Page 3 of Gunnar

Only moments ago, this was the happiest night of my life. Now, terror coils beneath my ribs so tightly I can barely breathe. I stare at the Oscar, gleaming in my hand, a symbol of everything I have spent my life working and fighting for. Suddenly, I’m wondering if it will make an effective weapon because I am overwhelmingly certain that somewhere nearby, hidden within the glittering chaos of the theater, my stalker is watching me.

The orange traffic cone sails over the blacktop like it’s been fired from a cannon, toppling end over end through the air. It hits the cracked pavement and bounces twice before rolling another ten feet and wobbling to a stop against a rusted chain-link fence bordering the abandoned lot.

Damon slowly lowers his sunglasses and cocks a brow as he stares at Jagger. “Pretty sure you killed it.”

Jagger’s hands remain at ten and two on the steering wheel, his gaze not moving from beyond the windshield as he navigates the maze of cones less than gracefully. “Killed what?”

“The cone.” Damon gestures toward the crumpled orange corpse lying in the dirt. “You murdered it.”

“It committed suicide.”

Damon turns in the passenger seat, the leather creaking beneath him. “The cone was standing still, Jag. It was literally stationary.”

“Fine.” Jagger sighs, cranking over the steering wheel. “But if it had been some guy shooting at our asses, you’d be thanking me right now.”

The air conditioning blasts against my arms, crossed over my chest, as I stare out the window over the empty acres of baking asphalt covered in elaborate patterns of traffic cones. Aegis leased this abandoned mall parking lot years ago, converting it into a training ground where we could safely practice evasive driving maneuvers.

Training clearly far too advanced for Jagger.

He clips another cone, and it thunks through the wheel well before kicking out behind the SUV. “That one shooting at us, too, Jag?”

After rather abruptly bringing the vehicle to a stop, Jagger turns in his seat, a cocky-ass grin practically splitting his face in two. “I’d like to see you do better, old man.”

Holding his gaze, I let out an exasperated sigh of relief. “Gladly.” I open the rear door and step out into the furnace, the late summer heat unbearable in all this tactical gear.

Jagger holds the driver’s door wide for me. “You need help getting in, Dad? I wouldn’t want you to throw out your hip.”

“One more old man joke,” I grumble, my voice carrying across the stillness of the lot, “and I’m driving over your foot.”

Shaking my head, I climb behind the wheel, settle into the leather seat, and adjust the rearview mirror. As though he’s unable to stop himself, Jagger teases, “Ready to embarrass yourself?”

Meeting his gaze in the mirror, I shift the SUV into drive. “Watch and learn.” I stomp on the accelerator, and the engine roars to life, a visceral sound that vibrates through the leather beneath me and into my chest. We surge forward, the sudden force pinning me against the seat as we rapidly approach the first section of the course, a slalom designed to force precise steering corrections at high speeds.

When I crank the wheel abruptly to the left, the tires bite against the asphalt as the weight of the vehicle shifts. Then, back to the right, the suspension tightening.

Left.

Right.

Left.

The SUV flows between the cones like water winding through a stream. Years of training and muscle memory take over, my hands moving before the thoughts have a chance to intervene.

I don’t need to glance into the rearview mirror to know that the ever-present arrogant smirk on Jagger’s face is slowly fading.

At the end of the slalom, I accelerate harder. The speedometer climbs as the cones pass around us in a blur of orange. When we reach a simulated roadblock, I snap the wheel to the right, then left, at the last possible second. The SUV shifts beneath us, the weight transferring in a controlled slide, and its tires screaming against the asphalt. The suspension absorbs the violence of the movement, and we thread the needle between obstacles that should be impossible to miss at this speed.

“Not bad,” Damon praises from the passenger seat, his knuckles nearly blanched around the door handle.

Instead of responding, I brake and downshift, the transmission growling its non-compliance as I spin the wheel hard. Dust kicks up behind us in a copper-tinted cloud, and I reverse into the designated lane with mere inches to spare. My gaze flits between the mirrors as we push triple-digit speeds. At the end of the course, I let off the accelerator for a moment before slamming on the brakes, the SUV sitting perfectly within the painted parking zone barely larger than the vehicle.

“Damn.” Damon lightly chuckles. I put the vehicle in park and climb out into the heat to stretch my back. They both follow me, their boots crunching against the loose gravel that had accumulated at the edges of the asphalt. When I get my first look at Jagger, he appears offended, his handsome face twisted into a mask of theatrical betrayal. And it’s damned satisfying.

“I was hoping old age had finally caught up to you. That you’d have developed some kind of tremor. Arthritis, maybe. Early dementia.” Jagger shakes his head dramatically, running his fingers through his hair.

I meet his gaze, letting the corner of my lips twitch. “Apparently not.”

Jagger glances at the course, then back at me, that arrogant grin curving into place. “I guess we don’t need to take Dad’s keys away yet.”