Page 161 of Overcast

Five deep breaths. That’s what the therapist that Reagan made me go to prescribed when I felt as though I was about to go off the rails.

Doesn’t work.

Me: Making scenes aren’t my thing.

Bishop: Where we differ.

Me: Then go kick Mills’ ass if you’re looking for some fun.

Bishop: I prefer not knowing if my opponent can throw a shitty left hook or not.

Me: lol.

The door to the room opens again, and Bianca stands there in jeans and a black leather jacket, holding a giant purse.

“I’m ready,” she coos, now smacking on a piece of gum.

Another forced grin. “Great.”

* * *

Now I know how Stormi felt.

The suffocating feeling of not being able to breathe and know if I’ll ever be able to again on my own. The humiliation of having someone watch you struggle with the predicament that you’re put in against your will.

Bianca will not let me come up for air, hardcore making out with me while straddling my lap as Bishop snickers in the front.

I should’ve been more specific when I said be nice as my pretend Uber driver—it should’ve been just shut the fuck up.

The goal was to keep Bianca occupied with something else other than a long car ride and us going into the middle of fucking nowhere. It’ll only cause questions, concern, and her changing her mind.

Actually, the closer she gets, if she wants to lose her shit, that’s fine. I just don’t want her kicking and screaming when we get home and wake up Stormi. It’s way after one in the morning, Stormi is probably curled up into a ball in bed and dreaming about her new life.

Meanwhile, I’m being mauled and possessed by a lookalike who is shoving her tongue into my mouth like she’s about to suck the soul out of me with it.

“We’re here,” Bishop announces, suddenly putting the SUV in park in front. It’s then that Bianca breaks from me, peering out the window to see what kind of place I have.

“Holy shit,” she chortles, climbing off of me and almost hitting me in the balls. “This is your place?”

She wastes no time opening up the door and slipping out, still talking as she steps closer to the cabin.

“You’re fucked,” Bishop mutters, tapping his fingers along the steering wheel.

I ignore him, sliding off the leather seats and slamming the door while Bianca lets out a loud squeal of excitement—on my front fucking porch.

Oh fuck...

“You didn’t tell me you were loaded,” she exclaims, bouncing on the tips of her toes as she pivots to face me.

I march-sprint in her direction. “I wouldn’t say that.”

She doesn’t wait for me to invite her in but opens the front door and walks inside.

I shoot up the porch steps, finding the living room dark and soothed of any sound besides Bianca just running into something and giggling an “oops”.

I glance over in the direction of my kitchen, quickly contemplating getting this bitch out the back before she rearranges the place with her clumsy ass when her body crashes into mine followed by her lips and tongue again.

I bite down on her lower lip because she’s pissing me off and ground myself to the hardwood floors. Bianca is trying to climb me like a damn tree, and I’m ready for this scene to have its plot twist.

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