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  Sunshine Hunter

  by Maddie Cochere

  Copyright © 2012 by Maddie Cochere.

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions therof in any form whatsoever except as provided by US copyright Law.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase a copy for yourself. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Breezy Books

  www.breezybooks.com

  Cover design by Gillian Soltis of Columbus, Ohio

  Dedicated to my mother.

  Her encouragement gave me the push to write more than one book.

  A special thank you to my sister who asked for more Susan Hunter.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter OneMy perfectly restored ‘67 Chevy Chevelle careened around the corner at Walsh and Park, the tires squealing in an effort to get my attention. I was angry. My mind was reeling. I was thinking of all the ways I wanted to kill him. People on the sidewalk were staring as I flew by, and I knew I had to get a grip on more than the steering wheel. Carbide City was known for speed traps, and I didn’t need another ticket. Why are restored muscle cars magnets for cops and tickets anyway?

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  It was a beautiful, early summer day. The windows of my third-floor apartment were open allowing a fresh breeze to rustle the curtains while bringing in the light scent of the last few lilac blossoms on the bush below.

  I was content and happy after our leisurely lunch at Carey’s Place, a new seafood restaurant in town. We were deciding what to do with the rest of our day when my phone rang. My best friend, Samantha, came to mind, and I knew it would be her wanting to schedule a round of racquetball for later in the afternoon. I answered on the second ring with a cheerful, "Hello!"

  It wasn’t Samantha, but it was a woman’s voice.

  “Is Mick there?” she asked.

  My heart started to beat faster, and I felt a chill even with the warm breeze. Without hesitation, I said, “I’m sorry, you have a wrong number.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said sarcastically. “I want to talk to Mick. This is his wife."

  His wife? Now my heart was racing. I felt the blood drain from my face.

  I turned to Mick and handed my phone to him. “It’s your wife,” I said with disbelief in my voice. He didn’t deny the charge and took the phone from my hand. I didn’t wait to hear him say “Hello.” I grabbed my purse, bolted out the door, ran down the three flights of stairs, jumped into my car, and peeled out of the apartment complex. I didn’t know what to think about what just happened. Mick was married? Why didn’t he tell me? Did he think I wouldn’t find out? How did she know who I was? How did she get my number? I couldn’t stop the questions from pouring into my mind.

  Fifteen minutes later, I realized I wasn’t going anywhere in particular, and I absolutely had to stop speeding. I swerved into the lot at Martin’s Deli and screeched to a stop in front of the plate glass window emblazoned with weekly specials. I sat for a few minutes trying to calm myself. I took deep breaths, exhaling slowly, hoping to stop my heart from beating as if it was going to come screaming out of my chest and run off before it was broken for good.

  I was still shaking, but decided to run into the deli to pick up corned beef and rye bread. I wanted to delay going back to the apartment, and I needed meat and cheese to make Reuben sandwiches - my favorite sandwich.

  Martin was behind the meat counter slicing a ham. “Hi, Susan,” he greeted me. “You runnin’ from the police again? That was quite an entrance.” He gave me a look of disapproval. It wouldn’t be the first time I had whipped into his parking lot in the hopes of not being pulled over for speeding.

  “I’m sorry, Martin. I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said sheepishly but with a smile. “I’m not running from the police, and I promise not to test my brakes in front of your window again.”

  His frowned turned to a little smile. “Alright,” he said accepting my apology. “I don’t know why your dad gave that car to you in the first place. You’re going to lose your license if you get any more tickets, you know.”

  I did know. I’d been driving for 12 years without a single ticket, but had been issued four in just the last year. It had to be the car.

  “I’ll be more careful, I promise,” I said as I gave him a bigger smile and proceeded to look over the meats and cheeses in the case.

  “The usual?” he asked. “A pound of corned beef sliced thin and a half pound of Swiss cheese?”

  “You know me so well, Martin,” I laughed. I was grateful for the banter and the momentary diversion of my spinning thoughts.

  I turned from the counter to look amongst the shelves for rye bread and pickles. While I shopped, I couldn’t stop the thoughts from flooding back in. Mick was married, and I didn’t have a clue. I felt so stupid and gullible. He surely had some reason for not telling me. Maybe his wife was an invalid and encouraged him to go out and have a good time. Maybe they had an open marriage, and he was waiting to tell me about it. Oh my gosh! Who was I kidding? These weren’t acceptable reasons - ever. He was probably a typical, cheating, snake in the grass, and I knew the type all too well. For a split second, I almost felt sorry for his wife. Knowing I would probably need it later to soothe my rattled nerves, I added a quart of java chip ice cream to my basket.

  After checking out and gathering up my purchases, Martin gave me another warning, “You be careful in that car, Susan. You know I talk to your dad a couple of times each month, and I don’t want to have to tell him he has to come back here and replace the engine with something a little more tame.” He winked at me, but I knew he was serious.

