OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

  On my third piece of pepperoni, Emric watches me from across the room in a brown rocking chair. I'm not a vegetarian, wouldn't survive being one, and I wasn't looking for him to try and force-feed me again.

  That, and I'm starving.

  "How's the meat?" Emric asks as he chews on his slice, lips curved slightly at the edges of his mouth.

  If I knew this “dinner date” that he mentioned was going to include more questions, I would’ve taken it up to my room.

  “Do we have to talk during this?” I counter, bringing my attention back to the only thing interesting in the room—my pizza slice.

  He shrugs nonchalantly in my peripheral. “Not unless you don't want to talk about your dad.”

  I stop chewing, my jaw tightening at these "deals" he keeps shoving my way. It's incredible how a man I've never met can hold so much over my head.

  “It’s good,” I mumble. “The pizza is fine.”

  "Veggie lover, huh?"

  "Nope."

  He scoffs lightly. "Thought so."

  "Good thing you didn't bet." I lean back in my chair then carefully readjust my good leg underneath my bottom.

  Me and my good ideas. I should’ve waited as originally planned to act on that escape plan of mine, but...spending time in this beautifully done cabin is starting to suffocate me.

  "Good thing," he repeats, grabbing another slice before throwing the crust of his previous one in the box. I mindlessly perk a brow that he catches onto. "What?"

  “Nothing.”

  Besides the crust being the best part of the pizza, you fool.

  “Speak what’s on your mind, Stormi,” he offers. “Believe it or not, you’re safe here and under my protection.

  I swallow the numerous comments flooding my brain.

  Yeah, right.

  Sure I am.

  I'm safer than a tiny fish in a pond full of sharks.

  I'll trust you when I develop short-term memory loss, and you decide to get a clue that I'm never forgiving you.

  “I believe that your father might know or has heard something from Hollis. If they are close, like you said, he might help.”

  No clue.

  “No clue.”

  “I need it,” he states more urgently. “And I don’t have any more time to mess around.”

  My eyes flick to him, a wave of anxiety creeping up my spine. “What does that mean?”

  Emric continues chewing his pizza, letting me fill in the blanks between us. How can he eat, number one, at a time like this? And, two—

  "How will you know either way?" I manage to force out, all of a sudden, losing my appetite.

  “The same way I—” I abruptly rise from my chair and toss my paper plate with my pizza on the coffee table.

  “You can’t. You can’t do that.” He peers up at me, hazel eyes filled with determination and calmness.

  This seems like a normal thing for him, but it’s not for me. He can’t put people’s lives at risk by his hands and expect things to just appear. I got extremely lucky when I ran into Reagan to get out of my predicament.

  There is no one to save dad.

  “You…” My words—they run. They don’t want to deal with the reality of what could happen with the man sitting across the room from me. How he holds the only piece of family I have in the palm of his hands.

  “You, what?”

  My stomach knots, but I tilt my chin up anyway. All he's ever seen from me is fear and hopelessness. But I don't feel courage. Emric is more than I could ever be, right or wrong, moral or cordial, I'll never be as strong as him.

  “You wouldn’t...kill him if he had nothing to say or give to you, right?”

  He nods. "Eat your food, and we'll talk about it."

  I don’t want to eat and talk about it.

  I just want him to blurt it out and let me...deal with it. Think of something to do or another way to escape this house.

  What good would that do?

  I have no idea where I am, where Dad is locked up, how I'd be able to find him or locate someone who might know? I'm as worthless as I feel.

  Emric continues to look at me expectantly, so I compel myself to sit in front of the man who’s changed my life forever.

  And not in the way that will make me write a eulogy piece at his funeral.

  “Don’t see you eating, sweetheart.” My eyes cut into him, but I snatch my plate back up, catching my slice of pizza before it slides off and take a large bite to appease him.

  "I'll make a deal with you," he offers, leaning up in his chair. "Question for a question. You ask me, and I'll answer truthfully and vice versa. Deal?"

  “What could you possibly want to ask me that you haven’t already?”

  His face holds straight-laced as we hold a locked staring contest. "Deal or not?”

  I have a feeling, either way, this isn't going to work out in my favor.

  I could lie, telling the truth doesn't get me anywhere. Whatever doubts or misgivings that he wants to get out in the open, they lead to one thing—I have no clue what he's going to be talking about.

  "Fine."

  Off my answer, Emric tosses the rest of his pizza in the box. His eyes that turn moss-like study me like I'm prey again. "What's up with you and Hollis?"

  My eyes slit as he looks fixedly on me.

  I'm tired of thinking of that man. I don't want to ponder on the way he made me feel or the things he did. I don't want to recall the dread I felt in my veins when I heard him in my house, which was supposed to be a safe place.

  He was the last thing I wanted to discuss.

  “Who said you got to start the questioning?” I object instead, casting my own slice of pizza in the box, followed by the plate.

  “If you wanna go first, go for it.” He folds his hands together, broad shoulders extenuating as he patiently waits for me to start.

  This man…

  He’s the most frustrating human being I’ve ever had the misfortune to have met.

  “You have to promise not to hurt my dad.”

