OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

  Reagan is set on Stormi being innocent. Wade claims to have her back a hundred percent—which is utter bullshit, he just wants to still get his dick wet—and I’m...apparently wrong.

  I want to be on the fence. I intended last night to keep an open mind about Stormi still being a suspect, but she fucked it up.

  If it was one thing I knew, it was alarm and all the synonyms that match it.

  I bath in it, crave it, and use it to fuel the monster within me. It helps solve problems, obliterate people who had the worst intentions that could put thousands or millions of American citizens at risk.

  My career choice might be gruesome, morally fucked up, but the end game was always for the good of the people.

  I broke rules, did some illegal shit by hurting Stormi the way I did, but my commander turned a blind eye. He averted his attention because he knows me and my brothers like the back of his hand. It's the whole don't ask-don't tell mentality.

  Reagan was all I had after Mama died. It's public knowledge through B723. She changed me, made me better, responsible. I'd never cared for anything or anybody but myself since my own family was murdered, and now I'll burn the whole world down before someone came between my sister and me.

  Call it a little overly obsessed or crass—I’ll tell you to go get fucked and lose everything before you come and talk or judge me.

  The folding of a newspaper breaks through the thick mundane air as Wade places it down, giving his attention to his new guest.

  “Stormi, would you like more coffee?” he offers, reaching for the pot automatically to refill her cup.

  She lifts her head from her plate of pancakes and fruit, ceasing her picking at it since she sat down over twenty minutes ago. “No, thank you.” She steals a glance at my sister. “Breakfast is great, thank you again for—”

  "No need," Reagan replies, next to me. "It's the least I can do.” That stressed word can be translated into “because my brother is a fucking prick”.

  Mhm.

  Yeah, one mental state begins to boil over another, bubbling within my chest since sitting down—regret. Something I haven’t felt this strongly since I blew Reagan’s dad’s brains out.

  Not because I killed him.

  But because Reagan did what she’s doing now in her sleep—screaming, tossing and turning.

  I did this, again.

  I brought stress to her world.

  Stormi pushes back her chair gently. “Do you mind if I go wash up before we leave to—”

  “Leave to go where?” I blurt, clutching my fork with more force than I should be.

  We talked about this.

  I didn't cause her to go deaf in the process of my torture—just scared shitless.

  Stormi isn’t leaving my sight, I don’t give a shit how wrong or right it is.

  My victim looks to my sister for help, appearing like a sad and hopeless little puppy wanting to get out of its cage. I don’t give a fuck if they have some womanly bond going on, guess who’s not going home?

  "I'm driving her home," Reagan states, straightening her spine. It's all she has to do, we're about to fight. Those tell-tale signs that I'm so used to, Reagan is suiting up to give me hell, and I'm ready to go to bat on this one. "I promised her—"

  “You don’t promise her anything,” I carp. “She’s not leaving until I know who’s behind all of this.”

  “Lower your voice,” Wade cautions through slitted eyes, making me remember that Huck is in the other room playing with his toys. “And she’s not linked to—” I drop my eating utensils against the glass plate and snap my head to him.

  His douchebag persona is perfectly amplified by his expensive ass suit and salon-ready hair as he sits at the head of the table.

  Wade Lockwood isn't an idiot by any means. He might not know how to handle his shit, but he's far from a pitiful excuse of a politician. He's made things happen, finalized bills and laws, and wasn't a waste of space.

  However, this may be his house, but this is my sister and my responsibility that I may have completely jacked up on.

  God—fuck.

  I literally jacked off in front of this woman and—

  “You’re not making the rules here, Lockwood, I am." I grip the edge of the table cloth that my sister keeps down for Huck and his toddler eating habits. It's three seconds away from being ripped off this table because he's a fucking idiot, and I'm possibly a goddamn piece of shit. "And I say, she's not leaving my sight until I know who did this to my sister."

