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 fromeach 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.
Sunnywith 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.
Nofreakingway 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 shehadto be carried.
She pulled a key—an actualkey,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.
