OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

  But the more time that goes by, the more anxious I become. The greater the thoughts become of how he killed Bianca and if he’s getting rid of the body right now. If I’m a terrible person for agreeing to let him do what he feels is right while I just roll it off my shoulders.

  You’re standing by and letting him murder someone.

  I rub my temples, propping my elbows onto my knees, and scold myself for being so stupid in my emotions for Marty that I’ll practically let him do whatever he wants.

  Is that right?

  Where does the line begin and end?

  When is enough, enough?

  Am I becoming like him with thinking that just because someone has done something horrific that it’s alright not to turn the other cheek?

  The whining of stairs seeps underneath my door, and I bolt upright. My legs swing over the side of my bed, and I’m already moving for the door, listening for any more signs or sounds of noise. When I don’t hear anything else, I slowly turn my knob and open the door, peering through the tiny gap of space.

  Marty isn’t there, but his bedroom door is now closed. Propping the door wider, I take a step but pause.

  I should think about this.

  What good reason would I have for knocking on his door? I’ve already hurt his feelings just to give him my blessing to do whatever he feels is right to Bianca. I’m sending mixed messages because I don’t have all mine in check or sorted out.

  I counter my step back inside when his door swings open, exposing a shirtless version of Marty. My eyes can’t help but appreciate his chest, followed by his muscled torso that’s tan and sculpted by the devil. The black band of his boxer briefs pops up over the waistband of his jeans, and the movement between his legs summons me to it.

  “Eyes are up here, sweetheart,” he greets, propping his stout forearm along the edge of his doorway. “What are you still doing up?”

  “I...” Demanding myself to look at his face and not everything else, I straighten my spine in mock confidence. “Needed some water.”

  I squeeze the knob as Marty steps out of his room. “Alright.”

  Then that’s it.

  He strides for the bathroom and softly clicks it closed. I blink, clearly not expecting him to leave me out here without some other comment about how I feel about what we discussed earlier.

  Maybe he doesn’t want to press me.

  Possibly. Actually, more than likely.

  Marty isn’t the man to lay out his mental state, but lately, it’s all he’s been doing.

  And I’ve been shoving his back.

  He’s done more for me than my own father has. He protected and fought for my dignity. He promised that no one would hurt me, and he’d shield me from all evil—even him.

  I did it for you. I did it because he fucking touched you and said fucked up shit about what he still wanted to do. I saw the look in your eyes when I asked, so I executed him. And I’d do it again, over and over to anyone who dared fuck with you. Do you understand me?

  I’m moving down the hallway, determined to express how appreciative I am. To ensure—because it seems to mean something great to him—that I don’t hate him. I genuinely don’t. And it’s important to me that he’s aware. We may come from two different worlds, but I think fate may have played a part in this. No matter how much I wish the beginning never happened—it’s part of our story now.

  The whizzing of the shower alludes that Marty is either about to jump in or has already. My hand shakes, but I still knock on the door gently. I’ll let fate decide if my words get to debut or if this is yet pushing another boundary.

  It swings open, Marty’s frame filling the space, and I can’t even look up like a coward, already starting to chicken out.

  He’s too much for me—too intense.

  There is no way I could ever hold that in the palm of my hand and call it mine.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks me.

  Everything.

  Every single thing is wrong.

  I wouldn’t change anything about Marty, not the killing, the justice he believes is given, his broodiness, and bossy attitude. However, I’m not the woman that would be able to carry his load and not make him feel condemned or that I’m judging him every time he looks at me.

  But now—Bianca—I stand by my decision to give him whatever he needed to do.

  “Stormi,” Marty presses more sternly when I don’t respond.

  I stride forward, compelling him to take a step back and give me room inside, kicking the bathroom door closed.

  His hazel eyes peer down at me in confusion and worry, and it’s then that I know I’m truly in love with him. If that’s the right feeling. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love before, but this strong emotion that surges and takes over my whole body is so powerful that it can’t be anything else.

