OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

  I don’t miss the way his eyes skim down my front as he catches the clip that falls from the bottom of his gun.

  “How did you know I was out here?” I ask him, breaking into my nervousness and clasping my hands behind my back.

  I don’t want to exhibit that I’m fidgeting with them and nervous with being out here in his “element”. Where there are guns—a shotgun and two other handguns—lying casually out on a picnic table.

  “I can feel your eyes all the time—” His lips quirk, tossing the empty clip on the wooden surface of the table. “—powerful suckers.” I scoff lightly, and he jerks his head to come closer. “Wanna learn?”

  I shake my head violently. “No, no...I’m good.”

  “Let me rephrase, you should learn. I’ll stand with you and show you the ropes. It’s easy.”

  “No, thanks, I’m...super good.”

  His lips heave higher. “Oh...I know you are, sweetheart.”

  Screw how my face blazed earlier, it’s on fire right now. Like, heat of the sun hot, boiling to the point that my skin may just peel off.

  Thankfully Emric doesn’t keep staring at me so I can watch him recall everything that happened between us last night.

  We don’t need to talk about it.

  I’m good with just letting it be a memory that I reminisce on for the rest of my life when I’m old with a bunch of animals and a crazy obsession with being the neighborhood watch or something.

  “Do you normally shoot guns out here?” I recite, needing to change the subject.

  “Yeah.” He studies his mini layout of artillery, contemplating. “If you shoot one clip into those trees over there—” He trails his focus back to me. “—I’ll make you dinner or something.”

  “Do you even know how to cook?” My brows descend because I don’t think I’ve seen the man use anything other than a microwave.

  “Sure can, smart ass, but I prefer to grill.”

  “I don’t think I can do it.”

  He perks a brow. “Why?”

  “Because...I’d never be able to pull a trigger on someone.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he counters, picking up another handgun. “Especially when your life is at risk.”

  “I don’t plan on it being ever again.”

  He frowns. “Right. Well, you can never be too safe.” He jerks his head for me to come closer. “I don’t bite yet, sweetheart, I’ll be right here with you.”

  Yet.

  Instead of standing around like a scared little kitten, I move, and he extends the handle of the weapon for me to accept.

  “Safety’s on, it won’t go off.”

  My whole body tenses, solid in place because I can’t hold that. “There are bullets in there.”

  He chuckles. “No shit.” Tucking the gun away in his back pocket, he makes his way to me, each stride confident, surefooted, and a hellion to take over the world. “Before you leave me, I want you to be able to protect yourself. Unless you plan on stealing my knife and stabbing everyone in the shoulder with it.”

  I tsk. “You did the same thing.”

  “I wasn’t paying attention. I just stuck it where—” He shakes his head. —doesn’t matter. What does, is your safety, so straighten your spine." I do, and he mocks my action, towering over me to beam down more of his dangerous characteristics. “You’re not weak. You’ve been through shit men can’t even deal with—trust me, I know.”

  Guiding me over to where he was previously standing, his hands position me in front of him.

  “This is a Glock G19,” he states, displaying the gun within my view. “Might be a little big for your hands, but I’ll make up the difference. Now, you’re right-handed, right?”

  “Yes.”

  He reaches for said hand and wraps it around the handle first. “Now, wrap the left around your right.” I do, but not before a small tremble shakes my frame. “And breathe, Stormi. I promise this isn’t going to hurt you.”

  I nod, inhaling a deep breath and squeezing the gun with more force than is probably necessary.

  “Relax your body, sink into me, and I’ll take the recoil.”

  “The what?”

  He chuckles again, the rumbling from his chest hitting my back. “The kick of the gun.”

  “Oh.” I squeeze the pistol tightly and wait for further instruction.

  “Loosen the hands,” he gently chides. “Now, imagine Hollis’s head at the end of that target.”

