Page 124 of Overcast

I’m a fucking asshole.

Stormi was beginning to get more comfortable with me, and I shot it all to hell when I lost my shit. It was bad enough that I’ll always be labeled the douchebag, but now Mills gets to reap the rewards of being the “nicer” one of us.

Because he isn’t the one who stabbed her, flipped a truck over with HER in it, threatened her time and time again to the point where the word animosity towards her silence is the understatement of the year.

It pissed me off.

I couldn’t even enjoy the pureness in her eyes when she thanked me for letting her father off the hook. I was too busy recalling how they were sharing a snack together and chatting it up like they were old friends.

Nope.

Couldn’t soak it in because I was raging inside to the point where the idea of claiming her played out in my brain a few times like a damn animal.

She’s not mine.

And she sure as fuck won’t be Mills’s either.

A hard slap to the back of my head uproots me, directing my eyes to Bishop, scowling at me.

“You need to get your head screwed on straight,” he leers, face distorted like he’s nauseated by my presence. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Go fuck yourself, number one,” I bite out, returning to stacking the wood I’ve been cutting for the last hour. “And two, don’t tell me what to do. This is my shit.”

“Yeah, your shit that we’re taking the time to help you with.”

“Again, didn’t ask you here. You keep inserting yourself there. You need something else to do?” I toss him a piece of wood. “Go make a fire, then jump in it.”

“I’d be a bit more appreciative of your friends.”

I tsk. “We gonna get into a fight?” I wave him off. “I’ll talk to you in a few days then.” The piece of wood that I just gently slung at him, it hurls into my spine.

My feet pivot on impact, and I’m on him, landing a punch to the side of his face and following up with a jab to his ribcage.

Being Bishop, he kindly lets me have the first two hits, ramping up to fuck someone up.

That someone up is going to be me.

With at least thirty more pounds, more muscle mass, and two inches taller, Bishop is what Reagan calls the Hulk. Paint this asshole green, and you’ll have one hell of an Avenger fighting crime and terrorism for the government low key.

Air is knocked from my lungs at Bishop’s shot to my kidneys, leading up to his famous uppercut. My teeth feel like they just shattered as I stumble backward before digging the balls of my feet into the grass to stop.

Peering up, I notice the red mark forming on his cheek as I motion him with my hand to come for me again—he does.

If I know anything about my buddy, he can not fucking stand taunting. He’ll sit still all day and wait for the first punch, but after that, it’s game on, say your prayers, and hope to God that he calms down in time before he kills or makes you brain dead.

Bishop swings, connecting with my nose before I’m cowered over and ram my shoulders into his stomach. He falls back, and I go with him, push myself off his sternum to sit up, and issue out a cheap shot to his jaw.

Meaty hands grip my T-shirt before knuckles belt into my gut. It only sends a rush of frenzy throughout my body at his bullshit move, and I’m rapidly throwing punches into his ribs.

“Get the fuck off me!” he bellows, finally flinging me off him. I hit the grass on my side, but Bishop doesn’t move, and neither do I.

This isn’t our first nor our last brawl together, and we normally end up like this—at a stalemate because I don’t want to hurt him, and he doesn’t want to rip a limb off.

“You can’t play possessive boyfriend when she’s not yours,” Bishop finally says, looking up at the blue sky sprinkled with clouds. “Your job is to protect her, not boss her around.”

“Still missing the part where any of this is your fucking business,” I deadpan.

“When one of our own tells me that he was actually afraid you were going to leap over the couch and take him out. Then it’s my business.”

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