Epilogue
SUNNY
Music from the clubhouse drifts across the water behind me, and it’s the best fucking sound.
Knox and Maren are happy and expecting a baby. Vandal found some peace with Daisy and the cuteness of Elsie.
And we have Alvarez over a barrel.
So it’s no wonder there’s a pep in my proverbial step as I wind my way home for the night. I need some fucking sleep. Not sleep that’s interrupted by smacking pool balls and pounding bed frames.
I take the long road home through the nature preserve, enjoying the inky-blue sky, the stars, and the warm night air. The roads are narrow and bend out here. It’s a fun challenge to ride them in the dark.
But out of nowhere, I nearly run over a woman.
“Jesus Christ,” I gasp, grabbing a fistful of brakes. My rear tire twitches on loose gravel, and for a minute, it feels as though I’m about to dump the bike. But I manage to bring the whole thing under control, even as my heartbeat races a million beats per hour.
I come to a halt and look back at the lunatic running down the middle of the road toward me.
She’s wearing ugly khaki shorts and hiking boots, and she’s waving a flashlight. And not the kind on her phone, but a bona fide portable flashlight that she’s waving like she’s trying to land a plane.
“What the hell are you doing?” I say as she gets close.
“Get me out of here, please?” Her words are breathless, like she’s been running for a while.
She’s not exactly what I expected. I thought she was some tourist who’d wandered off the trail. But a battered backpack hangs off one shoulder, and there’s a compass around her neck.
Her hair hangs in two thick braids, and freckles dust her cheeks and nose. A pair of slightly oversized glasses slide down her face, and she shoves them back into place with an impatient middle finger, like she’s flipping me the bird.
It’s cute.
Dangerously cute.
“Quick,” she says. “Please.”
I glance up and down the empty road. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s a bad idea to climb onto a strange man’s motorcycle?”
Her eyes narrow. “It’s not like you’re luring me into a van to show me puppies.”
“Wait,” I ask. “Are you the weirdo? You’re not some female serial killer, are you?”
She looks up and down at her hiking boots and shorts. “Hardly. Please, I’m being hunted. Can we go?”
“‘Hunted’ feels a little dramatic, don’t you—”
Then I see it. Bobbing lights deep in trees. Lots of them. Something crashes. A tree branch.
The woman spins to the sound, and every trace of irritation disappears from her face, replaced with pure terror.
“Please,” she begs. “I’m Dr. Della Hart. I’m an assistant professor in wetland ecology. I’m not going to kill you. Please, get me out of here.”
I have no idea what the fuck is going on or what any of those titles she just said mean, but I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress, and it’ll make a great fucking story at church in the morning.
So I slide forward a little on the seat. “Climb on.”