  “Emric,” I warn. “I can’t do—”

  “Then mine.” I begin to drop the gun to pivot around and face him, but he grabs my hips, keeping me straight. “Lighten up, sweetheart, I know you’ve pictured killing me a few times in your head.”

  “Actually, no—” I start to twirl. “I haven’t—”

  “Woman, if you don’t stop moving around.” He centers me again, this time splaying his hands over my stomach, the pads of his fingers on my waistband.

  That, along with last night, my body hums and eases again while hitting his hard chest.

  “Now, just remember,” he mutters, leaning into my ear. “Aim down the sight, breath, and I got you.”

  I nod. “Okay.”

  He straightens. “And whenever you’re ready.”

  The rustling of leaves in the trees around us is the only sound left behind. Emric’s chest stands sturdy against my quickening heartbeat because I never thought I’d touch a gun in my life.

  Closing my left eye, I align the gun to the target ahead and hesitate before pulling the trigger.

  Emric’s hand lands on my stomach. “Breathe, baby.”

  I do, raising the weapon a tad higher and pull the lever. The sound is loud, but it’s the adrenaline that sweeps through my veins that makes me jolt a little.

  “Nice job,” Emric beams. “Do another one.”

  The simple action sets me more at ease, but when Emric slowly begins to step away, I push back into him, wanting his self-confidence to seep through to me.

  “What’s the matter?” His words brush along the top of my head, but I want him to know why instead of voicing it out loud.

  It makes it too real.

  It implies that last night meant something more than just a fling.

  That I’m trusting him, and I don’t want him to learn that yet, afraid things might change.

  “Gotta use your words, Stormi.” When my response isn’t immediate, he brushes stray hairs away from the side of my face to push them behind my ears. “You’re doing a good job.”

  “I just feel...comfortable with you being behind me. You’re taking the recoil, right?”

  “Ah, right.” He arranges himself back where he was, settling his hands on my body again. “Better?”

  I bow my head. “Yes.” Not waiting for his next instruction, I take it upon myself to pull the trigger and take my time with each shot.

  When I’ve emptied the clip, Emric reaches over to take the gun from me and strides towards the paper silhouettes I shot at.

  I follow him to where he stops, and he shakes his head with his back to me.

  “Damn,” he quips, then sneaks a peek at me from over his shoulder. “Gutshot?”

  My eyes widen. “Really?” I round him and take a look for myself.

  I don’t remember how many shots I took, but I got two inside the black part that was the body of the silhouette.

  “You got a thing with shoulders, huh?” His voice is teasing, but I still hit him with a weak slit of my eyes.

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Most of the time.”

  “Mhm. Just for that, sir, I want dinner and to play cards tonight. I saw a deck on the kitchen counter.”

  “What, do you know how to play go-fish?” A hearty laugh protrudes from his lips as I smack him in the arm and reach behind him.

  “Give me that gun so I can shoot you in the ass with it.” He steps away and hides the gun behind his back.

  “Now, Stormi,” he tsks. “No need to get violent.”

/>   I make another half-attempted lunge for it. “Too soon to say I learned from the best?”

  His eyes go round in mock amusement. “The best, eh? Don’t go stroking my ego, sweetheart.”

  “Trust me, I don’t need to. You stroke it all by yourself, I’m sure.” The moment the double entendre migrates from my vocal cords, I burst out into a fit of uncontrolled laughter.

  “You think stroking myself alone is hilarious?” Emric hedges, suddenly unamused at him being the butt of the joke. “Ha, ha.”

  I cover my mouth, struggling to stop myself at how absolutely incredulous and affront he appears right now. The man who always has a serious and aloof look on his face considers me with a mirror of shock and outrage.

  And I can’t believe we’re talking about him masturbating.

  There must’ve been some type of loopy side-effects to those drinks from last night because I am not the same woman who walked into that bar.

  “You’re a cruel woman,” Emric digresses as he gawks at me settling myself down from lack of brain cells.

