“Without question.”
“That’s a very short-sided, cynical way to look at the world.”
“You obviously came from a lot of it.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
When I didn’t expand on the subject, she pried. “What were you like in high school?”
I almost laughed at the image that popped into my head.
“I was a tall, gangly, unathletic kid with braces, who also happened to be the captain of the math club and the science club. I was smart, which made me a nerd. And I was dirt poor which made me a target.”
“Ah,” she said. “Therefore shaping your jaded view about money.”
“Absolutely. I won’t deny that. Money makes life easier, opens doors, creates opportunities I never had.”
“I think you opened your own door, Jagg. Your reputation from your time in the Navy precedes you. Rumors are you were the youngest officer to ever be named chief. And after you moved back here, you were promoted to detective after only a year working the beat. People fear you. Respect you… Why did you leave?”
“Leave what?” I knew what she was asking, and God help me I didn’t want to get into it.
“Leave the military. The teams.”
I swallowed deeply, wiped my mouth. “I was deemed unfit for active duty.”
“Why?”
I shifted. “My back. Got hurt during a mission that went sideways. Suicide vest, ten feet from me.”
She stilled, blinked. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m one of many, trust me on that. And in most cases, in better shape.”
“I don’t consider carrying a bottle of pills in your pocket every day, better shape.”
I looked down at my pocket, where, sure enough, the outline of a pill bottle was visible. “How did you notice that?”
“You’ve had a bottle in your pocket every time I’ve seen you.”
I blinked, realizing she was right. Every morning when I left the house, I slid the bottle into my pocket… how many days had I’d done this? When was the last day I hadn’t taken a pain pill?
I glanced up, into her eyes, those green irises saying so much with nothing at all.
She looked away.
Message received.
Like a fucking nuclear bomb.
She must’ve read me like a book because she switched conversations. She’d made her point, and she was ready to move on.
“Try the cheese,” she said.
I attempted to focus on my salad while my thoughts raced trying to nail down a day that I hadn’t taken a pain pill.
“The cheese, I said, try it. The little white balls. They’re marinated mozzarella balls. Best I’ve ever had. … And drop it.”
Drop it. Drop it, Jagg, drop it.
I shoved a white ball in my mouth—amazing.
She smiled. I smiled back.
“Alright, Dr. Drew Pinsky, let’s get back to you. So you weren’t popular, despite the rich dad.”
She laughed. “In spite of it, you could say. My father kept his thumb on me. Restrictions, curfews. He’d check my phone, my social media. I was told what to do and how to do it. Every day of my life. I had zero independence.”
“And you rebelled?”
“I’d say that’s an understatement.”
“Is that why you live the way you do?”
“And what way is that?”
“Minimally and ridiculously independently.”
“Yes. I didn’t want his money. I still don’t.” She looked at me thoughtfully. “Funny, huh? While you look at money as a gift, I look at it as a restriction full of strings attached.”
“How did you rebel?”
“The tattoo was first.”
My brows shot up along with a tingle straight to the tip of my dick. “You have a tattoo?’
She grinned, widely this time. “Yes.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere you’ll ever see.”
“Challenge accepted.”
She grinned.
“How else did you rebel?”
“Well, I started running with the wrong crowd.”
“Kenzo?”
“Yes. Remember I told you he was a bit of a bad boy. It was gradual, really. Parties here and there, after football games. That turned into drinking. Other things.”
“Drugs?”
“A bit. Yes.”
“Do you still do drugs?”
“Not since my twenty-first birthday.”
“The night it happened.”
Her face darkened as she nodded.
“Did you do coke?” I asked. It was none of my business, but for some reason I cared. I had to know.
“No. Pot only. I tried mushrooms once. An experience I would never wish on any type A personality.”
“Oh I’ve seen it, trust me.”
“I bet. Anyway, my biggest rebellion, really, was leaving Dallas and moving here last year.”
“Why did you leave your dad?”
She shifted, another flicker of nerves on her face. She didn’t like talking about her dad.
“Tell me, Sunny.”
“After my mom died, my father… went off the deep end. First time I noticed his grief was going beyond ‘normal,’ was when he started having whiskey with his morning eggs.” She wrinkled her nose. “Whiskey. Can you imagine?”
I shrugged. “Worse things to have with breakfast.”
She laughed. “Guess so. Anyway, after his second DUI, I talked to him, told him I was worried. We got in a big fight, nothing changed. It got worse. I started staying the night at his house some. Some nights he wouldn’t come home at all. I started watching him. Even followed him a few times.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why not just let him be? People grieve their own way.”
“That’s not how I work, Jagg. I’ll never forget how he and mom took care of me after the incident with Kenzo. Despite our strained relationship, my father was there for me. He was the one who took me to the doctor, to the police. Sat by my side. My mom took care of me physically, but my father took care of all the legal crap. He even amped up the home security system to make me feel safe.”
“The number one thing dads are supposed to do is protect their daughters.”
