Sunny Says

by Jan Hudson

  “Come into my office for a moment,” he said.

  He closed the door behind them and took her into his arms. “Do you mind if I kiss you good night?” His mouth was already lowering to hers.

  Her breath caught. She lifted her face and her eyelids fluttered shut. “Do you think this is wise?”

  “Probably not.”

  He brushed her lips with his, gently at first. Then the pressure deepened arid his tongue eased into her mouth. She turned warm, then chilled, then warm again.

  He lifted her so that her feet were off the floor and her face was level with his, then kissed her again. He kissed her as though he were a man who’d spent a week on the Sahara without water and she were an oasis. Her heart beat like rolling thunder, and her toes tingled as if a blue norther were on the way.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Kale,” Hulon called. “You in there?”

  He hissed a curse and let her slide down his body. “I may throw that man out the window myself.”

  * * *

  Shortly before Friday night’s news show, Kale caught up with Sunny. “Have dinner again with me tonight.”

  “I’m sorry. I have other plans.”

  “Change your plans.”

  Her spine stiffened at his demanding tone. Just because he’d kissed her a couple of times didn’t mean she was his property. She hadn’t even seen him since the night before in his office. She’d only heard the shower running at some gosh-awful time in the wee hours. Lifting her chin defiantly, she said, “I can’t do that. I’m meeting Carlos and he’s already made the arrangements.”

  His eyes narrowed to cold slits. His molars got a good workout before he snapped, “Carlos is married.”

  Her eyes widened. “So?”

  She started to walk away, but he grabbed her arm. “Dammit, Sunny—”

  She shook off his hand. “What is wrong with you, Kale Hoaglin? I swear, sometimes you act crazier than Hulon does. I have to get on the set.”

  * * *

  In his office, Kale toyed with a pencil as watched the weather report. He had a giant-sized ache in his gut generated by a pint-sized bit of sunshine in a yellow dress. When the news was over, he clicked off the set, leaned his head against the high-backed leather chair, and stared at the ceiling. Visions of Sunny’s face played across the acoustical tiles like afterimages.

  In one short week, his world had suddenly turned upside down. Because his relationships with women had always been, if not casual, a great deal less than profoundly intense, he wasn’t prepared for the strength of feeling Sunny ignited in him. But in the brief time he’d known her, something about her had played mischief with a hidden, vulnerable part of his nature. He’d been emotionally blindsided. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it a damned bit.

  Now not only did he have the mess at the station to contend with, but also this strange fixation with big blue eyes and a million-kilowatt smile. How had he allowed himself to become so involved with Sunny Larkin so fast?

  Not that he was actually involved with Sunny. How could he call a couple of aborted kisses “involved”? But those kisses were from the sweetest lips he’d ever tasted. No, it wasn’t involvement; he only wished it were. It was obsession. He was obsessed with her. He must be. What else could explain a thirty-six-year-old man who couldn’t fall asleep at night knowing that she was sleeping only a few yards away? He felt like a damned fool, but unbidden fantasies of her kept him so aroused that he felt like an adolescent in the throes of a hormone onslaught.

  Since that day at the beach, he’d been fighting the urge to steal into her room and slip into bed with her. He wanted to hold her close and let her radiance thaw the frigid places inside him. He wanted to bask in her essence and bury himself in her warmth. He’d even tried the proverbial cold showers, but every time he walked into the bathroom that separated them, he could smell her scent. And the sight of the shower curtain roused erotic memories of her naked body, all wet and curvy, wrapped in its transparent folds.

  He’d worked like a demon, stayed away from the house to avoid her, but it hadn’t changed anything. Being with her the night before had only made his dilemma worse. He was angered by his lack of control, but she was in his thoughts constantly. Her image dangled in his mind like a photograph in a gold locket.

  If not obsession, what could explain the fury he felt when he thought of her with another man?

  The pencil snapped in his hands.

  He’d be damned if he’d allow her to go out with Carlos Mondragon!

  He shot out of his chair, went upstairs, and stalked toward the newsroom. He met Estella coming down the hall. “Where’s Sunny?” he asked.

