Page 210 of Overcast

“Marty...” His name is rancid off my tongue because I’m still mad. I’m here, in a spot I shouldn’t be, because of him. “Will be here soon.”

“He sure will,” Eli booms through the room, striding in with two armed men behind him.

Both are the size of Bishop—tall, wide, and menacing. Each holds their own hazardous vibe, especially with the guns across their chests.

“You’re. Fucking. Dead,” Reagan rants the moment she hears his voice. “Where the fuck is my son?!”

“Stormi,” Eli’s voice coos softly. “You need to teach her some manners.” He peers over at her before his brows snap together. “Like shutting the fuck up.”

“Fuck you,” she counters, leaning forward to make sure her words hit him in the chest. “Where. Is. My. Son. And. Husband, douchebag.”

“Reagan, please,” I beg.

I don’t mention the baby because I don’t want Eli to do something stupid.

Trust no one—that’s my new motto. Eli appeared like a second grade teacher when I first met him, and now he looks like a douchie beach boy with a trust fund.

“Your husband will be here soon to join the party,” Eli replies before plopping onto her couch. “Then you and I can finish what we started so many years ago.”

My face twists as I look over at Reagan, who is staring daggers into his frame.

They know each other?

“Still raping woman?” Reagan chides sharply. “I guess daddy’s money couldn’t buy you everything, huh?”

“He raped you?!” I exclaim—more like involuntarily blurt—as Reagan straightens her back and leans to rest it against the chair.

My next inhale doesn’t happen as I watch Reagan bore daggers into Eli.

She doesn’t materialize any fear or misgivings about him. Her body isn’t shaking like mine has in the past. No cowering or stepping down from his words as she keeps her chin raised like a queen.

“Tried to,” she mutters to me. “With one of his little buddies.”

“We just wanted to see if you were interested in having a little fun,” Eli counters, picking up one of her framed pictures off the side table. “You were the hottest girl there.”

“Then ask, fucker. Don’t lure me into a pantry closet.”

“Get over it.” Eli dismisses her with his watched-hand. “All you had to say was no.”

“I did.”

“Don’t worry, I’m already getting bored with you.” He flicks his dark eyes to me. “I’d rather help someone else that needs it. Your family has done nothing but destroy others.”

“Don’t make yourself a martyr,” she seizes. “You’re a piece of shit.” Eli slides off the end of the couch and stands, striding in our direction.

His perfect fitting outfit fills out his tall frame and chest, but he looks like he hasn’t lifted a finger to do anything in his life. When he entered the book store today, dressed to the nines, I thought it was because he was trying to impress me.

Even though I wouldn’t call it a date, I didn’t mind that he spent time looking nice.

“You can thank your bitch of a husband that we’re here,” Eli calmly announces to Reagan. “This is all because of him. All of it.“

“Your dad was also a piece of shit,” Reagan spits out. “He stole money from honest citizens and blew it on whores and trips. Wade got him out of a few messes, but good ‘ole pa still wanted his dick sucked every—” His palm slams across the side of her face, and a gasp leaves my lips at the sound.

“Shut the fuck up.” He leans over, aligning their faces. “Your brother is worse than my father ever was.” He points at me. “Look at her cheek.”

He refers to the now small scar from Marty’s knife when I wouldn’t speak to him.

“Take her out,” Eli suddenly commands, his voice echoing off the walls. “I have some things to discuss with my book buddy.”

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