Page 56 of Overcast

She’s fucking ridingmy last nerve bouncing her bare legs around before tucking them under her ass and opening herself up for me to slide my hands down her inner thighs and—fucking Christ.

I can smell the woodsy-scented shampoo of mine in her hair. A fucking mistake on my part because when have I ever let a victim take a shower?

The answer is never.

Add on that she’s wearing one of my shirts and a pair of boxers, because everything I have is too big, and you have the world’s biggest fucking idiot right here in the driver’s seat of my truck.

I haven’t even had her a full week, and she’s driving me nuts. Like a love-child, I didn’t know about or a long-lost sibling that shows up on my doorstep.

Except this burden of mine has my body fleeting ideas around about fucking her until I can’t see or think straight.

I settled her in my bunker that’s enclosed by the woods behind my cabin. It was built in case my paranoid ass needed it and, low and behold, I use it for this chick.

Maybe I should’ve just let those assholes keep her. My home feels violated, she’s too close—like fifty yards away close, underground, but it’s not far enough.

Reagan doesn’t know about it.

Fuck, she doesn’t even know I came home yet.

My place is a football field away, in the woods, and she’s going to kick my ass because—not only did I not show up for dinner, but I have a hostage with me. The cameras looking into said secret place is another dilemma. I’ve spent way too much time glancing, peering, sitting in front of my computer screen just to see what she was doing.

Which wasn’t much.

I don’t keep people.

I don’t feed them and babysit.

I don’t drive them around in my truck like we’re going somewhere together.

I mean, we are, but it’s yet another place that she’s not going to like. Perfect scenario, she would’ve sung like a bird, and I’d have already burned, buried, or sent her back in pieces to her organization as a message.

However, Stormi is squirming about when my main focus should be on the road in front of me.

I should throw her out of my truck and let whatever fucking wild animal have her for breakfast.

Pulling into an obsolete gas station, I observe the area for cops.

None.

One family in a van with two kids horsing about in the backseat is the only live sight around.

Throwing my pickup in park, I veer my scrutiny to the blonde who won’t sit the hell still. “How do you want to do this, sweetheart?”

She doesn’t pull her attention away from the window, eyeing the van intently. So, that’s how she’s going to play this. Reaching over to the glove box, I open it and remove my loaded Glock. Her eyes follow, practically bulging out of her head, realizing that there was a weapon in front of her this entire time.

I draw back on the hammer, letting the specific noise fill the cab of my truck and hint as a warning.

“Scream, I shoot the dad first,” I tell her. “The mom will shriek, the kids afterward. I’ll hit the tall boy second because he’s easier than the little girl next to him. I’ll probably knick her in the side of the head because she’s pretty small. Might have to round the van and finish her off. Unfortunately, the mom will have to see the whole thing because she’s the hardest to hit with this cement pole in the way, but she’ll have the little boy in her arms, dead by the moment I take her out.”

Stormi’s face blanches, still staring at me with her big beautiful blue eyes. Ones that I’d like to see glossed over in something other than fear for me, but that’s beside the point.

She doesn’t deserve my dick. I’d like to fuck someone worth my time, and I don’t play with my toys like that no matter how alluring and innocent they may seem.

You mean like you did the other night? And how you keep thinking about it every night since then.

“So—” I shift in my seat, twisting my body to face hers and pull every bit of patience into this conversation. “—how do you want to do this?”

“You’d...” Her bottom lip trembles, inviting, and full of bullshit lies. “Kids?”

---