OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

  Snatching it, I inhale a staggered breath, encouraging myself to do what I don’t want to do.

  But this is life or death.

  I have to play doctor or deal with the consequences if I keep chickening out.

  Not giving myself another second to dwell on it, I shove the cotton sock over my wound. A sharp gasp followed by a groan hums in my chest as I apply pressure.

  My captor—he doesn’t give me any space. A boulder that just continues to sit there like there is nothing more pressing to do.

  “Not gonna be enough,” he voices nonchalantly. Not sure how he’d know because he hasn’t removed his attention from my face but, who the heck am I?

  I’d love to tell him to leave so I can figure something else out, but we all know how well that’s not going to go. So I remain as quiet as a church mouse. When I don’t counter back with a response, he twirls the crimson caked weapon in front of me.

  “What’s your favorite side?”

  “What?”

  “Side,” he repeats. “Of your face.”

  I shake my head.

  One, because I’m not going to respond to that.

  Two, why would I answer that? Not only is this man deranged, but his futile questions don’t make any of this better.

  “I like both,” he continues, moving the blade to my face.

  I twist it to the side to keep any part of my body out of his reach. Away from anything sharp or that could inflict discomfort again.

  The metal tip pokes my cheek then begins to sluggishly trail downwards. He doesn’t apply much pressure, but the distrust that I already have in place for him makes a vulnerable dread creep up my spine.

  “You can do better than Hollis, sweetheart.” The blade halts beneath my chin and tilts my face upward, fully exposing my neck to him. All he needs to do is thrust, and my sock won’t be saving that wound. “I’m surprised.” Green eyes route down to assess the column of my throat than even lower. “He must have a big dick for you to be riding that fat fuck.”

  I inwardly groan at the disgusting image of Hollis and any body part of his. If Emric knew half of the things I’ve had to deal with when it came to that vile man, he would be eating his words.

  Granted, that’d be if he started listening to what I’ve been saying.

  “How many times?” he asks me, his voice sounding deeper than before. I meet his eyes but don’t utter a peep. Instead, he does for me. “Do you think I can make you come?”

  My cheeks are fire-engine-red. I’m sure they’d be hot to the touch because my whole face just ignited.

  A puddle—that’s what I want to be right now.

  Heat spreads everywhere, mixing with my anxiety, and it’s the perfect cocktail of the worst day of my life.

  “Do you like it rough?” Emric leans in closer, replacing the position of his blade from my chin to between my breast. “Or sweet?”

  “Leave me alone,” I whisper.

  My fingers release my soaked sock as I pull back from his advancing, but it’s quickly halted by the wall behind me.

  I’m afraid that if I invest a move towards his knife that he’ll stab me with it. Always positioned to hurt me. At the ready to perform a deadly move.

  Carnage without a conscience.

  “I don’t do this,” he mutters, removing the blade and replacing it with his knuckles. They barely brush up the column of my neck, sending a lethal injection of alarm through my veins.

  “I don’t fuck women that need a push. But I think I’d enjoy you...a little too much. Punishing you, making you scream in, not only pleasure but because I need you to start unraveling all the facts. It’d be one hell of a fucking—” My head slams into his forehead. It’s as though I was just possessed, and some powerful and stupid entity propelled me to do it.

  The immediate aftermath is regret.

  I’m already experiencing enough pain, and now, thanks to my swift reaction, I really did it this time. He can blame me for something I’ve actually done now.

  Fingertips brace my face, but that’s all. My eyes clenched shut during the outburst of losing my mind, and I can’t crack them open.

  There’s nothing new to see, just the same hatred in his irises and the promise of the threats he’s going to make.

  He’s too fickle for me to put it passed him to not do anything now that I just caused him bodily harm.

  “Rough,” he voices finally. “Got it.”

  Swiping my forehead, I consider the pinging ache settling into my skull and welcome it.

  Lesson learned—don’t approach too close to the blonde while taunting her.