  “Gone,” Estella replied, looking vexed.

  “Gone where?”

  “I imagine she’s halfway to El Gallo Rojo by now.”

  Kale raked his fingers through his hair. “What and where is El Gallo Rojo?”

  “Literally translated, The Red Rooster. It’s a dive in one of the worst parts of town. Personally, I wouldn’t set foot in the place at high noon. She should have her head examined for going there now.”

  “And you let her go?”

  Estella’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you think I’m hoarse? I’ve been trying to talk her out of this madness for two days. But would she listen to me? Hell, no. The only way I could have kept her from going would have been to tie her to a chair, and in my condition, I’m in no shape for wrestling matches.”

  Kale spat out a succinct expletive and stalked away.

  * * *

  Sunny got out of her red Ford Escort and walked down the street to El Gallo Rojo, where Carlos and his cousin were meeting her. Even though the sun hadn’t set, she felt a little spooky and out of her element in this part of town. She knew that drugs were dealt in this area, and the gaudy woman in the tight fuchsia dress who leaned against the pawnshop wall wasn’t waiting for a bus.

  Neither were the four young thugs who lounged around the entrance of El Gallo Rojo. Except for slight variations in size and facial features, they could have been clones, with their slicked-back hair and black muscle shirts. Their jeans hung low on their hips, and their upper arms sported gross-looking tattoos of spiders. One of them casually cleaned his fingernails with a knife that looked bigger and sharper than the one her mother used to dismember chickens.

  Tiny fingers of trepidation crawled up her spine as their dark, somber eyes followed her approach. Maybe this meeting was a stupid idea. Maybe she would be wise to turn tail, jump in her car, and forget the whole thing.

  No! she told herself. She was no lily-livered sissy. She wanted the story. Swallowing the acrid taste of fear, she squared her shoulders, lengthened her stride, and pretended that she had all the confidence in the world.

  Prickly beads of perspiration popped out on her top lip as she walked the gauntlet formed by the foursome, her purse clutched to her like a breastplate. Just as she was about to enter, the one with a scraggly black mustache and a bad case of acne blocked the doorway. She could sense his cohorts circling her from behind.

  The one braced across the entrance gave her a heavy-lidded perusal and said, “You the lady here to meet Carlos?”

  She gave him a tiny smile—or a stretching of her numb lips that she hoped looked like a smile— designed to be cordial without being encouraging. “Yes, I am.”

  “You the one that does the weather on TV?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ve seen you.” He looked her up and down. “Nice.” He moved aside and gestured with his head. “Carlos is inside.”

  Once through the doorway, she paused for a few moments to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the hazy room. The smells of Mexican cooking, which ordinarily set her mouth to watering, seemed slightly nauseating now, combined as they were with odors of spilled beer and other smoky substances she didn’t dare speculate on.

  A radio was tuned to a Spanish station, and the loud salsa music masked the hum of conversation. Occasio
nally the click of pool balls or a bark of laughter broke through.

  The place certainly could use refurbishing, she thought as she looked around the room, with its dingy walls and scarred floor. Scanning the patrons, she discovered she was the only female in the place except for a middle-aged waitress and one other woman, obviously a sister in trade to the one by the pawnshop, leaning against the bar. Sunny felt as out of place as she ever had in her life.

  She noticed several other young men whose black T-shirts and indolent expressions matched those of the crew outside. Two lolled at the bar; five gathered around pool tables in the far corner; another sat at one of a half dozen rickety tables with Carlos.

  Carlos! She wanted to fall on him and kiss his friendly, familiar face.

  He’d spotted her at about the same time she’d located him, and he rose and waved her over. As she approached, Carlos kicked the foot of the young man at the table, who then pushed himself to his feet halfheartedly.

  “Sunny,” Carlos said, “this is my cousin Rico. He’s agreed to talk to you about the street gangs in Corpus. Much to my aunt Rosa’s dismay, he’s a honcho in the Tarantulas. He should be studying for college instead of hanging out with a bunch of losers.”