Her soft smile was brief, quickly fading.
“But it’s so obvious there’s tension between you two. So, again, why did you leave Dallas? All the years later?”
She chewed on her lower lip. “I just needed to let things go. My father just wasn’t my father anymore. I left.”
“Something happened.”
She looked down.
“Tell me, Sunny.” I wasn’t proud of the desperation in my tone. I wanted to know. I wanted to know everything about her.
“He just started making bad decisions, that’s all.” She shook her head, wanting to end the conversation. “He’ll find his way. Redemption is real.”
Her neck was flushed almost purple, a physical reaction to her discomfort in the conversation.
So I backed off. The woman had made me a picnic and I wasn’t going to ruin it for her by pressing any more than I already had. I made a mental note to follow up on the conversation at a more appropriate time.
“So,” she said. “Those are my Daddy issues. Now, tell me why you’ve ignored two of your mom’s calls that I’ve noticed.”
My brows raised. “Wow. Note to self about your eagle eyes.”
“I consider it a gift. I can read a cell phone from a mile away.”
“A man’s worst nightmare.”
“Stop deflecting.”
I sighed. “Fine. My mom and I aren’t close either. And that’s that.”
“Why?”
I shoved a forkful of salad in my mouth. “Because she’s a whore, Sunny.”
“Holy smokes, Jagger.”
“Too much?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it’s true.”
&n
bsp; “Is it? Really?”
“My mom walked out on me, my brother and my dad when I was fifteen, for another man. Found out later, she’d had two affairs before that. Three dudes. My mom took the oath of marriage with my dad and then banged three dudes while she was married to him.”
“Okay... that’s tough. I’ll give you that. How long since you two have talked?”
“Since the day I came home to my dad surrounded by empty beer cans and a note telling him she was gone.”
“And she’s tried to contact you?”
“Countless times. Not at first, really. But when she found out I enlisted she started reaching out. More so over the last few years, especially.” I ripped a handful of grass from the ground and ran the blades through my fingers. “She even sent me something, a gift I guess, a few weeks ago.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s stupid.”
“What did she send you?”
“Oh, this stupid compass. A replica of an old one. When I was a little boy, I was always wandering the woods around our house. A regular Boy Scout. Shocking, huh? Anyway, on my eighth birthday, she gave me a gold compass with my initials on the front. On the back, an etching of our house with an arrow pointing to it. Under that, the words, home is where the heart is.”
“Wow. That’s sweet… and thoughtful.”
I snorted. “It’s funny. I actually got mad at her when she gave it to me because we were so poor, I didn’t want her spending so much money on me.”
“Did you use it?”
“Took it everywhere with me. Worked like a charm.”
“Where is it now?”
“Lost it. My last mission in Iraq. The suicide bomber that fucked up my life.”
“You carried it with you all those years?”
“Guess so. Like I said, it was quality.”
“And quality was the only reason you held onto it?”
“Yes.”
“And she recently sent you a replica. How did she know you lost it?”
“Hell if I know. Dad mighta told her. They talked from time to time. Before he died.”
“Where is it?”
“I pawned it.” The words came out sharper than intended. “The day of Seagrave’s funeral. It paid my electric bill. That was nice.”
A few moments passed and I could feel her disapproval. Or maybe it was my own.
“Jagger… How old are you?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“So you haven’t talked to your mom in twenty-four years?”
“No ma’am.”
“Jagger. Call her. Call her back.”
“No.” I cut her a warning glare. “Don’t.”
“I’m just saying twenty-four years of a grudge has a way of shaping someone.”
“Do you have a psychology degree I’m unaware of?”
“Are you aware that your issues with your mom has totally shaped your personality? Especially with women?”
I tossed the blades of grass and picked up my drink, wishing it was from Long Island.
“It’s obvious you don’t trust women, or hell, even respect them as you should. One might even call you a bit sexist, Detective.”
“Now just a minute there, Susan D. Anthony. That’s one hell of a label.”
“It’s B.”
“What?”
“B. Susan B. Anthony.”
“Oh.”
“When was your last real relationship?”
“Define real.”
“Real, as in, I am her boyfriend, and she is my girlfriend, and we are committed and even thinking about moving into together.”
“Never.”
“And the last time you took a woman on a real date? Flowers, food that doesn’t involve processed meat, opened the car door for her, walked her to her door after, the works?”
“Never.”
“When was the last time you bought a woman a real gift?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but she cut me off.
“Something that didn’t involve batteries or cuffs. Something thoughtful.”
The compass flashed through my head. Truth was, I’d never given anyone a gift that thoughtful. And I didn’t like where this conversation was going.
“I’m just saying,” she continued. “Don’t write off every woman because of a few mistakes your mom made. Ones, that, if I had to guess, she’s spent the last two decades regretting.”
“My mom does not regret leaving my dad.”
“Maybe not, but based on her repeated calls and gifts, she regrets the dissolution of her relationship with her sons. Family’s important, no matter how flawed they are. There’s a loyalty with blood. It’s not something to discount.” She turned fully to me. “Do you write off everyone for their mistakes?”
