Chapter 17 Jagg #2
The night was just beginning to lighten by the time we reached the park.
I wasn’t sure if Sunny had fallen asleep, so I gave my best guess on where she’d parked.
I knew it wasn’t where Colson and I had entered, and I remembered her saying she was about a mile into her jog before the attack, so my best bet was the north entrance.
I pivoted and stepped onto a shortcut through the woods where I picked up the jogging trail a few yards in.
I didn’t like that my gun hand wasn’t free.
Keeping my head on a swivel, I scanned the woods as we passed through.
The lampposts did a terrible job of illuminating more than a few feet, and, Sunny was right, there were pitch-black spots in-between.
Dark enough to shade anyone’s face. There was also enough underbrush to hide an elephant.
I recalled the debate years earlier between the cowboys and local conservationist about clearing the shrubbery in City Park.
The hippies didn’t want “man” to touch the nature.
The cowboys wanted it cleaned up. In the end, the hippies won after a three-day protest.
I replayed Sunny’s description of the attack in my head.
There was no question someone could hide along the trail, so that part added up.
But why was the pastor’s kid hanging out at the park at midnight?
Why attack a lone jogger? Why Sunny? Or, had he followed her?
Did the pastor’s son have something against Sunny?
And who was this third person? It couldn’t have been an accomplice of Julian Griggs, because why would his accomplice shoot him in the face?
… Assuming Sunny’s story was true, of course.
The crime scene photos from her attack in Dallas flashed through my head. Holes in the walls. Bruises on her face. Clumps of her hair along the blood-speckled sink.
My grip tightened around her. She pressed deeper against the squeeze, and that same protectiveness that I felt when seeing the photos for the first time came over me again. Intense. Raw. Visceral. What I imagine a father feeling over his daughter.
Or, a husband over his wife.
Another breeze, another puff of hair across my neck.
I looked down at the beautiful curls, my gaze skirting from each strand wondering which ones had been ripped from her head.
Wondering how long it had taken for the hair to grow back.
Wondering if she’d been embarrassed. If she’d felt shame?
Wore hats? Or maybe she cut it all off so she didn’t have to look at it.
Each strand had grown back. Healed. Long, beautiful. Resilient. Strong.
Like Sunny.
Sunny with her stygian, wild locks of armor.
I stepped into the north parking lot and stopped cold. I could almost hear the guitar riff in the background as I stared at the only vehicle in the parking lot—a freaking gleaming, glistening, sparkling, cherry red 1972 Chevy Cheyenne with white running stripes down the side.
Holy. Dream car.
No freaking way did this badass beast belong to a woman named Sunny. I also popped an erection right then and there.
Just when I thought the woman couldn’t get any sexier.
“Please tell me that’s your truck,” I said, not caring if I woke her.
Her head lifted from my chest. “It runs. I promise.”
“Runs through my blood like a shot of espresso. She. Is. Beautiful.” I whistled.
She delighted at my response. “Thanks.” I felt her smile.
My jaw literally dropped as I crossed the lot. I was madly, head-over-heels in love. With the truck.
“Keys?” I asked.
“In my pants.”
I cleared my throat.
“Alright, I’m going to set you down now. You ready?”
She nodded against my chest, that lax weight suddenly tense again.
“Here we go.” Bending at the knees, I slowly lowered her to the ground. Once I was sure she was steady, I let go.
She didn’t make eye contact. Despite her tough demeanor, Sunny was embarrassed that I carried her—that she had to be carried.
She pulled a key—an actual key, not a key fob—from one of the hundred hidden pockets in her pants. Modern marvels those things are.
She unlocked the truck. I pulled open the door and offered my hand. She declined and climbed into the cab, which, also, ironically, had a tropical smell of sorts. The interior was upholstered in shiny leather, cherry red, like the paint.
Like those lips.
“All in?” I asked.
“In.”
Standing between the door and the driver’s seat, I placed my palms on the top of the truck. “Long drive to your house?”
“No.”
We locked eyes.
Something passed between us—tight, quiet, charged. Like the last second before a strike.
Then I nodded and stepped back. “Stay safe, Miss Harper. Call me if you need anything.”
I started to close the door, but she caught it with a firm hand.
“Thank you,” she said softly, eyes cast down, lashes hiding whatever emotion brewed behind them.
I gave a slow nod and backed away, the door shutting with a solid click. The truck roared to life, and I stood there watching those red taillights disappear into the darkness like a slow burn I didn’t know how to put out.