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 Flirting With Lions

A risk it All, Elite Secret Society Romance

 This is a work of fiction. The Names, characters, places and incidents in this story are
either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 Sabella Reves

All Rights Reserved. This book contains material protected under International and
Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is
prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or internal storage and
retrieval without express written permission from the Author.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
 Chapter 1
Rhea
My commute to the city from my apartment in Queens is my
twenty minutes of Zen. I take the last car so that I can stand at the
edge of the platform and look across the East river at the
glimmering Manhattan skyline while I wait for the train. In true New
Yorker fashion, I tune out the jostling passengers of the train, and
instead vibe out to Tracy Chapman, transmitted thru my AirPods’s.
As I look out the window at the trains rumbling journey on the
elevated tracks of Queens, soon dipping into a tunnel beneath the
river, I close my eyes and lose myself in the song. I can feel when I
reach my station without opening my eyes, my body knows the
swaying stop the train makes at my station.
I always skip the escalator and walk the thirty-two steps from
the subway platform to Columbus Circle, enjoying every second of it.
In a weird way, this city is home. The vibrant city wrenches me from
the calm meditative state I achieved during the subway ride. The
scene in front of me teems with life, noise, and smells; I scoff then
smile, despite myself. This city always makes me feel like I am in the
center of the world. Along the wide sidewalks lining the circle people
walk briskly, weaving through clusters of tourists snapping pictures.
I thoroughly enjoy the nostalgia that this all brings and take a
deep breath. The air is crisp, filled with the scents unique to Central
Park. Grilled meat and the smell of horse manure coming from the
Central Park carriages mingle for an earthy tang. If I hadn’t walked
this street a hundred times before, I would be lost in the scenery.
The entire atmosphere pulsates with raw and nearly palpable
energy. I feed off this energy in order to get motivated for a long
night in the kitchen. My music is interrupted with a call.
“Rhea! Hey, girl, are we going to that underground club I told
you about finally tonight?” Hannah asks.
“I’m not sure what time my shift will end, it’s supposed to be
a big night at the restaurant. I’ll call you as soon as I can get out
though, okay Hanny?” It’s not that I don’t want to go out with my
best friend, but if I get my butt kicked at work, I won’t be able to
keep up with her later.
“Okay, but you owe me at least an hour of just straight
listening to me vent! I haven’t seen you in so long, and you know
we need to get you a life outside that restaurant, girl.” Hannah is
notoriously blunt, it’s part of why she is so successful.
I continue along 59th street, admiring the calm grassy lawns
meeting the city with such grace, the impending chaos of my
evening falling into perspective. I admire the way that the green
refuge of Central Park turns to towering city. As I walk past the
hotels, I am filled with fantasies of travel and success. I pause to
take it all in; the Ritz Carlton, the Plaza, and of course, the Pierre
Hotel. For most people these buildings are just fancy hotels, but for
me, these buildings and names represent my dreams and ambitions.
I have worked my butt off these last few years to make a name for
myself in the competitive and unforgiving culinary world. I would kill
to be the head chef in one of these big name hotels or restaurants.
My thoughts begin to overpower me, and I pause for a moment to
shake my head vigorously, bringing me right back to reality.
Tonight, especially, I need my wits about me. Tonight was no
ordinary Friday night. It was going to be the biggest night that Park
and Empire, Chef Claude’s restaurant had ever seen. We were
expecting about 250 covers, and several influential patrons gracing
the restaurant. I had to get my head in the game. My pride and
passion for cooking demanded that I make perfect food. I quicken
my steps, from apprehension or nervousness, or perhaps because I
feel like throwing up a little. Everything would be fine. I look up and
here I am, the magnificent restaurant at which I work. I rub my
hands together and exhale.
***
As I approach the restaurant, I take a deep breath and push
the doors open. Inside the dark and silent dining room, the chairs
and tables are immaculately arranged. If I am truthful, the calm
inflames my nerves, like the calm before a storm. Making my way
through the dining room, filled with trendy raw cut wood tables and
fur and leather chairs, I take a second to wave to the bartender. As I
push through the kitchen doors, a completely different atmosphere
hits me almost immediately.
The kitchen looks raw, with none of the style of the dining
room. In place of the high-end furnishings seen on the Food
Network are a motley collection of used restaurant equipment, and
an even rougher collection of cooks.
It's kind of funny the way Chef Claude has gone over and
beyond his budget on this location. It took almost every penny he
had, but the money is only obvious in the restaurant itself and in the
building, in here things are not so opulent. In a weird way, I kind of
like this kitchen, in all its Spartan and bare glory, and it suits me as
an underdog. Besides, it doesn’t take fancy equipment to make good
food, and I was a damn good chef, that, I was sure of.
