Page 44 of Overcast

I feelas though I’m in a low budget B-rated movie. The acting sucks and the bad guys are a bunch of clowns who were desperate to generate some extra cash or make it somewhere. These assholes who came to rescue Stormi are class-A wannabes.

Mind you, the fucker in front of me can throw a nice right hand.

However, the idiot to my left and the douchebag with way too much cologne on to my right can barely keep me standing when I purposely drop all my weight on them.

The motherfucker holding Stormi in his chunky arms stops before placing her in the backseat of a tinted-out Ford Expedition. And just like a weird moment in a flick, Stormi turns in my direction to meet my witnessing of her emancipation.

She’s not getting free from me.

Not when we have so much unfinished business, and she’s not dead by my hands yet. These stupid fucks just ruined my plan, and my boys work of digging an unmarked grave, especially for her.

Today’s her lucky day.

Scratch that, she’s got a few hours of peace because she won’t be evading me when I break free of the Three Stooges.

This shit...is unbelievable.

Her unyielding cover was blown, yet again, the minute her goons came to liberate her. Because what innocent, normal-as-fuck woman has a dozen or so men at the ready to hunt her down and extract her from a dangerous situation?

Exactly.

My head is suddenly jolted to the side when the Planet Fitness member in front of me slams his fist into my cheekbone—kid you not, it’s what his shirt says. My response is nothing but craning my neck back to Stormi, who is still mirroring the same expression she always wears.

Fear.

My lips quirk, she can stop now. Her facade is over, we can really get to business, and I can’t wait to get my hands on her when I kill every single one of these wannabe heroes.

* * *

The screenplay of this scenario can chill with being so cliche. After Planet Fitness, idiot and douchebag thought they were going to beat my ass to a pulp, Mills jumped in—finally—and we ended that unrehearsed scene.

Stormi is being kept in some random, janky motel. The white and green chipped paint alludes that it’s never known a good owner that wanted to take care of it. I’ve noticed two prostitutes waltz out with half their clothes on, and three more enter multiple rooms from the other side.

The place is quiet except for the loud crunching noises coming from Mills, who won’t stop chomping on the bag of Fritos that he has in his hand.

“How many did you count?” Mills asks me, rustling in his bag to grab more chips.

I readjust my jaw and concentrate on being patient and sitting still. I feel like a three-year-old with ants in my pants.

“Two men in the room she’s being kept in and four more next door.” I light my blunt, saving Mills’s life and because there isn’t shit to do yet.

Plus, I need to calm down.

My adrenaline has been injecting wave upon wave throughout my whole anatomy. The pads of my fingers can’t wait to wrap around her neck.

I haven’t been sleeping well ever since I captured, kidnapped—whatever you want to call it—Stormi from the first night I saw her. It pushes me to be more impatient and a tad bit reckless when it comes down to how I’m letting everything happen.

“When do you want to make a move?”

I exhale my hit. “Now.”

Mills’s head snaps to attention as though he’s surprised. The dummy has only known me for years. “What?”

“Which room do you want?”

“The one where we have backup,” Mills retorts with steel in his tone. “Bishop should be here any—” The squeak of a door halts his disagreement with my plan.

Two men in the room that Stormi isn’t being kept in stride out and jump into one of the SUVs, kicking up dirt and taking off.

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