  Marty’s hand comes up to my cheek, his thumb brushing the heated skin there. “Are you upset?”

  I could slam my head against this wall right now for all his worrying about me. The real question should be, is he upset? I wasn’t the one that had to come face to face with the person that almost killed my sister. I’m not the person that had a group of men roll up on Reagan’s house and try to kill her again.

  He puts me first, plain and simple.

  Sinking down to my knees, Marty’s hand falls, along with his brows. He’s already taken off his jeans and only stands in his boxers, the perfect mold of a man that won my heart in the most unconventional way.

  I’m not your villain that turns into the prince.

  They’re overrated anyway.

  Tugging down at the cotton, elastic material, Marty attempts to put space between us.

  “What are you doing?” he chides, as though he’s scared I’m going to bite his dick off or something.

  With my fingers still wrapped about the waistband, I tug him back into place and peel down the rest of the fabric.

  His cock springs free, hardening right before my eyes, and I grip the base, giving it one slow jerk before placing the tip in between my lips.

  Both of Marty’s hands find the base of my head, but I feel the slight buckle in his knees.

  Pumping him at my own leisure, I glide my tongue underneath the softness of his length, feeling powerful and expressive in the only way I know how without my words getting muddled and cut off.

  A small piece of me will always belong to him, I gave it away somewhere between the first day we met and now.

  And I don’t want it back.

  I want him to carry it with him in dangerous situations and when he feels lonely. I wish for him to think about me from time to time like I know I will him. He claims himself as the dark to my light, but he gave me life and a surge of confidence that I could do anything I wanted.

  Even through his threats, I discovered that I wasn’t as weak and worthless as I believed. He created me and helped bring out what I may have been if I had the support and love of a parent. I’ve lived my life in darkness, one extremely different from his, but there was no saving grace for me or candle burning bright to lead me in a different direction.

  Until Marty.

  “What are you doing to me?” Marty mutters, his breathing haggard and stranded as his fingers rake through my hair.

  If my actions aren’t speaking as loudly as they should, then I need to change that immediately.

  Taking him deeper, Marty curses above me in a pained melody as though this is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do—remain still. My hand finds his thigh as my other works the rigidness between my lips.

  I want Marty on a high—me. I yearn for me to be a memory in his brain that he’ll never forget. There will be women after me, maybe one that’ll see past the blood and torture without reservation. One woman who will perfectly be the last piece of his puzzle.

  Strong fingers wrap around my biceps, and I’m hurled upward into Marty’s face.

  “What are you trying to do, kill me, sweetheart?” His hot exhales brush my nose a
nd lips as he hovers over me, attempting to gather his normalcy.

  “I wasn’t done yet,” I reply. What I believe was supposed to be a chuckle is a strained one at best.

  “I don’t think I can take anymore,” he utters. “Not without coming in your mouth and—” I press my forehead to his.

  “Do it.”

  “Mhm.” He brushes our noses together. “I want to fuck you instead. However—” His skin disappears from mine as well as space between us. “—you should get some sleep, sweetheart.”

  He’s pushing me away.

  I could repeat what I’ve already said, that I don’t hate him or that he doesn’t disgust me; however, I don’t believe it’ll work. Actions speak louder than words, and even though I’m not the most bold, I can be with Marty in the right setting.

  Clasping my fingers around the hem of my shirt, I pull it over my head, leaving my naked breasts to his perusal.

  “You’re right,” I voice softly, turning for the door. “Good night.” I barely get it open before Marty’s palm slams into it, clicking it closed again.

  His chest finds my back as he sandwiches me between himself and the plywood.

  “You’re getting dirty,” he mumbles into my ear, the pads of his fingers brushing underneath the waist of my cotton shorts. “Sounds like you need to clean off.”

  I arch my ass into his groin. “Please.” I’m whirled around before Marty lowers himself to lift me in the air, pressing his hard cock in between my legs.