  “I promise, Martin,” I told him solemnly as I crossed my heart with my index finger.

  Martin was at least 90 years old and still had his wits about him. He had owned and run the deli for all of my life. My dad had even worked for him as a teenager. I didn’t know his last name; everyone always simply called him by his first. He kept tabs on all of the happenings in Carbide City, and he wasn’t shy about sharing gossip with anyone who would listen. I didn’t need him unnecessarily worrying my dad about my driving habits.

  Settled in my car again, I decided it was best to go back to the apartment and deal with the situation head on. I hadn’t wanted to hear the conversation between Mick and his wife, so it felt right to flee at the time, but now I wanted to know what Mick had to say. I felt as though the rose-colored glasses I had been wearing had fallen off, been stomped on, and broken. I was living the old saying of, if it’s too good to be true, it probably is.

  And Mick was too good to be true. He was the type of guy I always dreamed about. He was 5’ 10�
� with a firm athletic build, thick dark hair with a hint of a curl, and gorgeous hazel-green eyes that were always smiling. Not only was he scrumptious to look at, but he had an old-fashioned gentlemanly charm. He planned our dates, opened doors for me, placed his coat jacket across mud puddles. Well, not really with the mud puddles, but he was definitely the type to do so if we were in the right century. Showing up at my door with an armful of flowers was simply his style, and I was charmed by him quickly. He was the co-owner of a small construction company. He had gone to work for his uncle right out of college and became a co-owner five years ago at the young age of 27. Although not wealthy, he made a good living and was not averse to spending his money for a nice evening out or entertainment.

  We met three months ago at the local racquetball club, Carbide Racquet & Fitness, where I work part-time. My day job is managing a Slimmers Weight Loss center. After a long day of weighing members, selling supplements, and trying to help overweight women change their eating habits, a couple of challenging rounds of racquetball before taking over at the front desk was the perfect way to decompress and stay in shape. At 5’ 7”, I wasn’t always this trim, but racquetball burned a lot of calories, and it hadn’t taken long to get into wicked shape. It felt good to have an athlete’s body, and I enjoyed the attention from the other players. Racquetball was still predominantly a man’s sport with 80% of our club’s members being men. It was never difficult to find a match, and playing with the men in the club helped to make me faster and stronger for the ladies’ league matches and tournaments.

  The day I first saw Mick, my shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail. I was wearing a colorful, striped, shorts and top set. My socks had bows on the back and my court shoes were laced with pink laces. It always amazed me that women would dress in unflattering baggy sweats, headbands, and t-shirts to play racquetball. I loved being as feminine and attractive as one could be while working up a sweat running full-tilt after balls on the court.

  I was in quite a battle with my coach, Husky, and he had me running more than usual while frustrating me at the same time by sending ceiling shots into the back corners. I kept trying to position myself to return backhand shots off the back wall in an attempt to make a kill shot. I had done just that and was moving to the service box to serve the next ball.

  We were playing on a court with a glass back wall for spectator viewing. It’s actually Plexiglas, but everyone simply refers to the court as a glass court. A small group of people had gathered outside the glass to watch. Husky had worked up quite a sweat himself as he always had to play hard to win games from me. I moved into the service box and waited a moment while he grabbed a towel to wipe his face and neck. He was a rugged, muscular man about 15 years my senior. I always admired how patient he was with me, how encouraging he was, and how he truly wanted me to be a better player. He was a real pro. His real name was Elton, but his voice was rough and gravelly; hence, the nickname Husky. “Ok, I’m ready,” he said. “Give me the best you’ve got.”

  Before serving, I glanced into the group of on-lookers and saw mostly club regulars, but noticed an attractive guy watching with a look that showed amusement. Was he amused a woman was giving a man a run for his money? Was he amused I was dressed more fashionably than most women in the club? Was he amused at how much I struggled with the ceiling shots into the corners? I decided to turn the heat up a bit, bounced the ball a couple of times, and sent the next serve low into the back left corner for ace.

  “Ok, smarty pants,” Husky rasped at me. “Let’s see you do that again.”

  I laughed and set up to serve again. The next serve went low into the opposite corner for another ace. End game. Match point. I was thrilled! It wasn’t very often I was able to best Husky.

  He groaned, turned to face the onlookers, and threw his hands in the air as if to say, “I tried. What are you gonna do?”

  “Great game, Susan,” he said walking toward me. “I thought you’d go down with all of the ceiling shots I was sending your way. You still need to work on those. How about we grab another round after work tomorrow?”

  “That’s good for me,” I told him. “I’ll book the court time when I get behind the desk. Thanks again for the lesson.” We shook hands, and Husky opened the door for us to leave the court.

  “Who’s teaching her to play like that?” Husky asked the crowd. Everyone laughed as they started to disperse and move on to other areas of the club.