  “Tarantulas are the winners. We’re the best.”

  Carlos rolled his eyes. “Or the worst, depending on your point of view.”

  Rico’s eyes flared and he jumped up. “Hey, man, I don’t have to take this s—”

  “Watch your mouth.” Carlos shoved him back in his chair. “Talk to the lady. I’ll be at the bar.”

  Sunny ordered a cola, took a deep breath, and plunged in. Sullen at first, Rico soon warmed to her as she pandered to his teenaged machismo. She took copious notes and garnered some excellent information for the news special she planned to do on the growing concern about gangs in the city. She’d almost convinced Rico to appear on camera, with his face and voice disguised, when suddenly he looked distracted, then wary.

  “You know that gringo sitting by Carlos?”

  Sunny turned around. Kale sat on a stool facing her, his elbows propped behind him on the bar. His features drawn into a fierce scowl, he lifted his beer bottle in greeting. The greeting wasn’t a congenial one. She wiggled her fingers and winked at him, but his expression didn’t change. She could almost hear his teeth grinding, and his glower pierced her like a skewer. Carlos sat facing away from her, his head down and his shoulders hunched over his drink.

  “I don’t like the way he’s looking at you,” Rico said. “Want me to take care of him?” he asked with all the bravado of youth.

  Sunny bit back a smile. While she had no doubt that Kale Hoaglin could handle a kid whose mustache was only peach fuzz, she didn’t think he could deal with a dozen adolescent toughs. “He’s just my boss. Ignore him.” She continued their interview.

  “From the way he looks at you, I think he’s more than your boss,” Rico said, smiling slyly. “And he seems very angry.”

  She felt herself flush. “He probably doesn’t like my being here. He tends to be overprotective.”

  “It’s good for a man to protect his woman.”

  “I’m not his woman.”

  Rico grinned. “I don’t think he knows that. Here he comes.”

  “Kale.” She gave him a perfunctory nod. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come for you.” He plucked her pad and pencil from her hands and stuck them in his jacket pocket. “Let’s go. This is no place for a lady.” He grabbed her elbow and hauled her to her feet.

  “But, but—” she sputtered. “I’m in the middle of an interview. Rico—”

  Kale kissed her. Hard. Infuriated by his behavior she struggled to evade his mouth, but her efforts were futile against his strength.

  He ended the kiss, but still held her tightly. Glancing at Rico, he said, “I’m taking my woman out of here. Any objections?”

  Sunny looked to Rico for support, but he seemed to be enjoying the exchange. He laughed and held up his hands. “Not from me, man. I wouldn’t let my lady come in this place either.”

  She could have killed the pair of them! She glanced to the bar, hoping for assistance from Carlos, but he only shrugged and looked sheepish.

  Kale snatched up her purse and, despite her protests, marched her out of El Gallo Rojo. With her taking two steps to his one, he strode down the street to her car. Her high heel caught in a crack, and she shrieked at him to stop. But did he? No. He only yanked her harder, and the heel of her best pair of white shoes snapped off, leaving her to hobble quickly behind him with the uneven gait of a peg-leg pirate.

  She sputtered and ranted and steamed and fought the urge to kick him in his Neanderthal shins. But he was made of stone, and she’d probably have broken her toe. He pinned her against her car and dug through her handbag for her keys.

  “Kale Hoaglin, I may murder you in your sleep! What was that macho display about? What gives you the right to cause a scene and drag me away from my job as if I were some pea-brain?”

  “I’m your boss.”

  Feeling as suddenly deflated as a slashed tire, she clamped her lips together and blinked several times. “Yes, of course you are, Mr. Hoaglin. Perhaps you weren’t aware that I conceived this idea of an in-depth study of street gangs and had it okayed by Hulon Eubanks, the KRIP news director.”

  “I’m sure Hulon didn’t know that you were planning to prance around by yourself in the seediest, most dangerous part of town interviewing hoodlums.”

  “But I wasn’t by myself. Carlos was with me.”

  “Carlos ought to have his butt kicked. Maybe having to look for another job will teach him to have better judgment.”