  "Marty," Reagan quips gently. "Enough is enough." My jaw clenches because she does not fully understand the lengths of shit I will go through—obviously—to keep her and her family safe.

  And I don’t appreciate her dumbass husband for not backing me up. I need his support more than ever right now because her big ass mouth and getting her way all the time has him too pussy-whipped to see the reality of the situation.

  Now is the time for him not to be worthless to me.

  Motherfucker wants to call me up in the middle of eating pussy to bitch at me about not being able to do a job—dickhead—he better be able to look at all angles.

  Stormi begins to rise from her chair again, and I cut into her with my glare, getting her to freeze in place.

  “Remember when I told you I don’t like repeating myself, sweetheart,” I leer. “That applies here too.”

  "Emric." My name is a request to just stop this whole charade and give her up. That she's fed up, tired, and emotionally depleted after what I've done and torn her from. Her home life sucked, her dad doesn't give a shit about her, no matter how many times Bishop or Mills threatened to kill Stormi, he doesn't move or speak.

  Granted, it doesn’t right my wrongdoings, if that’s what they are.

  Regardless, she won't be leaving me until I know who the men were that took her and wanted her for something. There are so many questions unanswered, and I meant what I said to Stormi last night when all I wanted to do was touch her in my buzzed-ass state—she's involved, somehow.

  “Why does she keep calling you that?” Reagan recites, turning her whole body in her chair so that she can hit me with her full-on glower.

  Geezus fucking Christ.

  Like brother, like sister.

  “Because that’s my name,” I deadpan, keeping my eyes locked on the blue eyes that have had me fucked up since day one.

  Wet eyelashes fan her face, almost hitting the, now, healing slice of my knife that I caused within an hour of meeting her.

  “Since when?”

  “Since now.”

  “Marty,” Reagan snarls lowly. “Quit this bullshit, or I’m gonna call Bishop and—” Now my neck snaps to her.

  “You don’t get to fuck around with B723, Tsarina,” I snarl. “Bishop is my man. He works with me. You don’t get to tattle on me when you want to because I’m not letting you do what you want to do.”

  “If you don’t shut your big-ass mouth,” Wade reminds me. “You won’t be working for shit anymore.”

  This dumb fuck.

  “Says who—” I trail my focus back to him. “—you ain’t shit anymore. You only got to where you were because Emmy put you there. You’re nothing but—”

  “One more word, Marty,” Reagan chides. “And I swear to God…”

  “You can’t stop this,” I recite. You can’t change me. “Mama is gone. She knew who I was before I came to live with you and became—”

  “It doesn’t mean you have to keep doing what you do." She glares at me. "You should've asked me more questions about my attacker. You assumed, and I would've told you instead of you...doing this.” She waves a hand in the air to fill in her blanks.

  And this is why I don’t enlighten my sister on my job.

  She can’t handle this.

  I won’t be able to justify my actions to her because she’ll never understand.

  What I do is classified because it’s not considered humane. It’s barbaric and repugnant, no one would sign a petition for me
n or women who inevitably committed crimes against the integrity of our country to be mutilated and tortured.

  "Calm down, Sox," Wade transmits, using the nickname he always does to calm her down. He reaches for Reagan's hand, but my darling sister, she's having none of it.

  Oh no, she’ll rip me a new asshole right here at the dining table and not give two shits about it.

  "You wanna talk about it?" I ask her before jerking my head. "Then, we'll discuss this outside, and you can really tell me how you feel."

  She promptly drives her chair back—huge surprise—and gestures for me. “Lead the way, Emric.”

  I press my lips together and rise, glancing back at Stormi, who hasn't sat the fuck back down yet.

  “If she leaves this house, Wade...I’m going to fuck you up.” Pivoting, I leave the dining room attached to the kitchen and outside where our voices won’t carry over. Where I can take my first deep intake of air since sitting down in that room.

  I need Reagan to understand, just this once, that I have to do this.