  I’ll admit it, she shocked me. I didn’t expect for her to slam her head into mine because I thought she’d play out the innocent act for a little while longer. Straining my patience to see if she could get me to—A, believe her, or B, show her that I was no longer playing.

  I’m no longer playing.

  Except my tools are in the truck, I just showered, and Mills will murder me if I leave blood all over his ancient basement that hasn’t seen a renovation since it was built in the thirties.

  But the petite and utterly sinful angel downstairs just confirmed that she has an unrestrained temper residing within her.

  One that I’m going to snuff out.

  “Didn’t go well?” I half-ass roll my eyes at Mills’s amused voice as I snatch a Coors Light out of his fridge.

  “Define your definition of ‘well’,” I counter, slamming the door shut and popping off the cap.

  Hitting my blunt that was almost wasted by the blonde’s sudden growth of balls, I pray the shit is strong enough to take the edge off my anxiety.

  It’s passed heightened.

  Blondie downstairs isn’t talking, and time is quickly passing me by with threats coming from a direction I’m not privy on.

  “That red mark on your head is new.” Mills and my eyes cling to each other’s—mine is warning him to fuck off with his next comment, and his are laced with provoking me until I throat-punch him.

  “You want one to match?” I bring the bottle to my lips and take a generous swig.

  Mills shrugs his shoulder, and he better sit down. His boyish good looks aren’t going to save him from getting his ass kicked around here.

  “How does it work exactly?” His grayish-blue eyes narrow in mock earnestness. “Do you try to lean in and kiss me or—”

  “Quit busting his balls,” Bishop chimes in, sounding bored at having to be in our presence. “Unless you want your face rearranged, I’m not stopping him if he starts.”

  Mills rakes his hand through his shit-brown hair. “It’s just...funny.” Bish and I don’t satisfy him with a response, so he continues. “Why isn’t she dead yet?”

  “Because I require answers, dipshit.”

  He lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Did you get any yet?”

  Biting down on my lower lip, I attempt to ponder on anything but violence. Where I don’t bust my beer bottle over Mills’s head and pray that a piece of glass cuts and leaves a remnant of a scar.

  “And you’re not going to get them by stabbing her,” Mills carries on. “It’s not working.”

  “I’m not done.”

  Mills’s eyes finally flip and narrow in on me. “Don’t be getting any fucking blood on—” I raise my bottle to shut him up.

  “I won’t. Relax.”

  “You need to change tactics.” All attention in the room falls on Bishop.

  The man who breaks an arm then asks questions later.

  The dude who repeatedly hammered nails into someone’s chest before taking the gag out.

  “I’d love to hear this,” Mills quips for me, pulling out a chair and plopping down in it. “How so, Mr. I-Like-To-See-Them-Half-Bleeding-To-Death before I crack my lips open.”

  Bishops cranes his neck to take another generous gulp of suds then smacks his lips before saying, “Says the dude who enjoys electrocuting people until most of their brain cells are fried.”

&nb
sp; “Feeling a little attacked here, Bishop.” Mills flicks his focus to me. “I’m not the one who takes saws and wire cutters to people’s fingers and tongues.” Now both of them are peering over at me.

  “What is this a pissing match?” I leer. “I’m taking off.”

  “Fucking great,” Mills mutters before I can even take a step. “I get to play babysitter. That wasn’t the deal.”

  “You mean how I got to play one when you wanted to fuck with the child pornographer you discovered in LA? I got to listen to him scream like a bitch for an hour and a half while you—” I air quote him. “—ran to pick up food.”

  “It was busy,” he retorts, averting his gaze.

  “You were fucking that married redhead,” Bishop claims. “So, yeah…you were eating alright.”

  Mills leans over the table. “She’s divorced, for the hundredth time, and how about you enlighten us with your wisdom on what Marty can—”

  “It’s Emric,” I snap, squeezing the neck of my beer. “You don’t call me that.” Bishop appears unaffected, as always, while Mills shakes his head disapprovingly.