  “See what you did?” he taunts me as my hips wrap around his waist. “You’re worse than I ever was, sweetheart.”

  “I have the scars,” I reply even though I should’ve kept that remark to myself. His eyes glimmer over in something I can’t describe as he glances down at my lips.

  “Yeah, well...you’ll leave some on me, internally, when you’re gone.” My heart squeezes, rushing all the blood to my head.

  Tears burn the back of my eyes at the mention of the inevitable, but I crash my lips into his instead to keep them from spilling.

  His tongue immediately slides inside, needy and hungry, as he leads us to the already running shower. The water is cool, sending a shiver up my body and hardening my nipples against his chest. His hands knead my ass cheeks as his stubble brushes against my cheek.

  “Pull your shorts to the side, baby.” I immediately do as he requests, and he lifts me so that he can maneuver his cock inside me. Able to help, he slides into me, and I wrap both of my arms around him for support. “Ah, yes—” He thrusts harder. “—there’s my baby right here.”

  At his complete mercy, he holds onto me, taking his fill however fast and much he wants. I have nothing to support me but him, entirely.

  “This,” he utters. “This is everything, sweetheart.” His mouth intertwines with mine again, heaving deeper as though he needs this more than I do. His frustration is evident, and I’ll gladly be an outlet for him.

  “I don’t hate you,” I claim into his lips. “I could never hate you, Marty. Ever. You mean too much.” He claims my lips again, slowly as he does the same with our joining, easing in and out in a gentler rhythm.

  There isn’t much more to say except that these moments mean more than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life. It’ll never be like this with anyone else.

  Marty is my tormentor.

  My savior.

  He is the light that came into my desolate world and lit it on fire.

  Breakfast in bed—never thought I’d do that for someone but standing over a skillet of sizzling bacon, eggs, and hashbrowns confirm that I’m way in over my head with Stormi.

  I’m deep, so far that I give up. I’m over fighting it and just accept any minute I get to spend with her.

  Last night was limited talking after she confessed that she’d never hate me. And as much as I want to believe it, I’m skeptical.

  Call it my paranoia or that no one has ever been able to break through my walls, but I’m waiting for the ball to drop.

  “Aw, man, you shouldn’t have.” Mills’s melodic tone fills in through my inner peace and turmoil as he stands unnecessarily close to me, looking over my shoulder. “Shit looks good.”

  “Get away from me,” I chide. “Don’t you have shit to do.”

  He sighs. “I wish, but...you took that away from me last night.” My brows clash together as I quickly spin around to face him, ready to throw fists at him again. “Bianca, bruh, Bianca. Chill.”

  “Where’s Bishop?” I digress, returning back to Stormi and mine’s breakfast.

  “I was hoping you knew,” he replies. “He took off like a bat out of hell last night. Tried to ask him where the hell he was going, but he was in that tunnel vision thing he gets into. There’s no breaking into that.”

  “Do you know if Em tried yet?”

  “Yeah, I think so. She’s still sleeping at Reagan’s. I don’t think she slept much, worrying about him and shit.”

  “He’ll be alright, probably got a booty call or something.”

  “Damn, that pussy must be—”

  “Morning!” Stormi’s voice sing-songs, interrupting the annoying one behind me.

  I tense.

  Not because she’s entered the room but because the only dude I don’t feel comfortable with being in her presence is here.

  Mills is a pretty fucking boy with an education and the charm of that prince I was telling Stormi about last night.

  Mind you, the dickhead does exactly what I do, but he’s graced no sin on the woman that I want, and that doesn’t work in my favor.

  And then there’s that kiss I walked in on.

  “What’s going on, Cinderella?” Mills offers back. “Sleep good?” A hefty smirk creates off my lips because we didn’t sleep for shit.

  “Very well,” she replies. “Thanks. Where’s Emmy?”

