Page 94 of Overcast

She smells like my shampoo right now.

I like more of her weight, now on my chest. It's making my dick swell, wanting to thrust up just to see what kind of feedback I can get from her.

But I won't.

I won't because this is so beyond fucked up that it's not even funny.

This isn't a normal "we had a fight, and now we have to make up to save this relationship". We have none of that.

Stormi and I didn't fight.

We don't have to make up.

And what we currently have is me fucking up and Stormi taking the brunt of all my rage and anger. There is nothing I can do, say, or sign that will ever get her to see me as anything but the asshole that busted in her house, stabbed her, flipped over the truck she was in and waterboarded her.

All this and now that I know she’s innocent, thinking of an alternate reality of how things could've been different if we met another way.

How I wished things were different.

But things were muddled in my head.

Shit, they always are.

I'm a mind full of bad ideas and things I can't change because it was embedded in my DNA. I was made into a monster that hides in the dark and brings out the nightmares that people don't think about. That they might only see in the movies.

I don't get the angel.

I shouldn't get to touch the beauty in front of me who deserves more than the hand she was given with a shit father and a house that was filthy. The ending of this horror flick is that she’s going to move on, I’m going to stay exactly where I've always been—in my head, my past and with Reagan and her family. I'm a faceless anti-hero to the country, taking out the bad guys and never getting the credit for it.

I preferred it that way. Stormi would get past this hopefully and have a family.

I’m just the fucker that buys her pizza for her trouble and the fact that she has to deal with me for a little longer.

Time that I’m going to soak up because I can, and we have nothing else better to do while I babysit her.

Her breath hits my chin as I lean up to make sure that through whatever sort of excuse she wants to spill for later, I'm perfectly clear in my next words.

"I bought pizza, and I have beer. You and I are going to have a nice little dinner date downstairs, and I'll watch whatever stupid little reality TV show you want because I'm flexible like that. I'm so happy that you're feeling better. So much that you can climb the gutters and almost break your neck to—"

"I didn't climb the gutters," she conveys, tugging upward to give herself some space from me.

Too fucking bad.

I like her right here, which is going to be the closest I'll ever get to her anyways.

Unless you want to count the half-drowning kiss I laid on her and the small two-point-five make-out sesh that we had at the shitty gas station.

"How the hell did you get down then?" I gripe, my eyes narrowing in on her "I fucking hate you" scorn that's exquisitely painted on every feature of her face.

"I climbed down the tree."

She climbed down a fucking tree.

"Great, so not only your neck, but you wanted to go big and try to break a leg or arm too. I'll keep that in mind next time and go padlock the windows shut now."

"Don't," she stresses, balling my shirt with her fist. "I like the breeze."

"Should've thought of that before, sweet—"

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