  It may not be a big deal to them, but it is to me.

  Emric is who I am when I’m with them, B723—remorseless and bloodthirsty. Picked up by a clan of vengeful outcasts that called themselves the Samaritans, and instead of getting a hug that he greatly needed at ten-years-old, he was handed an assault rifle and lessons in vengeance.

  Preached to death that petitions and prayers were worthless when an individual sinned against you.

  When men and women knew right from wrong but still did it anyway.

  Emric is a monster, a character I keep very far away from Reagan. He was shoved away when Rea dragged me by the hand to her house, proclaiming that she was going to rat me out for what I had done.

  I murdered her father.

  Who, in turn, ordered the bomb raid on Tolnova, the village I lived in with my family near Russia. Where their ashes remain, now blown away with the wind and soaked into the soil that lies underneath it’s rebuilt city.

  Two younger sisters, a mother, and a father.

  I blew Reagan’s dad’s brains out and had zero remorse for what I had done at that tender age of ten.

  Also didn’t think of the consequences afterward. My goal was to avenge my family, and I did.

  All while following Reagan faithfully as she tugged on my hand to tell her Mama what I had done.

  She was the first person I’ve ever fallen in love with after my parents and sisters was murdered, and I’ve trailed behind her ever since.

  Except, sometimes, I feel as though I should’ve allowed her bloom and let her go.

  When Mama adopted me, I became Marty. A troubled boy who turned into a man with a mad admiration for the two women who saved me.

  Who made me believe in something else other than hatred and violence.

  But it never fully stopped the demons that resided within me from coming up to the surface to play for a little bit.

  “Kindness,” Bishop vouches through the empty space between us. “They say it gets you far.”

  “Huh?” Mills sets down his Coke can. “One more time?”

  “She needs to eat,” Bish continues. “Bring her something, show her that you’re—” He quickly sizes me up. “—somewhat human.”

  “I don’t require her to like me,” I point out. “I just need—”

  “Information about how someone almost drowned your sister. The only family you have left. You’re desperate...and it shows.” He doesn’t hide the disgust in his tone. “The more you torture this chick, the more she has to play with.”

  Play with?

  The precipitated beer bottle in my hand urges me to chuck it at his forehead.

  This is the second time in less than twenty-four hours that he’s insulted and pissed me off. As though I can’t do my job, keep my feelings out of it, and—

  Fuck.

  “I don’t know,” Mills sing songs. “She doesn’t look like someone who could hold Reagan’s head down. She’s...puny.”

  “A perfect distraction for someone like you—” I hit Mills with a glare. “—to think she’s incapable. She fucking headbutted me.”

  Mills leans back in his chair and brings his can to his lips. “Can you blame her?”

  “Your approach isn’t working,” Bishop claims. “We found her getting off with a group of men only yards away. She might like dick...a lot.”

  “You want him to fuck her to make her talk?” Mills looks between the two of us when Bishop keeps quiet. “I mean...that’d be different.”

  Yeah—no.

  “I’m not going to shove my dick in that whore’s snatch,” I drone, taking another drag of my blunt. “I prefer to finish when I fuck. Not look at the woman who almost killed Reagan.”

  “You need information?” Bishop gives me a dismissive shrug of his shoulders. “Your dick is going to have to take one for the team. I appreciate screams like the rest of us, but we don’t have a lot of time. We can’t keep her here forever.”

  “Yeah,” Mills chimes in. “My house isn’t for work.”

  “You rent this shithole from an elderly lady to crash,” I drone, rolling the paper of my blunt between my fingertips. “Another day or two isn’t going to kill you.”

  “But, it might wipe out your sister.” My gaze turns into steel as it lands back on Bishop.

  He’s right—again.

  The more time that lapses, the more at danger my sister could be. They could be planning another offensive attack right now while I’m arguing and threatening the blonde downstairs.

  Reaching around, I pull my cell out of my pocket and shoot off a text.