  Sunny’s eyes widened. “But you can’t fire Carlos.”

  “I already did.”

  A sour knot formed in her stomach and inched its way up her esophagus. How had she ever thought there might be a warm, lovable side to this . . . this Simon Legree? She fought back the tears that stung her eyes and glared up at the man towering over her.

  “If Carlos goes, I go.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, Mr. Hoaglin, I quit.”

  Chapter Five

  “Like hell you do!” Kale stormed. But when Sunny planted her fists on her hips, jutted her chin, and glared up at him, he knew he was in deep stuff.

  “Like hell I don’t!”

  “You have a contract.”

  “Check your files, buddy. My contract lapsed two months ago. But even if it hadn’t, I’d rather go back to frying hamburgers at a fast-food joint than work for a domineering, chauvinistic blockhead like you. In any case, I don’t need your job, Mister Network Stud. If all I wanted to do was the weather, I have a standing offer from the national cable channel for twice the salary you’re paying me.” She poked her finger in his chest. “Put that in your pipe and smoke it!”

  Sunny snatched her purse from his hand, jerked the car door open, got in, and slammed the door. She sat there for a few moments, then rolled down the window.

  “Forget something?” Kale asked.

  Her lips were pinched as tight as the drawstring on a bag of marbles. She held out her hand. “My keys.”

  He dangled them out of reach. “Forget about quitting, and I’ll give them to you.”

  Fury blazed over her face like a flash fire. “I won’t be bribed! Hell will freeze over before I set foot in KRIP again!”

  Sunny shoved open the Escort’s door, whacking it against him with such force that he stumbled and almost fell on his backside. She scrambled out of the car and started clomping down the street on her broken shoe.

  “Where in the hell are you going?” Kale shouted.

  She ignored him. He caught up with her and grabbed her arm. “I asked where you’re going.”

  Shaking off his hand, she stuck her nose higher in the air and said, “I’m going to find a taxi, if it’s any of your business.”

  “You’re not going to find a taxi around here.”

 
; “Then I’ll walk home.”

  “That’s telling him, honey,” a woman said in a slurred voice. She was part of a small crowd that had gathered in front of a bar to watch them.

  “Oh, hell, Sunny.” He ran his fingers through his hair and swiped his hand across his face. “It’s too far to walk, and you’ll break your ankle with your shoe like that.”

  She took off her ruined heels and shoved them against his chest. Automatically, his hands captured them. “Satisfied now?” she asked.

  “I’ll give you a ride, little mama,” said a man dressed in a flowered satin shirt.

  Kale glared at the glassy-eyed pimp, who leaned indolently on a low-riding black Caddy with curb feelers and extra chrome.

  “No thank you, sir,” Sunny said, starting off at a brisk pace toward the bay and downtown.

  “Dammit, Sunny, you can have your keys.”

  She turned and gave him a withering look. “Shall I detail what you can do with the keys?”

  “That’s telling him, honey,” the woman said again.

  Kale was torn between wanting to throw her over his shoulder and carry her, kicking and screaming, to the car, and trotting along behind her to see that she wasn’t molested. He’d almost decided on using force when a taxi stopped half a block away to deliver passengers. Sunny stuck two fingers in her mouth, let out an ear-piercing whistle, and ran for the cab.

  When Kale saw that she was safely inside, he turned and started back to El Gallo Rojo, cursing the whole way.

  A few moments later, he slid onto the stool next to Carlos and ordered a triple shot of tequila. “Women!” he muttered.

  Carlos glanced at him from his hangdog pose over his beer. “Sunny give you a hard time?”

  “Yeah. Sorry about what I said to you earlier. I can’t control her either.”

  “Does this mean I have my job back?”

  “Yeah.” Kale bit into a lime, licked salt from the back of his hand, downed the tequila, and ordered another. “Have you ever done the weather report?”

  * * *

  Sunny paid the taxi and walked gingerly to the front door. Bugs from around the porch light dive-bombed her as she searched in her purse for her keys. Then she remembered. Her house key was on the ring with her car keys.