  That when I start a mission, it'll drive me insane until it's finished. Once the hunt starts and the adrenaline has formed like a high, I'm addicted. I don't crash until I'm at ease, and danger is at rest.

  It never ends until the person on the other end is dead.

  Once the front door closes behind us, I round on Reagan before her aggravation starts in.“I don’t expect you to understand any of this shit. But I do expect you to trust me.”

  Her eyes flick to my shoulder still stained from the laceration Stormi took the liberties and balls to inflict on me. Never did get to thank her for that. I was too busy studying and lusting over her body in the moonlight like a fucking idiot.

  "I can't support this," Reagan replies, crossing her arms over her chest. "This isn't right, and you need to go to the hospital."

  I lift my good shoulder, ignoring the last part. I have someone I can call. “What happened to you wasn’t right.”

  “That girl in there—” She points towards the house. “—is beyond terrified of you.”

  I tug on my white tee. "Don't worry, she got me back." "She shouldn't have had to." Reagan's face pinkens and, holy shit, she's pregnant, and I'm riling up her blood pressure.

  “Calm down, Tsarina. I don’t want you to—”

  "And why does she keep calling you Emric?!" I make the mistake of rolling my eyes, and she slams a fist into my—thankfully—non-injured side.

  “Because no one calls me Marty but you and Mama, plain and fucking simple.”

  "So, you have an agent name or some shit?"

  “I guess. Everyone knows me as Emric. Marty is home, in a peaceful setting and doesn’t have to think of what I have to do.”

  “This is all too much,” she declares, as she begins to pace the porch. “You doing this to people and for—”

  “Don’t ask me for what, because what would you do if someone did this to me? What plan of action would you take if someone tried to murder me? I know you wouldn’t be hanging out watching Netflix.”

  She scoffs. “You don’t know that.”

  I step in front of her, placing my palms on her forearms to get her to stop, chill, and listen. "The girl is coming with me." She begins to open her mouth before I quickly blunder out, "And you have to leave."

  Her brows furrow. “Leave?”

  “Wade and I spoke about it this morning. You’re going to Italy.” I force my lips to lift and display a smile. “You’ve always wanted to go.”

  “Um, no,” she protests with a straight-laced face. “Absolutely fucking not.”

  “Damn, Tsarina, I paid for it and everything.”

  Her expression hardens then. “I don’t give a flying shit if you bought me a whole year of vacations, Marty, I’m not going to—”

  "Gotta think of Huck," I state, using my ace of spades because she can't deny the fact that they are all at danger. That her son can be collateral damage, and we've passed a point of no return.

  “You can’t expect me to leave you,” she says flatly. “We can do this together and—”

  “Wade would have my ass if I even enlisted your help to Google a morsel of information. I have B723, Tsarina, no offense, but I don’t need the backup.”

  “What about the girl? What are you going to do to her?”

  I rub her arms gently. “I’m not going to hurt her, I promise.”

  “Marty...please don’t put her through anything else. She looks like she’s already been through enough.”

  The cuts, the stab wounds, the broken hope written all over her face...yeah, I know.

  “I won’t do anything else.”

  “Promise?”

  I pull her into my arms and hug her. “Promise.”

  Stormi looks like she wants to take the knife that she stuck me with and do it all over again but multiple times. She trailed sullenly behind me when I took her to my actual house instead of the bomb shelter, acting as though I was about to prance her ass out in front of a firing squad.

  I'm trying, though.

  I want to make her feel more comfortable in a difficult situation, but it falls short.

  She doesn’t move from the foyer of my house, glued to the hardwood floors as I make a mental note of getting her some clothes, essentials, take note of what kind of food she likes or any allergies she may have. I could probably grab some books or puzzles, I don't know what she does.

  “I’ll show you up to your room,” I tell her over my shoulder, climbing the stairs. I make it halfway when I don’t hear her padding across the floor. “I’d be more than happy to carry you up them, sweetheart. Just say the fucking word, or don’t, your silence obviously speaks wonders.”

