Page 76 of Covert Mission
Truck is about as cynical as I am about dating.
Maybe he did hit his head.
“Slower!” someone behind me calls out. The uneven debris in front of us is some of the most treacherous.
All my focus zeros in on my foot placement. Taking a tumble could hurt everyone. We move carefully in unison trying to keep the stretcher steady.
Once we’re on more even footing, I steal a glance toward the base area.
Eagerness pulses through me. Ineedto see Camile.
I scan the crowd for her now-familiar copper-red hair.
In a sea of brown heads, she should be easy to spot.
Where is she?
ChapterTwenty-Three
Belle and I exchange a deadpan look.Cooking?
Edgar, the man that summoned us, motions toward some tables under a tent. There are a few other women moving around in the area, coming and going, moving supplies.
“Ladies, we’re going to have some hungry workers after this night. The local produce market has provided us with lots of vegetables. They need to be sliced and cooked.”
The last time I touched a kitchen knife was in my father’s home in the Appalachian mountains. Not a fond memory. At least I didn’t stab him like I thought about doing.
Belle gives me a half-grimace. A kindred look of discomfort.
Instead of grumbling, I remind myself this is not about me. I pull out my pleasant voice. “Okay. Is there somewhere I can wash my hands?”
With a flick of his hand, the man says, “Over there. We have everything you need.”
Belle follows me as we weave our way between the busy kitchen staff. “I hate onions,” she mutters under her breath.
“Well, I never cook.”
“What do you eat?”
After I scrub my hands in the portable sink, I reach for a paper towel. These people have obviously done this before. There’s an entire industrial camp kitchen, complete with propane cooktops and serving equipment.
“I have a good relationship with the little restaurants around my apartment. Besides that, I usually grab yogurt, cereal, and salad. You know. Things that are fast.”
She blinks at me like I’ve spoken a foreign language as she shakes her hands off. “Weird.”
“Weird what?”
“I can’t imagine not cooking.”
“It’s a lot of work.”
“Very rewarding work,” she counters. “I just don’t like onions. Especially by the bulldozer load.”
As we walk back to the table where a literal mountain of onions and peppers are waiting, I shudder. “Well, it was pretty much my living hell when I was a teenager. I was expected to cook for my father and brothers. It wasn’t a choice. Since then, after I got the hell out of there, I promised I’d only cook again if something made me feel differently. Not like I was when I was ordered to do it. Specifically, not when I was being used because they were too lazy to take care of themselves.”
Belle grabs one of the chef’s knives from a box of tools. “Well, I can understand that. I guess I see cooking good food as a privilege. I didn’t have anything nice when I was growing up. My dad was awesome, don’t think I’m dissing him. He was a loving father. But we lived off of canned food and day-old discount stuff. We were poor. I didn’t see a bottle of spice until I was out on my own.”
With a violent whack, Belle chops off the end of an onion. I do the same, but I notice her eyes are a little red. But the onion hasn’t hit me yet, so I wonder if that redness is from emotion.