I hear footsteps approaching behind me and I snap out of my
thoughts. Apparently, I have been standing in the middle of the
kitchen, frozen in silence for nearly twenty minutes, lost in thought.
I do not turn to see who it is coming in, instead, I pretend to be
busy inspecting a pans on the slab.
“Hey, Mami,’’ a voice calls from behind me, and I smirk
because I already know who it is, then I turn around. It was Manny,
a seedy dishwasher here who works here and makes my life difficult.
’You’re going to get your pretty ass broken-in tonight!’’ Manny
continues, then grimaces as he sees my reaction, but still, he is not
daunted.
“Your friends don’t like you much I guess, ‘cause your friend
Craig didn’t come to work. Claude is going to put ALL that shit on
you now tonight coño.” He raises his chin at me, always prodding
and provoking. It was his way, always stirring up shit, as if I wasn’t
nervous enough already.
I roll my eyes and face him squarely.
“First of all, I am not your mommy, Manny.’’
I pause for effect, and he tilts his head back in surprise.
‘You don’t speak to a woman like that” I quickly retort. I level
him with a hard stare as I stand my ground. Now, he’s
uncomfortable, I can feel it.
 I cringe inwardly. It’s not how I would act out in public, but
inside a kitchen there is no room for weakness. There are no nice
kitchens. Not the real ones, the heavy volume restaurants, the high-
end white tablecloth dining rooms, and the seedy diners all have the
same blood in the kitchen. Equal parts alcoholic, and drug dabblers,
with a mix of ex-convicts, and finally the diehard foodies.
As the latter, I was determined to make myself into what I
needed to in order to succeed, even going as far as getting a tattoo
of cleaver and whisk just beneath the ridge of my collar bone. It's
symbolic of my rite of passage into this crew of tattooed, and
pierced culinary miscreants. However, in Manny’s annoying taunts,
what he said was doing a number on me right now, as he knew it
would. How could Craig not show up? Especially at a critical time like
this! I put my name on the line for Craig; his ghosting me on one of
the most important nights of my life was a serious slap on the face. I
frown and don’t even realize until my jaws start to clench.
Almost on cue, I hear the double doors separating kitchen
and dining room bang open like a gunshot. I turn around in shock;
and it is - Claude, charging towards the kitchen like an enraged bull.
“Rhea, I don’t want to hear anything from you tonight except
‘yes, Chef!’’’ He screams, waving a finger in the air in frenzied
warning. I wonder if he is as nervous as me or he is just upset
tonight, I settle for the former thought. Anyone would be nervous,
tonight was a whole lot of pressure, if I feel this uneasy, I can only
imagine what he’s going through.
‘’I don’t have time, nor do I care what stupid excuses you
have for this shit that you promised. You PROMISED me that this
punk was going to be reliable!’’
He continues, and other staff and cooks start to troop in.
Claude does not even come into the kitchen to deliver his lashing,
instead he barks his reprimand from the service line for the whole
kitchen and wait staff to hear. If he was not staring directly at me, I
would have rolled my eyes and shouted at the other staff to mind
their business, this was not a show. But I understand why Claude
was so upset and would be too if I were in his shoes. I do not
blame him. This was all my fault anyways.
 “His station is yours tonight’’ Claude snapped. ‘’You’re going
to handle sauté and the broiler; do you understand me?’’ I nod
sharply, but feel he is not satisfied with my silent answer. He turns to
leave, then stops in his tracks and swivels back to me.
‘’Oh, and my food better not come one second late from this
kitchen, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Chef!” I chirp. I nearly do a salute, as it feels called for,
but this is what I signed up for, and I would be damned if I
disappoint Claude.
There is one long, weird moment of silence and Claude stares
at me. He doesn’t turn to leave like he did the first time, he narrows
his eyes and I stand there dutifully, starring back. It is only for a few
seconds, but it feels like minutes. I think he is subconsciously
searching for defiance so he can rain down on me and use me as a
scapegoat to assert his power. I am not going to give him that
pleasure.
I do feel angry that he decides to ‘’scold’’ me in front of the
entire staff, but I understand. In the end, he has designated
important responsibilities into my hands, and I know I am equal to
the task and determined enough to get my business done! I am
fuelled with both resentment and resolve. I didn’t even think those
two emotions could ever go together. But tonight was no ordinary
night, now, was it?
