CHAPTER FOUR
SUNNY
M y hands ached almost as much as my feet, but it was in a good way and for a good cause. People filled the soup kitchen seeking warmth on a freezing night when most businesses were already closed, and most of those wouldn’t admit the crowd we hosted tonight.
“We need another tureen filled, please.” I swiped the back of my hand over my hair where wayward strands frizzed into my eyes. I’d forgotten how badly my curls hated the moisture, but my discomfort was a small price to pay against the hunger of the one hundred and seventy starving bodies in the line that wound around the block outside. That wasn’t counting the ones inside the kitchen that ramped the temperature up a few extra degrees.
“You got it, Sunny.” Mick, my sister’s borrowed chef of the night, swung massive arms that better belonged in a wrestling ring my way.
So did the Michelin chef’s cooking style but then that was my sister's brainchild. Each major chef she could find to volunteer their time went on a monthly roster. Six hours a week. That’s what they gave, and that’s how the kitchen ran, along with generous off cuts from their restaurants.
On the nights we couldn’t get staff and I was in town, my sister and I cooked, and we managed but we had nothing compared to the army of chefs she pulled in. I’d worried when she first pitched me the idea but it worked.
With the crowd clamoring at my back I swapped out my empty metal soup tureen with the biggest smile I could muster. “Appreciate it.”
Mick snorted and crooked a finger.
I hesitated but when he didn’t let up I leaned in. “I don’t do social connections, Mick,” I muttered. “Hermit in a car trailer year round and all.”
He let out a decent belly laugh that stopped half the conversation in the soup kitchen while my cheeks flamed. “Cute, but not the problem. You do know that it’s alright to stop for a moment, don’t you Sunny? You work harder than most of my paid staff and here you are volunteering to bust your ass. Massive respect but you need to look after yourself, too.” He tapped the backs of my hands with a plastic spatula and whirled back into the kitchen, singing opera at the top of his lungs.
“Creatives, huh?” Randy, the photographer, had offered up his time along with me tonight.
Not that he did much apart from wince every time he splatter soup into bowls and missed more often than his aim rang true, but who was I to complain. Help was help and tonight, we needed it.
“Pretty much.” I didn't get time to talk much after that, turn out tureen after tureen and when the line thinned, I hit the wash up line, tossing Randy a wad of tea towels.
He grimaced but got to work, almost keeping up with me until the kitchen emptied and I waved our last patron, Gray Bob who resembled Gandalf the Gray—hence the name—out the door and locked it behind him.
“Are we done?” Randy threw his tea towel on the counter and slid to the floor.
I grimace. “I wouldn't sit there if I were you.” The floor was grimy as hell. I hadn't had a chance to mop yet.
Randy waved a hand at me. “Too late. I’m down now. Pass me the next thing.”
Huffing a laugh I tossed him the close list and together we ticked off each item, pushing Mick out the door a good hour before we locked the kitchen and left.
“Need a ride home?” Randy nodded to his sleek black sports car that reminded me forcibly of something that Benson would drive.
I shook my head. “Three blocks. I’m good to walk. Thanks.” I gave him a wave and headed off.
“It’s eleven o’clock!” Randy yelled at my back.
I shrugged. “So?” I didn’t bother turning around. Maybe then he’d get the hint and go home so I could, too. I missed my bed. Really, really badly right now.
“Aren’t your feet sore enough?”
“Probably.” It had been a long time since our two a.m. start. He had to be feeling it as much as I did.
“Alright.”
Randy seemed to give in as I hit the end of the first short block and jogged across the lane, checking the darkened alley beyond. Across the street a yellow pasta rocket flicked on its headlights, blinding me. That’s a Benson trick. I tried to peer through the ridiculously bright lights, but I could barely make out more than a vague figure in the driver’s seat. Even though I couldn’t make out his features I had the sense that the driver could certainly see me.
Quickening my pace, I trotted toward my block, away from the relative safety of the soup kitchen. My waterlogged shoes squelched with every step.
“We got a PR shoot at five tomorrow. Remember?” Randy hadn’t given up after all.
“I’ll be there!” I called back cheerily. “I booked it,” I muttered under my breath.
“Night!” Randy’s yell echoed across the block like a fading foghorn.
“You take care, Miss Sunny.” Gray Bob’s disembodied voice came from beneath a pile of cardboard boxes and newspapers.
I nodded to him even though I doubted he could see me. “Good night, Bob. See you tomorrow.”
Somewhere behind me, Randy’s sports car peeled away leaving enough rubber on the road that my nostrils were still offended by the astringent scent by the time I climbed the steps into the townhouse I shared with my sister a few minutes later.
One scalding shower and a bottle of cold water later I was ready for bed. I couldn’t banish the shade of the man in the yellow sports car, watching me walk home. Benson didn't have the restraint to sit back and watch without acting on impulse, but someone like Hawk did. All that coiled energy…it was like he picked his moments to act whereas Benson was in high gear all the time.
Banishing them both from my bedroom, I remembered to set my alarm for four the next morning to give myself time to get across town and to the track. I added an extra alarm as a reminder to ping Randy and haul his ass up too.
With the vague thought that maybe the driver hadn’t been stalking me but protecting me I crawled into my bed, relieved to be in my own space for once, and was asleep before my head hit the pillow.