Page 143 of Overcast

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Suddenly, Stormi appears uncomfortable and back to withdrawn.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.

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