  Hearing her finally move, I turn left at the top of the staircase, striding towards the bedroom next to mine. I want her relaxed, yes, but I also want to be able to sleep without wondering if she's making a run for it. In a perfect world, I'd padlock her door, but I'm trying to be respectful.

  Still doesn't yank the idea from my head, though.

  Opening up the bedroom door, I step aside and let her walk in on her own. The room is basic, nothing much decorates the walls other than the plants that Reagan put on a shelf that hovers over the bed. Three of the walls are painted in white, and the fourth is a mauve behind the bed frame. The bedding is plain white as well but clean, only Huck has slept over at my place and Reagan when we were too drunk to walk her back.

  “Make yourself at home,” I mumble, extending my hand and feeling out of place with her here—again.

  Stormi hesitantly moves inside, eyes studying the space, and I stay put outside the door frame where it's safe—for me and her.

  I don’t want to hover, make her feel more nervous.

  I've already started us out on the wrong foot, so the least I can do is not be up her ass and protect her.

  “There are towels in the bathroom,” I advise. “Which is past the stairs on the right. I’ll stock the fridge so there is food in there for you to eat, but we might have to make a run into—”

  “I’m not going into town with you,” she chides, harshly. “I’m going to stay locked up in this room until I can leave freely.” Turning on her heel, she flicks her gaze up to me, blue eyes blazing with annoyance and hatred. “I’d say thanks but—” She takes a step and places her hand on the edge of the door, slamming it right in my face.

  Who the fuck was that?

  Stepping away, I rub the stubble on my chin. I always wanted a fucking roommate in my safe haven—said me never.

  I feel like a stranger in my own home. The vibe is off, my serenity is gone, and I feel unwelcome here. Stormi's shit-attitude has sucked all of my homey ambiance out, and it's thrown me into a shit mood.

  It started last night after she slammed the door in my face, I tried to bring her food. And check her wounds. She hadn't eaten since the two bites she tried to chew at Reagan's breakfast.

  In the morning, I made waffles and left them at the door.

&n
bsp; They went untouched.

  Lunch was similar, I knocked on the door this time, only to be answered with a silent "fuck off".

  So I left it alone.

  Dinner, breakfast, and lunch again, not a fucking thing.

  So tonight, for dinner, I pound on the door, my irritation getting the best of me. My temper coming out to make another appearance when I shouldn't entertain it at all. I get that she wants to protest my help, pride, and all that shit, but if she wants to go back home, she's going to have to be alive to do that. Unless her plans were a little darker than what I expected.

  "Stormi," I call out before my fist hits the door again. "You're going to have to eat."

  And what do you know, more of that formidable quiet that I've become accustomed to.

  I'm starting to wonder if that woman even goes to the bathroom because I have yet to hear her open that door. No squeaks from the floorboards with her weight. She's small, but she's not that small.

  I’ve noticed.

  "Stormi."

  Nothing.

  Not a fucking peep. It's driving me crazy, and it's taking every ounce of self-restraint to not lineback the shit out of the door.

  I don't know how to make amends for these kinds of sins I've committed against her, but I'm trying. I've given her space. I've kept my TV down and walked around my cabin like I was walking in an episode of Indiana Jones's where arrows dart from within the walls.

  I'm not letting myself off the hook, I do feel bad. I've put this chick through shit she'll possibly have nightmares about. I hurt her, threatened her life on more than one occasion, spoken some really fucking sick ass shit, and even let my real thoughts come to the surface.

  And until I have more evidence, she’s now innocent until proven guilty.

  Shit, she may be even more paranoid now and turn into a hermit that never leaves her house by the time she sits down and lets everything register.

  Regardless, I've been watching endless games on ESPN and drinking beer like it's going out of style. My gaze periodically finding its way up the stairs to see if I can find her trying to sneak down the hallway but always find it empty.