  One of his brows lift. “That’s a statement, not a question.”

  “Emric,” I chide. “He doesn’t have anything to do with Reagan. I wouldn’t protect him if—”

  “Why are you protecting him?”

  “My question first.”

  He gives a dismissive shrug of his shoulder. “It wasn’t a question.”

  “Emric.”

  "Sweetheart." I bite down on my lower lip to keep from screaming out. If every single one of his victims were like him, I could see why he kills people.

  “Please,” I cajole, swallowing down the last ounce of pride that I have left. “He’s not—” The wicked curl to his lips stop me from continuing my sentence.

  He might not be privy to this, but every one of his expressions radiates devilry.

  And it kick starts my paranoia on what's going on in his screwy head.

  He probably chuckles at videos of dog fights or kittens drowning. His hobbies are more than likely skinning animals or sitting outside and sharpening knives.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  "No reason." He remains perfectly still while I just notice that my good leg has been bouncing this whole time. I quickly halt my nervousness and straighten my spine.

  "My dad," I repeat. "Promise that you won't—"

  "No."

  My whole face twists at his quick dismissal.

  But, then, I'm talking to a sociopath, and he's not going to help me.

  Nothing I ask is going to be answered, and I've already said I didn't trust him, so...this is pointless.

  I stand, scared to turn my back to him, but gallop up the stairs anyway, ignoring the discomfort in my leg.

  I need to get out of here.

  I need to think of a very detailed and solid-proof plan to help Dad.

  I need to get out of here.

  Jerking my bedroom door from behind me to close, I stride for my bed. Except, it doesn't sound shut behind me.
<
br />   Pivoting on my heels, Emric is right in front of me, glaring down at me with his intimidating and hardened features.

  A shrill of trepidation courses through each pore of my body because I’ve been here before.

  He's stood in front of me with fury and disgust while strategizing how to get me to talk. How he'd torture me until I pleaded for my life and, even then, he'd never give it to me. Not when his sister was in danger, and her future hung in the balance.

  “You made a deal,” he leers softly. “So, you stomping off like a little brat isn’t going to get you off, sweetheart.”

  “You’re baiting me,” I snap, balling my hands into fists. “You’re not—”

  “I’m not, what?” He looms closer, making the room smaller. Composing my throat to close up and make it hard to breathe. “You asked a question—finally—and I answered it.”

  “That doesn’t count.”

  "Was it a question?" I inhale a deep breath. "Thought so. Now—" His fingertips graze my forearms, and I jerk back from the feel of him.

  His hands are weapons, and I'll never forget what he's done to me with them. His being in the same room with me is distressing enough.

  He takes a step back, giving me the space I need, but he doesn't look happy about it.

  A muscle in his jaw just ticked, and he averts his eyes from me, looking at something in the room.

  “I told you that I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he mutters, his body tense.

  Like you did before?

  Like I’m supposed to count on that.

  Slowly reaching behind him, he pulls out a knife, and I gasp loudly—can't help it. My thigh that he penetrated with said weapon begins to throb on command, and I stumble back, hitting the edge of the mattress.

  Flipping it in his hand, he palms it and extends his arm. “Take it.”

  I stare at it like it’s about to come alive and do some weird Harry Potter thing where it shoots off his hand and stabs me again.

  "Stormi," he croons softly. "Take it." Reaching out further, he offers it to me again. I shake my head.

  Yep, he's out of his mind.

  The hairs that stand on end all over my body warn me that this is a trick. It's some sick ploy to make me do exactly what he wants.

  Intimidation, I never thought much of the word until I landed up in his possession. Now I completely understand its meaning and the way it makes you feel.

  Emric stretches out his arm, softly grasping mine and places the weapon in my palm before wrapping my fingers around it.

  I've felt this knife before, but I don't want it to become a normal occurrence where I'm carrying around daggers or other sharp objects.

  “Right here—” His left hand points to the column of his neck. “—carotid artery, flip the blade open.” I don't. “Do it.” His voice is commanding but delicate, waiting for me to follow his lead in attempts to make me feel comfortable. “You stabbed me before, you’ll be fine. Just need to hit higher next time.”

  An influx of guilt hits me, and while I apprehend that it shouldn't be there, it is. My gaze flicks to his shoulder, but it's covered by his gray shirt.

  “It’s fine,” he claims. “Don’t feel bad about it.”

  “I don’t,” I quickly retort before taking a step back. “Why would I?”

  “Because you’re not like me.”

  I perk a brow. “I did exactly what you did to me.”

  “But I wanted to kill you,” he vouches, turning my skin cold. “Open the knife, Stormi, and I’ll answer your statement-question.”

  Tilting the blade, I find the lever, and the sharp metal pops out with a snap.

  “I won’t hurt your father,” he alludes. “If you tell me what your relationship is with Hollis.”

  I grip the knife tighter in my hand. “That...wasn’t the deal.”

  Staring at me for a moment, he finally nods. “You’re right. I won’t kill your father.”

  “You...promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Can I see him?” He frowns, eyes narrowed in on me like I’m insane for asking.

  Maybe I am.