  The cool, air-conditioned lobby was a welcome relief after feeling so overheated on the court. I looked around for the hot guy who had been watching, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “Hey, Susan, good job taking it to Husky. Those aces were awesome. I’m working with him again tomorrow, so we should both be in good shape for State.” This was coming from my friend, Samantha. Not only did we both play in the club’s ladies’ league, but we were doubles partners when we went to tournaments or played at other clubs. This would be our first time to play at the state level in the fall, and we were both excited and working hard toward making a good showing. Additionally, we wanted to make Husky proud as he was investing a lot of time and effort to help us.

  “I know. I can’t wait,” I told her with a big smile. “I’m thinking about getting a new racquet and a couple new outfits. Want to go shopping this weekend?” I loved to shop, and finding fun outfits to wear on the court was my passion at the moment.

  “I can’t,” she said. “Larry’s having the guys from Barney’s over Saturday night, and I promised I’d make them a feast, so I’m cooking all day Saturday.”

  Larry and Samantha were cute together. They had been married for almost 13 years and still acted as though they were dating. They would do anything for each other, and this was one more example of how great their marriage was. Larry worked for a Barney’s Beverage which supplied all of the beer and wine for the club, and Samantha was actually looking forward to making his guy’s night a success. She was older than me by about seven years. Her build was stocky, and racquetball only seemed to make her more muscled rather than trim. Her long, curly black hair was almost always pulled back and piled on top of her head with a couple of clips sticking out.

  “Ok,” I said. “I have to grab a shower before working the front desk for a couple of hours. Are you staying until closing?”

  “Yep, Larry and Husky have already headed upstairs to work on a case of beer, so I’m going up to join in. See you later.” With a little wave, she turned and headed for the staircase off the main entrance.

  The second floor of the club had two hallways, one on each side of the building, so scorekeepers and onlookers could stand and watch the action through the 5-foot open space at the top of the back of each court. There was also a weight room, the men’s locker room, and a pub. It was a small pub with five tables, a leather sofa, a bar with four stools, and a television set in the corner. The far wall had a small window with a view onto one of the courts. There was always some type of action going on in the pub in the evenings whether it was a party, card games, or members winding down. In our club, nobody in the pub was ever shy about having a good time.

  The women’s locker room was on the first floor. I grabbed a quick shower, gave my hair a fast blow dry, and let it fall loose. A little mascara and lip gloss were all I needed for makeup as my cheeks were still flushed from the hour on the court with Husky. I dressed in a club shirt, my favorite Rag & Bones jeans, and strappy sandals with 3-inch heels. I was settled behind the front desk just in time.

  The front desk is actually a large counter which runs the length of the wall between the two hallways serving as entrances to the courts as well as the women’s locker room. For the next two hours I sold beer, soda, juice, hot dogs, and snacks. I handed out locker keys and white towels to club members and their guests, answered the telephone, and booked court times. It was hard to categorize this as a job. I loved chatting with the members, and it always felt like fun, never like work.

  Jerry was the night c
lerk. He didn’t talk much and seemed quite the loner. He was a musclehead and spent most of his time in the weight room. He was twenty, blonde, extremely beefy, and I was pretty sure he was taking steroids. He had a regular male visitor on Thursday nights who didn’t use the club, but stopped in only to see Jerry at the desk for a short time. The stranger would sit on a stool, drink a beer, and give Jerry a package before leaving. It was none of my business, so I never asked who the man was or what was in the packages. I decided if it was something illegal, they wouldn’t be doing it out in the open for everyone to see. With his muscle and brawn, Jerry was a good choice to close the club every night at 1:00 A.M.

  He was right on time to take over for me at 10:00. “Thanks, Jerry,” I told him. “There are only a couple more games scheduled tonight, and things are pretty quiet. I’m going upstairs to the pub if you need me for anything.” He gave me his usual blank stare and nodded his head.

  The lights in the pub were lower than in the rest of the club. The television tuned to a baseball game in extra innings provided the ambiance tonight. I waited a moment as my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. I walked past the bar, picked up the glass of White Zinfandel Ron had placed on the counter for me, and turned to face the room.

  There were two tables of card games underway. Euchre was being played at one and pinochle at the other. Samantha, Larry, and Husky were at the euchre table, and I was surprised to see the fourth player was the hot guy who had been watching our match earlier.

  Husky called me over. “Susan, come take my seat. I need to hit the showers.” He stood up and put his hand on the stranger’s shoulder. “This is Mick Raines. He’s a hotshot in the office at Raines Construction. He tells me what to do.”

  “No one can tell you what to do, Husky,” said Mick, laughing.

  “Well, that’s true,” Husky chuckled. “This is Susan Hunter. She’s a hotshot on the court.”

  I could feel myself blushing as I reached out to shake Mick’s hand. There was a slight flutter of excitement in my stomach as my hand slid into his.