Page 23 of Overcast

Swiping my forehead,I consider the pinging ache settling into my skull and welcome it.

Lesson learned—don’t approach too close to the blonde while taunting her.

I’ll admit it, she shocked me. I didn’t expect for her to slam her head into mine because I thought she’d play out the innocent act for a little while longer. Straining my patience to see if she could get me to—A, believe her, or B, show her that I was no longer playing.

I’m no longer playing.

Except my tools are in the truck, I just showered, and Mills will murder me if I leave blood all over his ancient basement that hasn’t seen a renovation since it was built in the thirties.

But the petite and utterly sinful angel downstairs just confirmed that she has an unrestrained temper residing within her.

One that I’m going to snuff out.

“Didn’t go well?” I half-ass roll my eyes at Mills’s amused voice as I snatch a Coors Light out of his fridge.

“Define your definition of ‘well’,” I counter, slamming the door shut and popping off the cap.

Hitting my blunt that was almost wasted by the blonde’s sudden growth of balls, I pray the shit is strong enough to take the edge off my anxiety.

It’s passed heightened.

Blondie downstairs isn’t talking, and time is quickly passing me by with threats coming from a direction I’m not privy on.

“That red mark on your head is new.” Mills and my eyes cling to each other’s—mine is warning him to fuck off with his next comment, and his are laced with provoking me until I throat-punch him.

“You want one to match?” I bring the bottle to my lips and take a generous swig.

Mills shrugs his shoulder, and he better sit down. His boyish good looks aren’t going to save him from getting his ass kicked around here.

“How does it work exactly?” His grayish-blue eyes narrow in mock earnestness. “Do you try to lean in and kiss me or—”

“Quit busting his balls,” Bishop chimes in, sounding bored at having to be in our presence. “Unless you want your face rearranged, I’m not stopping him if he starts.”

Mills rakes his hand through his shit-brown hair. “It’s just...funny.” Bish and I don’t satisfy him with a response, so he continues. “Why isn’t she dead yet?”

“Because I require answers, dipshit.”

He lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Did you get any yet?”

Biting down on my lower lip, I attempt to ponder on anything but violence. Where I don’t bust my beer bottle over Mills’s head and pray that a piece of glass cuts and leaves a remnant of a scar.

“And you’re not going to get them by stabbing her,” Mills carries on. “It’s not working.”

“I’m not done.”

Mills’s eyes finally flip and narrow in on me. “Don’t be getting any fucking blood on—” I raise my bottle to shut him up.

“I won’t. Relax.”

“You need to change tactics.” All attention in the room falls on Bishop.

The man who breaks an arm then asks questions later.

The dude who repeatedly hammered nails into someone’s chest before taking the gag out.

“I’d love to hear this,” Mills quips for me, pulling out a chair and plopping down in it. “How so, Mr. I-Like-To-See-Them-Half-Bleeding-To-Death before I crack my lips open.”

Bishops cranes his neck to take another generous gulp of suds then smacks his lips before saying, “Says the dude who enjoys electrocuting people until most of their brain cells are fried.”

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