On the monitor, Bron is walking out of the club, leaning heavily on Luke and Timo—but, to be honest, it’s hard to tell who’s supporting whom.
“What are we talking about?” I ask. “Cattle stampedes? Tornadoes? Blood orgies? Is that what you want? I’m full of ideas. But I’m not sure you could keep up.”
Daisy won’t take the bait. She clicks off the monitor and brushes past me on her way to her sleep cubicle, giving me a polite little pat on the shoulder as she goes.
“Think about it, Shakespeare. You’ll figure something out.”
Just what I need. Another damn editor.
Chapter 20
BRON IS at his usual table at the diner. After a week, he’s a regular, along with everybody else in town.
Sunny has settled nicely into her job. So far, she’s mixed up only two orders tonight—and Bron’s dinner actually arrived hot, with the correct side dish and complete with beverage. Progress.
As Bron digs into his cheeseburger deluxe, he notices a somber group crowded into a booth in the far corner. A mix of young men and women—disheveled, hollow-eyed, burned-out. If it weren’t for the fact that they were sitting one booth away from the police chief, you’d think they were part of a meth ring.
“Everything okay?” Sunny is doing her routine waitress flyby. Tyler puts down his burger and nods toward the other side of the diner.
“The people in that booth over there.”
She looks. “What about them?”
“Who are they—local drug dealers?” He’s only half joking. They all look like they’re right on the edge.
“Not quite,” says Sunny. “Local schoolteachers.”
“Wow. Looks like they had a rough day.”
“More like a rough year,” says Sunny. She rests her hands on Tyler’s table and tells what she’s overheard.
Seems that the state has done the town a favor by leaving the local school open all these years. But now the pressure is on from DC to boost the school’s STEM scores. Hard enough that half the students need help with English. Now they need to be math wizards and science geniuses, too.
“If the students don’t do well on their end-of-year evaluations…”
“What happens?” asks Bron.
“The state closes the school, and the kids get bused to a consolidated district—thirty miles away.”
“Well, that definitely sucks.”
“Sure does,” says Sunny. “And even worse—all those unhappy teachers… they’ll be after my job.”
Chapter 21
Three hours later
Bron is still at his table. He’s nursing his second cup of coffee as the customers thin out to a few stragglers… and then to just him.
“Okay,” says Sunny. “No more loitering. I need to close up.”
Bron looks around. The kitchen is empty. The cashier is gone. Maria waves as she walks out the door, counting her tips. It’s just the two of them. Just like he planned.
“Want some help?”
Sunny gives him a look—playfully suspicious.
“Okay… but don’t think you’re going to be getting any trade secrets.”
“Maybe just the coconut cream pie recipe.”
“Forget it. We keep that stored in an abandoned missile silo.” She pauses for a couple of seconds, then…
“If you’re serious about helping, I’ve got some boxes to move.”
“No problem. Lead the way.”
Bron slides out of the booth and follows Sunny through the swinging metal doors to the kitchen, which is surprisingly neat. The chef might be a psycho, but he runs a tight ship. The countertops and range hood are scrubbed clean, and every bowl, spoon, and gadget is in its place. Impressive.
The boxes were a late delivery, and the morning shift will go smoother if Sunny gets them squared away before she leaves. Normally the two young dishwashers would hang around to help, but they skipped out early.
Bron stares at the stack of cartons—marked RICE, FLOUR, and TOMATO PASTE. It’s a substantial load, sitting smack in the middle of the back passageway. He grabs the top box. Ooomph! Twenty pounds, at least.
“You were going to do this yourself?” Bron asks, trying not to grunt. “Where to?”
“Hey. I’m stronger than I look,” she says, grabbing a smaller carton. “Follow me.”
Sunny kicks open a single swinging door leading to a large storage room. Fluorescent lights. Dehumidifier in the corner. Huge stacks of cans and kitchen supplies. She nods toward an empty stretch of industrial shelving.
“Right over here,” she says. One after the other, they deposit their boxes on the lowest shelf and head back for more.
An hour later, the job is just about done. Sunny has the last of the smaller boxes. She holds the door open as Bron edges in with one of the larger ones. Tight fit. She faces the doorframe and presses flat to give him room. Bron turns and fumbles, a little off balance—and for a nanosecond, his groin presses right up against her butt.
“Sorry! Sorry!” he says, quickly squeezing past.
“No harm, no foul,” she says, laughing. She has a great laugh.
After the last box is stored, they plop down on kitchen crates to catch their breath. Bron is physically exhausted, but still jacked on caffeine. Maybe the combo loosens his inhibitions. He stares at her chest. Actually, at her name tag.
“I have to ask,” he says. She looks back, knowing exactly where his eyes have been. “Is Sunny a real name, or are you in the witness protection program?”
There’s that great laugh again. “Nope. It’s for real,” she says. “And that’s not the best part. Go ahead. Ask me my last name.”
“Okay…”
“Day.”
It takes Bron a second to put it together. “Day? Sunny Day??” Now it’s his turn to burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”
“Yep. Sunny Day. My parents said they always wanted me to be optimistic.”
This is great. She’s sharing. Bron decides to go for broke. “Well, Sunny Day, can I buy you a beer?”
She gives him a half smile and a little sigh. “Thanks, but I’m driving tonight. I’ll treat you to a Diet Coke, though.”
He’s got no more game.
“Deal.”
She takes two plastic cups and fills them from the dispenser. Bron gulps down his drink, savoring the cold, satisfying fizz in his throat.
“Believe it or not,” he says, “this has been fun.” And he means it.
Well, you have a great future as a furniture mover. The words are in her ear, transmitted through a nearly invisible earpiece.
This is where her improv skills pay off, hearing the dialogue, then turning it into a natural delivery in the moment, seamlessly.
“You have a great future as a furniture mover,” she says. Flawless.
Tyler feels himself flushing. He blinks, somehow not able to look directly at her as he formulates his next sentence, but Sunny preempts him.
“Well, I’m going to call it a night. Thanks again for the heavy lifting.”
Hug and release, says the voice in her ear, then exit.
She wraps her arms around Bron’s shoulders, gives him a quick squeeze, then steps back before he can even register what happened. She cocks her head toward the rear hallway.
“This way out.”
They step out into the cool night air. The service door shuts behind them with a heavy thud. As his eyes adjust to the dark, Bron sees a black Yamaha dirt bike leaning against the stucco wall behind the building.
“Yours?” Bron asks.
“Beats walking,” says Sunny. She grabs the handlebars, then hikes her skirt way up her thigh. She throws her right leg over the saddle, tugs a helmet over her head, and kick-starts the bike.
“Have a great night,” she says, raising her voice over the growl and pop of the two-stroke engine. She drops her visor, rolls the throttle forward, and takes off.
Bron watches her go. For a sweet young waitress, she’s not at all timid on the bike. She really leans into those curves.
Almost as if she were trained.
Chapter 22
OUT OF all the minions under Daisy’s command, I like the kid named Karl best. He’s not just a whiz with remote cameras and mainframe maintenance but also knows the proper temperature for a beer cooler. Which is thirty-eight degrees. Or as Karl would say, “three point three Celsius.”