Page 30 of Overcast

“I’m pregnant.”

Those two words would’ve made me over the moon days ago.

I would’ve lit a blunt to celebrate, cracked open a beer, and went home to see my sister so that I could hug her for a five solid minutes before she bitched at me to let go.

Now...I’m standing in the apartment that Bishop and I rent out month to month, dread coating my normally cool facade as a million scenarios and ideas orchestrate rapidly in my head.

Reagan isn’t safe until the men or women behind all of this are dead. And now she’s bringing another child into the world, and I’ve only had three days to attempt to figure this shit out.

“I’m sorry, Marty,” Reagan mutters, causing another gut-punch to my insides. “I wish I didn’t have to tell you over the phone. I just...haven’t seen you since…”

Since I found you choking, half-conscious, in the lake.

I shake my head vigorously as though she can see me. “No, no. Tsarina, it’s wonderful.”

It’s not.

It’s freaking me the fuck out.

Normally, I would’ve already researched my assignments, knew where they would be, what establishment they worked at, their schedules—but this time everything is spur of the moment.

Working on a whim without an ending or a starting point besides the blonde that currently has me pacing my living room like a caged animal, who won’t sing a clue to help me out.

And I’m ready to bite right into her neck and shake her until I sever it.

There’s no one to stop me or interrupt now.

Mills kicked us out of his basement—the fucker. After plan B of seducing her didn’t work out, it was non-stop of his complaining, whining, “when are you going to finish this” and I had finally had enough.

God forbid that my so-called brother that he so kindly mentions when he wants something lets me keep the blonde bitch for one more night before we get rid of her.

Apparently, that’s a concept. And the motherfucker forgets that I don’t overlook shit.

“No...it’s not,” Reagan replies stiffly, sounding like she’s tearing up. “I’m terrified to have another child right now.”

It’s a gut punch.

I can’t haul what happened from her brain, and there’s nothing I can do other than what I’m trying to do, find out who and why.

“When are you coming home?” Reagan’s voice is a tremor of necessitate of my being there, and I’m not. “You left...without saying goodbye.” My jaw locks, and I rake my hand through my tousled hair.

It’s only because I was too busy chasing the miniature blonde and that fat ass Hollis in his truck.

Once I knew Reagan was breathing, my cell was already in my hands, calling up Bishop to get our guys out there. Wade was my next call, only because I needed shit done, not his bitching, and questioning once I told him that his wife was attacked.

“Tomorrow night,” I reply, trying to sound excited.

After I bury this bitch in a six-foot hole after wasting my time.

Unfortunately, Stormi is loose baggage and delusional to believe that I’m not going to make good on my word. I’m not a basic-ass assassin or what people would call a murderer—whatever it is you want to call me—Stormi is going to learn while I get to watch every speck of dirt hit her picturesque frame.

At least I’ll get half my wish—that I’ll be the last thing she sees.

“Huck will be happy to see you,” Reagan chimes in. “And I’ll make your favorite for dinner.”

I smile, try to at least, so it reaches my voice. “That sounds fucking amazing.”

Mindlessly, I walk to the jar in my kitchen that has cookies and one of my blunts in it. My sister being pregnant adds a whole new level of anxiety coursing through me, and it’s a feeling that I’m not used to.

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