Finally, Claude turns back around to leave as he bangs
through the doors back into the dining room. I heave a heavy sigh. I
didn’t even realize I had been holding my breath.
I walk over to the grease-covered stereo perched atop old
dish racks and flip the radio station from Manny’s folk music over to
the rock station, making sure to stare him down hard as I do it. He
smiles creepily.
‘Come at me, Manny, I dare ya’, I say in my mind, but Manny
has the good sense not to. He just scoffs and shakes his head as he
gets back to work.
***
As the night progresses, I begin to feel more and more
pressure. I almost wish I were two people at once. Splitting my time
between the 500 degree inferno that was the stack of five broilers
used to provide searing heat to dishes that needed cooking fast, and
the rows of sauté pans each atop its own gas burner set to high was
a wilting experience. The time goes by fast as my hands fly through
the food preparation. If I had someone to help me, things would go
a lot faster, but that one’s on me. When I see Craig, I am going to
kill him!
The ratatatatat of my chef’s knife was blending well with the
hustle and bustle of the kitchen as I worked my way through stacks
of vegetables, my hands a coordinated flurry of grabbing onions and
feeding them into my rhythmically chopping hand. If anyone was
watching, it would be apparent that I was both furious and
determined to do a good job; I could barely see my own hands as I
worked up a rhythmic beat on the chopping board. I wish these
vegetables were Craig!
The heat in this kitchen is sweltering, so I reach up and
unbutton the top button of my chef’s coat as I walk between my two
stations of fire. Sweat has begun to run down my neck, and I can
feel its drops trace themselves across my collar bone, and over my
knife tattoo.
My eye catches Manny leaning against the wash racks, leering
at me. He seems to enjoy watching me sweat, I just wanted to wipe
that stupid smirk off his stupid face, the prick! I try not to pay
attention to him, I have so much work to do, and I should be
focused on the task at hand.
Wielding tongs in one hand and a kitchen rag in the other, I
dip my arm quickly into the broiler, my arm extended under the gas
burners up to my sleeve covered elbow as I pull pans from the heat.
Quickly transferring them to my waiting towel hand, I line up the
dishes, and quickly load the new orders into the fire. The intensity
of the heat hits me, and for the first time, I begin to feel the first
signs of fatigue, I’m a bit dizzy and my entire body is protesting. . I
give my head a shake, always helps me focus better when I do that.
I head towards the refrigerator in the back of the restaurant. It was
a long walk, and I should be working, but this damn heat is getting
to me, I can barely see where I am going. I open the refrigerator
and the quick burst of cool air that greets my sweaty face is almost
orgasmic, I walk deeper into the refrigerator so everyone would
think I came here to get more ingredients and I just take the cool
air, I take it all in. Gosh! I wish I could stay here forever!
The inside of the cooler was a blissful sanctuary. Cooling fans
drone a low mellow hum, the cool air quickly presses through my
coat and begins to chill my body. I can feel the chill begin to raise
goose bumps along my spine. I breathe three long slow breaths and
bask in the beauty of this moment. I close my eyes and open my
mind and once again, I begin to fantasize about where I’d rather be;
the feeling of sand beneath my feet. Howling winds blowing my hair.
Warm sun rays dancing across my face. My lungs are full of the
intoxicating smell of the sea. I am at peace. This is exactly where I
want to be. Someone drops a pan and the noise jolts me back to
reality! Talk about a rude awakening.
I am at the exact opposite of where I want to be right now. I
know once I close this refrigerator, the cold air would only last three
seconds before the heat begins to caress my face again.
Remembering my broilers kills the daydream, and so I open
my eyes again and quickly grab an armload of leeks and
mushrooms. Hesitating for a moment, I take one last deep breath of
cold air and close the refrigerator, and I get the shock of a lifetime!
Manny is standing right behind the refrigerator door staring at me
with that stupid smirk still on his face.
“Hey Rhea’’ He says as casually as he would if they met at a
party, like he didn’t know I was stressed and three seconds away
from kicking him in the shin and laughing as he bends and buckles
to groan in pain ‘’how are you doing sexy?’’ He straightens up and
puts his hands in his pockets before speaking again.
‘’For what it's worth, Claude was a dickhead for punishing you
like that in front of everyone, you didn’t deserve that at all, I’m really
sorry’’ He pauses for a moment, but I say nothing, just stare blankly
at him, what was he up to?
He must have noticed my expression saying he is full if shit,
because he straightens himself ‘’I mean it, Rhea. Craig deserves all
that scolding, not you’’. I am about to speak when I notice his eyes
undressing me.
