At home with Huck and Wade. She’s fine.

  “Please just let me go,” the girl says, rocking back and forth. “I didn’t—“

  “Shut the fuck up,” I storm. “You can’t back up dick, and for each fucking lie or ‘I don’t fucking know’ bullshit you spill, I’m going to start taking off fingers.”

  “I don’t know anything,” she snaps, face twisted in pain. Her hand reaches for the blade, but she whips it back like she’s scared of it. “I keep to myself.”

  “Sure you—“

  “Emric.” My head jerks up to see Bishop bee-lining towards me, a deep-seated scowl coating his face. “The fuck are you doing?” I reply with furrowed brows and a matching glare. “We gotta go.” His beefy hand rips the wire cutters out of my palm and tosses them back in my bag.

  He knows better.

  He’s fully aware that I don’t like it when someone interrupts me when I’m in the middle of—whatever it is you wanna call this shit. The boys have a different name for it.