  “Still sleeping, I was going to grab her some coffee, so she didn’t bite my head off when she woke up. She’s fucking evil, I hope you never see it.”

  Stormi chuckles. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Mills does what he says he’s going to do, making Em’s coffee, and I hear Stormi pull out a chair from the dining room table to sit. I focus on not burning our meal when Mills makes his goodbyes and promises to be back for lunch.

  Fantastic.

  “Focusing over there, big guy?” I peer over my shoulder to see Stormi cross-legged, her naked thighs exposed for Mills to eye-fuck while my back was turned. Her blue hair is pulled into a messy bun, alluding to all the changes she’s made since we first met.

  She’s more complacent around me. I mean, shit, she wrapped those beautiful lips around my cock and almost had me asking her to marry me.

  “Wanted you to be able to eat and not scrape black shit off your food.”

  She smiles. “Cereal would’ve been alright.”

  “Not good enough for the likes of you. Besides—” I scoop the scrambled eggs out of one pan and lay them on an empty plate. “—it keeps me on my game with my cooking skills.”

  I finish loading our plates with what I’ve made and place them down in front of our spots to where Stormi jolts up to walk to the fridge.

  Pouring us some orange juice, she places mine down before I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her into my lap.

  “I would’ve gotten that.”

  “I can walk,” she conveys, propping her arm around my neck.

  “Can you?” I perk a brow. “Damn, I didn’t fuck you long enough then.” Hands on her thighs, I begin to lift her and me off the chair, but she squeals and gently hits my shoulder.

  “No, not yet. Let me eat what you made for me.”

  I nestle my face into the crook of her shoulder. “I’m hungry for something else, though.”

  “Marty.” My name is a whiny-breathy moan off her lips as I trail the tip of my tongue up the column of her neck.

  Closing my lips around a sensitive part of her skin that I know drives her insane, her body weakens against mine.
<
br />   “Mhm?”

  “Food...it’s going...to get cold.”

  “I’d never let you get cold, baby,” I reply, bringing one of my hands down to the apex between her legs. My middle and index finger dip into the fabric of her shorts and panties before parting her pussy so I can start fucking with her clit. “Ride my fingers.”

  She mildly lunges once just to get a taste when her fingertips begin to dig into my flesh. I practically make out with her neck, knowing I’m going to leave a mark, but I couldn’t give a shit.

  “You’re absolutely fucking perfect to me,” I assert along her carotid artery that drives me into this deep-seated mental state that I can’t climb out of. “I—” She pulls her face around and slams her lips into mine, driving herself into my hand.

  I love seeing this part of her—reckless, wanting, alive—and I’m here for it. I’ll take full responsibility for enunciating what lies under years of mental and physical abuse and bringing out the true Stormi in all her fucking glory.

  “Are you going to come?” I provoke, ignoring the overexerted strain in my sweatpants. “Right here on my lap, in my kitchen, baby. Off two of my fingers and my—”

  “Emric.” I go from being aroused to fucking pissed at the reverberating tone of Mills’s voice—a-fucking-gain.

  “Dude, what the fuck now?” I snap, glaring in his direction, but it’s too busy being blocked by Stormi’s body and how she just buried her face into my shoulder in embarrassment.

  “It’s important, dude. Meet me outside.” Stormi begins to move off me, but I keep her grounded by her hips.

  When I hear the front door close, I say, “I’m sorry.” I brush my lips against hers. “I’ll be two minutes. Eat your food, you’re going to need it.” She releases a cute scoff and gives me a peck to my cheek before removing herself and plopping her ass in her chair next to mine. “I might kill him.”

  “Don’t,” she opposes, hitting my side on the way to the door. “He just likes to mess with you.”

  “And you,” I spat. “Fucking brave ass motherfucker.”

  I’m out the door in seconds to find Mills pacing the grass in front of the porch, a cell in his hands and doesn’t acknowledge me until I open my mouth.