DECEIT (B723) - Hazel Grace (the reader ebook .txt) 📗

grin and scoff. I’m not ratting myself out.

EMMY: Whatcha need?

MARTY: For you to answer my fucking question. 

Mhm. I thought this becoming a father would’ve calmed his ass down; however, it’s done the exact opposite. Calling him a nervous wreck would be an understatement because Marty has a built-up notion in his head that he’s going to be a shit of a dad.

I believe he’ll be fucking amazing, but again, no one listens to me. I’d have a better conversation with a wall over these dudes with selective hearing. He is convinced his now wife and ex-kidnapped victim, Stormi, isn’t going to want to keep him around due to his broody and emotional past.

Transforming him into a walking and sneering disaster of nerves.

It’s been a ball—really.

I love watching him pace the floors and drive himself absolutely crazy while the boys do nothing but laugh, and I’m the one that has to settle his unstable ass down.

I think I’ve missed my calling as a psychiatrist.

EMMY: Shopping.

MARTY: Since when?

EMMY: Since when what?

MARTY: You’re the only female I know that hates stores and trying shit on. 

EMMY: Sometimes, you just have to suck it up and go. 

MARTY: I was gonna see if you were around. 

I recognize what that means, even if he won’t just blurt it out and say it.

Marty needs someone around to keep his mind off parenthood. Which is dumb because Stormi is probably nearby to console him.

Despite everything, I’m happy he still wants me around. And thankfully, so does Stormi. I mean, who could blame her?

EMMY: Order us a pizza. I’ll be over soon. 

Which will have to be me leaving pronto because I still have an hour trip. I wish he’d call Mills to have a “boy’s night,” but technically, I’m considered one, and be as it may, Mills drives Marty crazy.

MARTY: Be here in an hour?

EMMY: Shopping, remember? 

MARTY: You’re shopping, my ass. 

MARTY: You’re lying. 

EMMY: Prove it. 

MARTY: I did. 

EMMY: How?

MARTY: Mills taught me how to GPS a phone, and you’re about an hour out. 

MARTY: Funny, the rental that Bishop and I rented out is a good sixty minutes from here. Fancy that. 

Damn it.

How dare these assholes use the skills that I taught them against me.

MARTY: Get your ass here when you’re done doing whatever it is you’re not doing. 

The slamming of a car door yanks me from my screen just to find a woman and child walking from a red van.

He’s not here.

I thought maybe I could “run into him” after the dozens upon dozens of text messages I’ve sent with no response. I’ve aspired to give him space, to plainly chill out, except it’s been more challenging than I thought.

My heart drops a little as the truth slaps me in the face like it always does, never missing the opportunity to.

Bishop doesn’t want to be found or talked to.

We’re over.

We’ve been over for years.

“Where are your bags?” Marty interrogates me as soon as I walk through the front door of his cabin. He eyes me suspiciously, fully aware of my lie, but it’d only be valid if I confirm it.

Which I’m not.

“In the car,” I reply slowly, sending him a glare before making myself at home by going to the kitchen to grab a beer.

Marty suddenly rises from the couch, beer in hand, when he beelines for the door I just entered.

My heartbeat skids and slams into my chest because I know where the fuck he’s going.

He’s about to call out my bullshit.

“Where are you going?”

He doesn’t answer, determined to prove me wrong in any way he can. He only halts his palm touching the doorknob when I pull back on the hammer of my 9mm. The loud sound piercing through his muffled sounding TV and aimed right at his head.

“Don’t trust me, Marty?” I purr, my tone anything but delighted.

I’m pissed.

First, because of the obvious, trust.

Second, I don’t need to tell him everything even though I make him spill all his crap.

Third, because I’m not having the Bishop conversation.

“You can bet your ass, Emmy Lou,” he assures me, still staring at the door. “You’re hiding something from me.”

I literally loathe how he can feel me too.

It’s like we’re separated twins, except we look nothing alike. Marty with dark hair and piercing green eyes and me with my pale blonde hair that almost looks white with light brown eyes.

We might be able to pass as second cousins, but nothing more.

It’s as though we were linked somehow in a past life, and I don’t like how it is used against my favor.

“Did you adopt me and become my new daddy?” I seethe, watching Marty slowly peer over his broad shoulder at me, eyes drilling into my face.

“You need a daddy...but he doesn’t look like me.”

My nostrils flare. We’re both in a shit mood, both hard-headed, petty as fuck, and can make a war out of nothing.

But we’re close friends.

He’s had my back, I always have his, and it still does nothing when we’re like this. We’re downright assholes.

“What the fuck does that mean?” I snap, gesturing with my weapon for him to go sit back down. “Go enjoy your beer, best friend.”

“Tell me where you were,” he retorts sternly. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“Out shopping,” I lie through a whisper.

Marty’s brows furrow. “What?”

“Shopping,” I repeat louder. “I was shopping for dildos, Marty.”

“You’re an idiot, Emmy.” He steps away from the door, hurls it open, and whistles loudly. A faint sound of jingling comes from the other side, Armageddon’s collar.

The dog barrels through the door frame, tongue hanging from his mouth as he searches for me. And when he does, he obediently sits without being asked.

My God, Bishop even trained him to be a bore.

Marty slams the door, not bothering to tell me to put my gun down, and plops back onto the couch, pretending to get into his show again. I end up grabbing my cold beverage and sitting next to him—we’re both the picture-perfect definition of miserable.

Him because he’s terrified.

Me because of him and my own tug