  Still doesn't change the fact that he's my only parent, and I need to make sure he's tended to.

  “Why?”

  “He’s my dad.”

  “He didn’t—” He straightens his spine, giving me all of his threatening height before he blows out a harsh exhale.

  Bringing his hand to his face, he rakes it down his features, aware that he owes me this. However, I think he’s afraid I’ll try to escape again.

  “Hollis,” he states more firmly. “What’s your relationship with him?”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I counter.

  His biting stare hits me for the hundredth time tonight, and I cower back a little. "You already asked one. My turn.”

  “I—”

  "Why the fuck are you shaking now?" His words are hard, bothered, and I didn't realize I was until I glance down at the weapon in my hand, convulsing at that name.

  "I...I—" He's on me, his collarbone in my face, and I can feel his biting glare burn through my skull.

  A deal is a deal, but I wouldn't have agreed if I knew he was going to bring him up several times. That I had to talk about my demons and the ones before Hollis that I’ve shoved from my brain.

  When Hollis showed up, the rest didn't come around anymore. I think he had something to do with that, and while I was grateful that they didn't, Hollis was there to pick up the slack.

  “What did he do?” His directive is a deep growl and, even with his knife, I’m frozen to my spot.

  Recalling the past is almost as hard as being tortured by Emric. At least his ending for me would’ve taken everything in my history and wiped it clean.

  Fingers wrap around my chin, slowly tilting my head up to meet his, now, dark greens. He attempts to soften his features, but his jaw is locked tight.

  He has no right to be angry with me or my situation. He's not a hero, and his trying to defend my honor is ludacris.

  “Tell me,” he presses. “No matter what...I’m not going to do anything to you.”

  I want to open my mouth and be strong.

  I want to tell him to go fuck off.

  I want to be like his sister, Reagan, and not be afraid of his facial features that turn into steel because he’s something else underneath the facade of torturer and judge.

  Except my breathing hitches, sweat begins beading at the back of my neck and forehead, trailing down my skin.

  And the whole world seizes.

  She passed the fuck out, almost hitting the ground before I caught her.

  I wanted to wake her up, ask her what the fuck that was all about, but I pulled the white comforter up to her chin and left the room to pace downstairs.

  I’m four beers in, wanting to break the neck of my Coors and chuck the rest of it against my wall.

  But I somehow refrain.

  By some means, I’m able to tamper down the insane and sudden possessiveness that crept up my chest and asked her as calmly as I possibly could.

  My cell is seductively sitting on the coffee table, begging me to make the call. To end Hollis’s pathetic fucking life because I have a powerful feeling that their story isn't the one I outlined and built in my head.

  Her eyes were closed, but the more I think back, the further I play out the graphic scene in my head.

  My memory combs her face, the tenseness in her facial expression, her hands played out at her sides.

  She didn’t look into it.

  I squeeze my bottle tighter in my hand, fucking irritated at myself for seeing past details that could've changed things. But I let my rage overtake my rationality that needed to be well examined and noted.

  That's exactly what I did.

  And what I don't do is fail at my missions.

  However, ever since I found Reagan being submerged in that lake out front, that fled. Everything I was trained to do became irrelevant, and I did wha
t any newbie would do—I assumed. I saw what I wanted to see to make things assemble in a perfect chain to manufacture an outcome for revenge.

  Stormi was innocent.

  I was guilty of crucifying her to a cross and refusing to see reason.

  I can’t fix that.

  And I feel culpable as hell for it. It licks and nips at me constantly ever since Reagan told me clearly that it wasn’t Stormi who held her under the water.

  That I, after everything, was the reason that Stormi would now have to live with all the shit I did to her. Typically, everyone else gets off by getting killed after they are no longer useful to me. They don't have to deal with the aftermath, just whatever happens when you die.

  Footsteps softly pad along the hardwood floors upstairs, prompting my eyes to snap up to see Stormi striding slowly towards the bathroom.

  I fucking did this.

  I broke this girl.

  Languidly, I make my way up, and wait, standing by the banister for her to come out. And when she does, I don’t miss the recoil then the unsteady steps in my direction.

  I move in hers, shoving my hands in my back pockets to leave my body completely open and bare to her. To keep my fingers from touching and wanting to soothe her because I’m the last fucking person she’d want that from.

  I’m shit to her—rightly so. And pieces of shit don’t get to touch fallen celestial beings.

  I act as a barricade for her to get back to her room because I’m not done with my questions. I’m not drained from needing to know what the hell happened between her and Hollis.

  In fact, I’m just ramping the fuck up.

  I've already obliterated my chances of being anything good in Stormi's life, so the least I can do is take out the man who violated her.

  “I’m going to ask you a few things,” I finally say when she stops, wrapping her arms around her middle. “And all I need you to do is nod or shake your head. Can you do that for me?”

  An unsteady exhale leaves her chest, and she gives me a nod.

  “Hollis,” I say slowly. “Nod for me if he is a bad man.”

  She gradually does.

  “Do you know what he does for a living?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Have you known him for a long time?”

  I get a noncommittal shrug, and I have no idea what the hell that means, but I move on anyways.