  Me: Hey, whatcha up to?

  Reagan: Watching Netflix.

  Reagan: Why?

  Me: Just checking in.

  Reagan: With ‘whatcha up to’? What’s wrong?

  “You got a better idea?” Bishop asks while I read my sister’s last question over and over again.

  What’s wrong?

  Every-fucking-thing is wrong. She shouldn’t be a target.

  Why is she on someone’s radar?

  Maybe one of my missions getting payback on me for killing a loved one?

  It’d be far-fetched but not impossible. B723 is only known by a handful of people in the White House, but maybe someone leaked it?

  Pivoting on my feet, I make my way to the backdoor to grab some air. I need to think clearly without Mills and Bishop staring at me expectedly and waiting for an answer.

  I’m not fucking that bitch.

  Not with my dick anyway.

  I’m in the basement.

  I’m in the basement with a plastic-wrapped Hostess cupcake that Mills shoved in my chest as some sort of peace offering.

  A truce. But what is peace when chaos is enclosed tightly around my neck? When things shifted, and my stability was rocked when my sister was always supposed to stay out of this portion of my life.

  But the past runs up to bite you in the ass, doesn’t it? Where and how I believed that I could keep Emric and Marty separate is beyond me.

  Maybe I got too cocky.

  Maybe I wasn’t careful enough.

  Regardless, harmony and serenity won’t be something I’ll be basking in until my sister’s attempted killers and whoever orchestrated this shit are wiped out by my hands or whatever else I see fit at that moment.

  Each creak and whine of the wooden stairs underneath me sets my nerves at an unbearable irritation.

  I. Want. To. Kill. This. Woman.

  I crave to feel her life leaving her body under my thumbs and palms. To watch the light leave those crystal blues.

  One last plea to fill my ears before I deny it.

  She nearly had me left alone. She was so close to taking the only thing I have left in this entire universe. And I always thought it’d be me that went first, especially with the line of work I’m in.

  I’ve never mentally set myself up for Reagan dying b
efore me. It’s not a good idea. I’m already a soundless menace to society and human beings with a bright perception of putting others at risk.

  It’s not going to happen—it can’t. Plain and simple. I’ll burn this city down before I let someone touch Reagan again.

  My eyes latch directly onto the blonde as I reach the bottom of the stairs, rocking back and forth on the ground with her arms wrapped around her stomach.

  She doesn’t bother peering up at me, but I can see her trembling, absolutely terrified of me.

  Good.

  My plan is working.

  Bishop’s, however...not so much.

  My fingers crave to smash this stupid pastry and fuck this dumbass plan. She’s not going to rip her clothes off and let me in. I stabbed the bitch, she’s not stupid.

  I don’t think.

  “I brought you…” I clench my teeth because this nice crap is already grinding my gears. “Something to eat.”

  Nothing.

  Cool because this isn’t going to work.

  Carelessly, I toss the plastic-covered treat at her feet, not giving a shit if she eats it or not.

  Lowering myself to the floor in front of her, I analyze the blood-soaked quilt that Mills brought down here.

  If I don’t get her to answer my questions first, she might bleed to death or catch an infection, and I’m not satisfied with that result. I also don’t care for Mills’s hospitality and being so cordial when he just got done bitching at me to get this over with.

  “What’s your name?” If it wasn’t for her long hair hanging in her face, I never would’ve seen her shake her head slightly. “Don’t remember?”

  My fingers itch and burn to just snatch her up by her neck and make her tell me.

  Ignoring me isn’t going to get her anywhere, but my temper taking a leading role in this conversation.

  “Please…”

  Another fucking beg for her life—geezus Christ.

  Rubbing one of my temples, I demand the thin strand of patience that I still have to stay put. “It’s a simple question, blondie.”

  She doesn’t move, I don’t think she’s breathing. Emric is one hell of an asshole, and he plays well when Marty is struggling to keep his feelings in check.