  “Don’t worry, champ,” I profess. “You can get your pride back tonight, after dinner, when we play cards.” I pivot on my heels and make my way back inside the house. “And we’re playing Black Jack. I’ll go easy on you since I’m a master at go-fish.”

  “You stacked the deck,” Stormi accuses, tossing her cards on the coffee table and hitting me with an accusing glare.

  “Do I look like a cheat?” I counter, pressing my lips into a fine line to keep from further taunting. “You’re getting meaner the longer you stay here, sweetheart.”

  “Maybe it’s the company,” she counters, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Her words are void to me at this point because it’s official that the innocent and angelic Stormi is a sore loser and competitive as fuck.

  “And maybe you’re sour because you have some sort of faith in these playing cards that they’re going to give you exactly what you wish for. Only God and I can do that, sweetheart.” She scoffs, leaning back against the couch and crosses her legs. “Do you want to deal?”

  “I better,” she mutters. “Unless I want to lose my dignity.”

  “Bet I win the next round.” I slam the deck in front of her and scoop up my beer, tugging back on its contents.

  “Bet.”

  “What would you like? Breakfast? Ten bucks? A shopping trip?” She locks eyes with me, penetrating through my calm demeanor like she’s ready to suck something important from me.

  “I want a secret,” she deadpans.

  “A what now?”

  “A secret,” she repeats, shuffling the deck in her hands. “I want to know something that no one knows. Not Mills or Bishop, something you’ve buried so deep that...it’s a secret.”

  “Then I’d have to go through with it and kill you, Stormi.” The seriousness in my tone does nothing to make her flinch or cower down.

  Instead, she perks a brow and raises her chin like a little warrior that just realized it lived inside the body of a woman who’s oppressed it for years.

  I’m curious to meet her and go head to head.

  “Make it interesting,” she replies, flipping half the deck into the other. “What would you like?”

  “Loaded question, woman.”

  She grins and bats her eyelashes. “Be nice to me.”

  Who the fuck is this woman?

  I shift off the floor, readjusting my growing cock at all the explicit things sprinting through my brain involving her and this table we’re playing on.

  “I want your middle name.”

  Lame, yet, there’s the alternative.

  “Fine.” She begins rearranging the cards, biting on her tongue as she does.

  I pull back on my beer again, watching her intent focus on the stupid cards just to give me a reason to look at her.

  Her blonde hair is braided to the side, allowing me a gracious view of her neck. The v-neck of her pale yellow shirt brings out the sun in her skin from being outside. She’s taken a hobby of watering the flowers, pulling out weeds, and sitting on the picnic table outside with her eyes closed to tan a little.

  She’s the most beautiful thing out there. Too tempting and sweet. When she brought me a glass of lemonade yesterday when I was out fixing one of my gutters, I barely could utter a “thank you”. A simple action that should be a natural thing to do was hard for me.

  I’ve never had a girlfriend that took care of me. The last serious relationship that lasted more than a trip to New Orleans was in high school, and she only liked me because I could get her any hard drug her little heart desired.

  That, and we were crazy hot in bed.

  Other than that, Stormi makes me feel discomposed and awkward.

  Dealing out our cards, Stormi sets the rest of the deck in front of us. Looking over mine, I’m set, while Stormi draws another card from the stack.

  She stays, and I flip mine over. “Twenty.”

  Her nostrils flare. “Nineteen.” Tossing her cards over. I chuckle, rounding up the cards when she says, “I don’t have one.”

  My gaze trails up to hers. “What?”

  “A middle name, I don’t have one. My mom was high when she had me, hence me being named after an actual storm happening outside her hospital window.”

  “Huh.” I push my cheek out with my tongue. “I think your name is baller as fuck.”

  “It causes a lot of questions.”

  “Like what? ‘Are you single’ and ‘what would it take to take you out’?”

  “Um, no.” She scoops up our cards and begins mixing them.

  Suddenly, Stormi appears uncomfortable and back to withdrawn.

  I’m hoping that my questions didn’t open up old wounds, but I have a feeling they did. I guess talking about former events isn’t one of her favorite pastimes.

