OVERCAST (B723 Book 1)

by Hazel Grace

  “And?”

  Reagan mirrors innocence like I do a saint. She could throw a mask on as quickly as I could, but when it came to us—together—we could kiss our not spilling out our truths to each other to the birds.

  “And nothing,” she retorts, buying herself some time by taking a generous sip of water.

  “You’re doing that tone thing,” I accuse flatly.

  “I have a lot of tones. A mom tone. A party planner tone. My normal tone. The tone I have when Wade and I—”

  “Where is this going?” I upbraid. “Are we going to have girl talk or something because that’s Mills’s thing.”

  “Aw, shit—” She tightly clenches her eyes closed and begins rubbing at her forehead. “—I’m sorry, Marty. I meant to text Mills and invite him over, but I made the mistake of texting you and—” She sighs then gestures to me. “—here you are. I couldn’t turn you away. My brother and all that shit.”

  “Cute.”

  “It’s a small reason why I married her.” Wade’s voice cuts through my limited tranquility as the sliding screen door leading to the backyard opens, followed by a burst of five-year-old.

  “Uncle Marty!” Huck sprints around the kitchen island and slams his forty-some pound body into my side, wrapping his arms around my torso.

  I couldn’t tell you what color shirt he’s wearing, but he was almost soaked in my beer.

  Getting rid of said drink, I lift him under his arms and into my lap.

  “Dude, where did you learn to run that fast?”

  “Spiderman,” Huck promptly replies, craning his neck to look up at me. A pink and green substance is smeared over his upper lip, and he smells like watermelon. Then he removes his gluey palms on my forearm.

  “You feel like Spiderman, man, you’re all sticky. What did you get into?”

  “Daddy let me have ice cream,” he beams then bounces once in excitement. “Rainbow!”

  “Then he spilled it all over my damn car,” Wade interjects, stepping behind my sister to place a chaste kiss on top of her head.

  I smile—yo, I can’t help it. I never got to see the look on his face when he got home and spotted the bullet holes in his black Mercedes. I guess I could go through the surveillance tapes to get a kick and take my mind off shit.

  “Yeah,” I surmise, rustling my nephew’s dark hair. “Your car has been through some shit.” Wade keeps his calm bullshit demeanor in front of his son—I can respect that—and hits me with a “I’m going to kill you look when he leaves”. “You still new at this dad thing, Lockwood?” I’m really pushing my luck here, but I need someone to be as upset as me because that makes sense, right? “My sister is pregnant again if you needed the reminder.”

  My brother-in-law props himself and his Tom Ford suit on the back of Reagan’s chair before perking a brow. “Is the overwrought look a new thing for you, Shelton, because you look like shit.”

  “Mommy,” Huck sings songs. “Daddy said a bad word.” Then he points at him accusingly, forming a smile that lifts my cheeks for the first time in days.

  This kid is going to give him hell, and I’m so here for it.

  “Dang, he did,” I gasp in mock shock. “Should we put him in a timeout?”

  “Huck, go wash up,” Wade orders, jerking a thumb to the stairs. “Then, we need to go run to the office real quick.”

  “Awww,” he whines, sliding down my legs. “I don’t wanna—”

  “I got new post-it notes.”

  “Yayyy!” Huck carelessly sprints for his room, taking the wood stairs like a mini elephant on his way to do his father’s bidding. While I’m down here watching him transform into his true self—an asshole.

  And he wastes no time letting me have what he’s held in for a few weeks.

  “Is this how you are when you’re heartbroken?” He purses his lips in amusement. “Because it’s not a good look for you. And the invoice for my car isn’t going to be so pretty either.”

  Shoving his comment aside, I settle on, “I still stand by my statement of it making you look badass.”

  My sister covers her mouth, her eyes wide in silent warning to stop it, although she’s the one trying not to laugh out loud.

  “Never asked for your opinion,” he counters. “However, word on the street is that you’ve been pretty emo for the last week or so.”