“Depends on the severity of the mistake.”
“Would you write me off?”
I leaned back on my elbows, suddenly needing distance for some reason. My eyes locked on hers, assessing, assessing, assessing.
“I don’t know, Sunny. I don’t know. To be honest, I feel like I don’t know much of anything lately.”
She stared at me a moment, then shifted her gaze to the treetops, swaying in the warm breeze.
A heavy moment passed between us.
“Well, on that note, lets finish up.” She said. “I should get Brutus to his appointment.”
Fifteen minutes later, Max hopped into the back of my Jeep while Sunny helped Brute into the cab.
“Let me know what the vet says.” I said, and shockingly meant it.
“I will.”
“You good?” I asked, my eyes squinting.
A quick dip of her chin.
“About everything?”
Her eyes dropped to my lips, then trailed back up to my eyes. “I hope so,” she whispered.
“Me, too,” I whispered back. I inched closer and trailed my fingertip along her jawline. “Take Brute to the vet, then straight back to the bungalow. I’ve got an appointment but will be home in a bit.”
Home.
She nodded, her face tilting into my hand.
“I’m sorry I can’t spend the day with you.”
“It’s okay. I’d rather you be doing exactly what you’re doing.”
And then what? I wondered. What was going to happen when I caught Kenzo Rees, this crazy mystery third person, and closed the case on Sunny Harper? We’d just go our separate ways? The feeling had my gut clenching.
Her gaze flickered over my shoulder to the station. I followed it, zeroing in on the silhouettes behind the windows. One tall and as thick as an ox, and one short, pudgy and balding. Colson and Chief McCord. No doubt about it. Tanya was peeping out of the other, if I had to guess, gearing up to spread the gossip of my romantic picnic in the park.
Fuckers… and Miss Fucker. …See? Already started respecting women more.
I turned back to Sunny, shifting my stance to block her view from them. Or, theirs from hers, rather, in an overprotective move I hadn’t felt for any woman other than Sunny.
Fuck the warnings, fuck the small-minded gossipers, the stares at my back.
A hot breeze swept through her hair. I wrapped my hand around the back of her head, pulled her to me and kissed her.
Passionately.
Possessively.
Right there in front of everyone. Marking my territory—mine—and daring anyone in that fucking building to challenge me on it.
Was Sunny Harper worth it?
I sure as fuck hoped so, because I just jumped in with both feet.
34
Jagg
“Afternoon, Detective.”
Darby stepped into the room, dark circles under puffy, bloodshot eyes. His hair, usually combed to perfectly to the side, was mussed, his skin pale. I observed him closely as he crossed the office, tapping a yellow manila folder against the palm of his hand. He looked tired, but he was definitely amped up about something.
After officially removing my balls and staking claim on
Sunny Harper by laying a minute-long kiss on her in front of the entire station, I assumed his drop-in had something to do with that. Or, perhaps he was going to come clean about following me. Or maybe he was going to ask about the German Shepherd that was currently tied to my Jeep, snoozing in the shade.
I was wrong on all three counts.
He didn’t sit. “I’ve got a few things for you.”
“Make it quick. I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes.”
“With who?”
“What’ve you got for me, Darby?”
“I just got off the phone with Wesley Cross about the ballistics analysis. The gun used to kill Julian Griggs, the pastor’s son, was a Glock nineteen.”
I could practically feel the relief washing over me. “So, not Sunny’s, then. Sunny’s gun was a Ruger.”
“Right.”
I continued, verbalizing my thoughts so that the rookie would have something to my benefit to spread around the office that afternoon. “So, according to Wesley’s analysis, this verifies Sunny Harper’s story that she did not kill Julian Griggs. That someone else did. Most likely this mystery third person from her attack, which also verifies she wasn’t lying about that. What about the casings from the Cedonia Scroll heist and Seagrave’s murder?”
“Also shot with a Glock nineteen.”
My eyebrows popped up. Sunny was all but cleared from both shootings.
“Does he know if the same Glock was used at both scenes?” If so, that information would be huge and suggest the same person had killed both Griggs and Seagrave.
“He hasn’t confirmed that yet.”
I rubbed my chin. The gun that shot both Seagrave and Griggs was still at large, whether it was the same gun, or different was to be determined. Either way, the news was huge for Sunny.
“Okay, what else do you have?”
Darby stepped forward. “I think I found a link…” The rookie’s voice lowered, for either dramatic effect or because he hadn’t shared what he was about to say with anyone else. Either way, I asked him to close the door.
“What link?”
“A link between Seagrave’s murder and Sunny’s attack. It’s Kenzo Rees.”
A shot of excitement surged through my veins. “Explain.”
“Lieutenant Jack Seagrave was the cop who found and arrested Rees after he beat the shit out of Miss Harper in Dallas.”
I stopped breathing, my shock too great to form a sentence.
Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 24