  Can’t say that I blame her.

  “You’re surrounded by a bunch of idiots Stormi with no middle name.”

  She lets her lips lift. “I’ll be changing that.”

  “I’m hoping with this next bet because...you’re getting your ass kicked over here, and I was promised a pretty good run.”

  She responds by passing out the next hand and holding her cards close to her chest.

  “Did you want to stay?” I ask, keeping my eyes on my cards.

  “Nope.” She plucks another card off the top of the deck. “I’ll stay.”

  I twist my cards. “Nineteen.”

  A bright smile illuminates off her face. “Twenty-one.” I hit her with my own exasperated look and open my mouth when her hand comes up. “I don’t want a secret, that was my last bet. I want you to do a cartwheel.”

  My brows furrow. “You’re serious?”

  She squints those beautiful blues. “What do your people call it? I wouldn’t think it’d be so basic as ‘dead as a doorknob’ or anything like that.”

  “It’s just dead,” I flatline.

  “Mhm, I guess the other way is more creative.” I roll my eyes, and do what she asks, swiping up my beer in the process. “Can’t wait for this.”

  “I didn’t know we were making bets that could end in a sprained ankle.”

  Stormi’s brow lifts over the rim of my beer. “What are you, eighty?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “Huh—” She eyes me up and down. “—might as well be, I guess.”

  I’m on my feet, and she mocks my actions, running around the couch with my beer still in her hand. She’s wearing my sweatpants, and it probably means nothing, but I love her ass in them.

  I also like chasing her.

  A possessive need and powerful urge courses through my body when she’s in front of me. It doesn’t matter what she’s doing or what mood she’s in–it’s there.

  It’s out in the open, and I want this woman again.

  I crave her underneath me.

  I thirst to taste her and have my name off her lips again.

  Flinging open the front door, the cool n
ight welcomes us out, and Stormi pauses at the end of the porch with her hands extended in the air. “Yay, we made it out here.”

  “Yeah.” I stalk in her direction. “What was that about being old again?”

  Her face contorts. “Is your hearing bad?” She gestures with her hand to the front lawn. “Your stage awaits.”

  I inwardly groan, not believing that I’m actually about to go do a cheerleader move for this chick right now over a stupid hand of cards.

  Snatching my beer from her little claws, I down one more swig before possibly busting my ass on this dumb bet.

  “Analyzing your move?” Stormi teases behind me, amusement dripping off her tone.

  I extend my arm. “Hold my beer, smartass.”

  She takes it, and I don’t think I just start to run. Hands extended, I push off my feet and cartwheel my ass, surprised when I land on my feet.

  A round of clapping promptly lands on my ears.

  “Yay,” Stormi laughs, keeping up with her cheering.

  Her laughter hits my chest as I turn back towards the house. The moonlight cascades over her body makes her more beautiful than the moment before, and I move, marching in her direction.

  Stormi takes another sip of my beer, watching me over the rim as I stop in front of her. Once she removes it from her mouth, it’s in my hands, and I carelessly fling it to the side.

  “Who knew that you could be a little asshole, sweetheart,” I grumble over her.

  She shrugs, unaffected by my words that used to have her cowering and begging for me to let her go. “I guess it needed some coaxing.”

  Coaxing. Woman, you have no idea how much I want to pull from you.

  Before I can even come back with anything to say, she starts to head for the woods, and I follow her like a fly to shit, letting her do what she wants and go where she desires.

  I’m aware and can fully relate to a lost puppy dog following its owner around by some invisible tether. I also don’t mind watching her ass swaying back and forth and how she looks almost unreal as she disappears down the trail towards Reagan’s house.

  She finally stops on the deck above the lake, overlooking the water that glitters and shines from overhead.

  I don’t know what made her want to come here of all places. Where my conviction of her started way before I even got my hands on her and learned the truth. It was the beginning of so many emotions, and this—whatever it was.