  “I’m sorry?” I lift my brows, clutching my beer bottle for dear life because I’m about to crack it over his head before stabbing him with it. “Did you say emo?”

  Wade does something stupid then.

  He rounds the table, stepping within reaching distance. His taunting me at the wrong time is going to land him with a broken jaw and me with a pissed off sister.

  “Emmy said—” I stand, my chair scraping against the hardwoods as I tower over Wade with my extra fifty plus pounds of muscle over his singular big mouth.

  But he doesn’t waver from me.

  In fact, he likes to hide behind my sister’s love for him, believing that I won’t fuck him up once the occasion presents itself.

  He’s wrong.

  Especially right now where I’m hankering for a fight and a still very strong desire to hit Wade for over the last sevenish years.

  “I think you’ve outgrown spying, don’t you?” I seethe, keeping my fists locked at my sides. “Stop using my organization for your own personal gain, asshole. Last warning.”

  “Marty,” Reagan pleas softly. “Please, don’t—”

  “You’re the last person I’d care to spy on, Shelton,” Wade offers through his wife’s next comment. “However, Em and I are very close. And, for some fucking reason, very worried about you.”

  “She worries about everyone,” I deadpan.

  “Not so much as to call me about it.”

  That’s it. I’m going to strangle Emmy like I should’ve years ago.

  I slap Wade on the shoulder—hard. “Don’t lose any sleep over it, Lockwood. Your boy can take care of himself, and I’m fine.”

  “Are you upset?” Reagan chimes in, that concern I saw earlier starting to bloom thanks to her asshole husband.

  “No.” Now Wade raises his brows in disbelief at my answer, and I’m done.

  I don’t need this shit.

  I don’t want to cause a scene with my pregnant sister, who shouldn’t be worrying about me and Huck upstairs washing up.

  Wade can push my buttons, I’ve learned to deal with it. It takes a lot more than an ass clown in an expensive suit to piss me off.

  Still doesn’t mean he’s not irritating the shit out of me.

  “Emmy called me too,” Reagan admits. “Why did you do it? If she meant something then—” My attention snaps to her.

  “Wasn’t that what we talked about?” I point to the front door. “Right outside on your porch. We agreed that I would let her go the moment this was all over. When we found out who it was. And now he’s dead. We’re done.” I flick my consideration to her husband. “You can thank dickhead over here for the attempted assassinations.”

  “Sox, how much do you love your brother?” Wade fumes. “I can buy you a new one if you still want a sibling.”

  I lean closer to him, hoping that he hits me. “Feeling a little guilty, Lockwood?”

  “Marty,” Reagan warns, reaching her mom-tone. “Enough.”

  “You’re the big scary assassin,” Wade conveys. “You tell me if I should, especially since you have no clue how the fuck he hired out someone from prison to kill my wife?”

  “You know him more than me,” I convey. “Someone just saved me the hassle. You should’ve just killed him and saved us the trouble.”

  “I’m into the longer sentence. Let them live with it behind bars and watch everything around them crumble.”

  “And look where that led us.” I gesture to my sister. “She could’ve been fucking—”

  “That’s it,” Reagan snaps. “You two are going to stop going at it right the hell now. I swear to God if Huck is like this, I�
��m going to beat both of your asses.”

  “Alright,” Wade confers, striding back to her. “Don’t get worked up.”

  “I am worked up. You’re both worse than girls.”

  Wade answers her, but I don’t hear it. Instead, I notice the buzzing of my cell phone and pull it out of my pocket.

  Mills: Ledger wants to meet tomorrow.

  Me: Got it.

  Shoving my device away, I glance up at my sister. “I gotta head out soon. Need to head into the city.”

  Reagan groans. “No, you just got here.”

  “Duty calls, Tsarina. I’ll be back in about twenty-four hours.”

  “Then...you and I...”

  I nod.

  She wants to talk.

  It’ll drive her crazy to know something is up with me, and it’s either that or let my pregnant sister rest easy while I confess that I’m upset about a woman.

  I’ve always chosen Reagan over everyone else. Nothing will ever change that.

  “Where’s Bishop?” The five of us scan each other and, from the looks of it, we’re all at the same response—no fucking clue.

  Our commander, Ledger, pushes out his cheek with his tongue, eyeing each of us for an answer.

  He doesn’t get one as we all sit silently around a table in his plain as fuck conference room, waiting for him to chill out with the father-like glares.

  “No one knows where Bishop is,” he states it as though we’re a group of teenagers who pranked our school or something. Some Breakfast Club shit like we have nothing better to do.

  “I’ve tried calling and texting,” Emmy finally speaks up, fidgeting with the purple pen in her hand. “But nothing. Mills and Marty haven’t heard anything either.”

  I tried once.

  “Nothing on my front,” Kyson acknowledges, leaned back in his chair. “I didn’t even know he went missing.”

  “He just left,” Emmy quips, clearly irritated and the only one in this room that’s worried. “We were at Marty’s, and he ran out like his house was on fire or something.”

  Ledger tosses the manila folder in his hands on the table and takes a seat at the head of the table. “Let me know if any of you hear something.” He glances up at Blue. “I’m assuming you haven’t heard anything?”

  She continues chewing on her green gum and peers up from studying her black cat nails, clearly bored as hell. “Nodda.”

  Not appearing pleased, Ledger lets out a heavy sigh before turning his focus on Kyson. “How’s the girl?”

  “Good,” he deadpans, causing Ledger to snap his neck to him.

  He has Kyson monitoring this girl on some surveillance bullshit for over the past year or two. I don’t remember why or what for but he barely talks about it.

  “Good as in there have been no attempts to kill her?”

  “Not for a while.”

  Ledger sighs. “Did you all forget how to speak or something? We’ve only not had a meeting in two months. I didn’t know I had to babysit you all.”

  “We’re all pissed you didn’t bring bagels this time,” Mills chimes in next to me. “Emmy didn’t eat thinking she was going to get her—”

  “I did not,” Emmy retorts before clicking rapidly on the top of her pen. “We had breakfast already.” I watch Blue’s brows perk in interest as Emmy shifts in her chair on my left.

  I’d console her if she didn’t run her mouth.

  Petty party for one, right here.

  She either has something going on with Bishop that she won’t admit to it or she’s moved past how he’s not answering her messages.

  I’m rolling with option one.

  Emmy has a knack for forcing herself in places people don’t want her to be in. AKA, my personal life that she freely told Wade and Reagan all about.

  “Are you two an item now?” Blue points between Emmy and Mills, her investment in this conference shifting to shit that isn’t important.

  Which is typical because Blue likes to stir the pot and make things uncomfortable. Add on the fact that she has a vendetta to push every one of Emmy’s buttons—because it’s easy to do—and you have Blue being a bitch when she’s bored.

  Which is all the time.

  “No,” Emmy replies through her teeth. “Did someone ask you to speak?”

  “But not for lack of trying,” Mills adds in, finger-gunning Blue who smirks, the only one in the group that’s amused by Mills’s bullshit.

  “You try with everyone,” Emmy mumbles under her breath.

  “Not good ‘ole Blue.” Again, Mills’s jokes lamely, but it leads to Blue winking playfully at him and Emmy scoffing.

  “Chill out,” I whisper behind my hand. “You’re letting her win, Em.”

  “Enough of the banter,” Ledger commands. “I didn’t bring you all here to pull out each others’ hair and teeth.”

  A buzzing vibrates off a hard surface, and all eyes land on me because—oops—phones are supposed to be on silent.

  “My bad—” I reach for my phone. “—Forgot.”

  I quickly power on the screen, a notification from my security app being the culprit of the interruption.

  An alarm triggered, taking me to the camera that overlooks the outside of Reagan’s house, positioned in one of the trees.

  It’s the one that always gives me some sort of heart attack from a squirrel or the wind blowing too hard, making the branches and leaves move into its line of view.

  But this time, it’s no furry little shit or leaves making movements to provoke my cameras.

  It’s a flashback of black SUVs and men piling out of them. Except, it’s daylight, and I’m not at home with Stormi in my arms.

  Armed with AK-47s, four guys dressed in all black beeline towards the front porch of my sister’s fucking house. And when I’m about to exit out of the app to call my sister, one of the backdoors from the two GMC Denalis opens, drawing my attention to a tall, lanky guy in sunglasses.

  He’s wearing white slacks and a blue striped shirt, appearing completely out of place from the men that just marched to—" I elbow Emmy in the boob—on accident.

  “Call my fucking sister,” I order harshly. “Now.“ The moment the last word leaves my lips, the sharply-dressed man reaches inside the backseat and pulls out a woman.

  A woman with light blue hair and a body that drives me fucking wild.

  Her arm cocks back, and she swings, but the GQ model lookalike catches her hand—Stormi’s fucking hand.

  My heart plunges, I don’t know to where. All I know is that I can’t breathe.

  I can’t stop staring.

  Nothing productive enters my mind, but what I just told Emmy.

  He has my girl, the one I left behind.

  The only one I’ve ever loved selfishly and whole-heartedly.

  The same female that scares the shit out of me because she can destroy me. She can order me to do anything, and I would, without flinching. It’s why I never asked her what she wanted to do. When she told me she loved me, that was it. She’d want to stay, I’d break her, and when she left me eventually, I’d never be able to function right again.

  I barely am now, but it’s temporary.

  That’s what I keep telling myself. I might be in love with her but not spending years with her, so I don’t come up with ideas of what a somewhat normal life could be like would be more beneficial.

  What like having kids and shit?

  Already did that, prick. You think about it, obsessively.

  GQ model heedlessly yanks Stormi, driving her into his chest. Then he points to the camera, the one I’m looking at him from.

  Stormi’s eyes follow his index finger directed at me, considerably frightened and pissed.

  Good, baby, don’t let him scare you to where you shut down.

  GQ twists his hand before extending his middle finger, letting a smirk break free off his entitled-looking face.

  He knows what I want. He must be privy to who the fuck I am.

  But does he, though
?

  I believed that after Marty, I’d never feel helpless again. That my heart would never beat erratically, not in love or nervousness, but pure panic.

  I thought that everything was handled, that after fifteen days of being left without so much as an ounce of what I wanted to do when it came to Marty and I that—finally—things may just start to settle down in my new life.

  I’m obviously wrong.

  The moment Eli Quinn drove me out of Silver Lake was when all the red flags started to wave in my face. When, not even a mile outside the town’s city limits, we stopped and were greeted by four men that had two blacked-out vehicles waiting for us.

  This was supposed to be us going to grab coffee and talk about the Stephen King book he came in gushing about two days after we met.

  Not being personally escorted somewhere else.

  And apparently, Eli Quinn knew me, way before running into me at Smudged Pages and spewing his make-believe bullshit about the author who sold over 350 million books.

  He was behind the first round of men who attempted to take me away the day Marty and Mills were driving us to the cemetery. And, as grateful as I am for the distraction because I’d more than likely be dead by now, this isn’t a rescue mission.

  In fact, it’s another kidnapping.

  One that involves not only me but Reagan as well—one she’s not taking very well.

  Zip-tied to one of Reagan’s dining room chairs, we both sit side to side, matching with the limited movement we’re allowed.

  Except I’m not making so much of an effort.

  To my dismay and failed attempts at talking to her calmly, she won’t stop tugging at her restraints.

  Her wrists are bleeding onto the hardwood floors of her spacious family room, surrounded by furniture and Huck’s toys. Her raven hair sticks to her forehead, exerting herself to the point of exhaustion.

  She’s not going to get free, and the pocket knife I bought while in Silver Lake for my protection was plucked out of my back pocket the moment one of Eli’s men searched me.

  Eli thought it was hilarious. I’m sure you can guess my reaction.

  Furthermore, I know where this is going to lead—sort of.