Manny’s eyes suggest he was living a perverted fantasy out in
his head right there in front of me as I see his stupid eyeballs
dancing from one corner of his eyes to the other. I also watch as his
eyes drop to unbuttoned coat top, and lingering gaze at my
cleavage...
I honestly do not have time for his foolishness, not tonight. So, I
try to walk past him, but he steps in my way. I am seconds away
from backslapping this son of bitch!
“Hey, wait a minute’’ He says, smiling. He must think he has a
charming smile because he does that a lot, especially around me, he
doesn’t know that his stupid smile and smirk sickens me to my
stomach! ‘’Let’s talk, don’t go jumping back to the line for him.”
Manny juts his chin towards Chef instead of pointing.
“Listen Manny, I don’t have time for this today, move.” I try to
angle the box of leeks between us and step the other way. He places
his hand out against the box and stops me. I have already wasted
enough time in the refrigerator, and being here with me was likely
going to cost me. I peer at my station and get even more agitated
as light tendrils of smoke begin to emerge from the broilers.
“Girl you’re not even trying to be civil to me, that’s not how
women in my neighborhood treat men’’ I raise an eyebrow at that
statement ‘’Rhea, if you are going to get a chance to come meet my
family you need to learn some respect.”
Manny’s eyes lock on mine, and I can see they are glossy and
dilated, he was angry! Why the hell is he angry? He is not the one
that should be upset. He is standing in my way while my broilers are
burning away!
“I definitely have no intent of meeting your family Manny, nor
will I ever be your woman, now please excuse me, I’ve got work to
do!” I finally push past him and walk back to the line.
Plainly, Manny did not know how to let a moment go. It
happened so fast. As I walked away, I feel him smack my butt. I
pause for a second. I have never felt so angry in my entire life.
 I have been disrespected so much tonight and now this slime
bag has the nerve to smack my butt in this kitchen? I was not going
to let this one slide. My hands were tied with Claude earlier, but I
was not going to take this bullshit from Manny, not tonight, not ever!
I turn and with all my strength, I throw the vegetable box into his
chest. It slams into him hard, pushing him back into racks of dishes.
Several glasses shatter on the floor.
“Puta” Manny shouts. He pushes himself off the shelves, and
starts towards me. He turns and picks up a glass from the floor,
miming throwing it at my head. I flip him off, then hurry to my
station to rescue the rack of lamb from being burned.
I inwardly smile in satisfaction - that should teach that fool
Manny how to respect women. I watch him gather himself and feel
proud, but it is quickly short-lived. I hear my name.
“Rhea!?” My heart sinks at the sound of a person’s voice, and I
freeze from shock for a second.
“Rhea? Are you still with us?” Chef Claude says standing by
my station where he has pulled a blackened piece of lamb from the
broiler. I close my eyes tightly and right now, I just wish the floor
would open and swallow me. He’s so going to make a scene right
now. I open my eyes and exhale.
“Yes, of course,” I say, giving him a quick thumbs up. God
forbid I get hung up fighting off advances from coked-up
dishwashers.
Some of the other cooks glance up from their stations around
the dirty kitchen and laugh, enjoying the fact that Claude doesn’t
like me. To be fair, I don’t like him either. But I will never admit that.
No, I am too professional to say something like that. In fact, I am
needed and reliable. At least that’s what Claude tells me. Besides,
you do not get to the top by hating your superiors. Whatever shit he
wanted to give me right now, I would take it. I brace myself for
what’s to come.
“I can’t serve burned meat, and I can’t run a restaurant if you
don’t do your job and stay at your station.” Claude berates me.
I hate this. I hate this so damn much. My life has become an
endless cycle of repetition. Every day, I wake up, look at myself in
the mirror, and look away again. I thought my life would be better
than this. I thought it would be full of excitement! But here I am...
working the same dead-end job for seven years. I promised myself
that this would be a temporary thing. But I’m just too scared. What
would happen if I leave this job? I’ll just go live on the street? A
terrible job is better than no job... Right?
Despite the grind, I still put my best effort into my work, and
have been the backbone of this restaurant. All at the expense of a
normal social life. This place has sucked up any chance I have of
keeping a relationship while I have to pull shifts until midnight every
weekend. Only to listen Claude brag about his reviews and
accolades. It sucks! There was really nothing fair about this. I try to
tell myself to at least be grateful that I am working here under him,
maybe one day I will ascend to his status, but it’s been seven whole
years, still nothing!
‘What happened to you, Rhea?’ I ask myself. I ask myself this
question every day.
I have a Master’s degree in Anthropology, and yet, I’m
working in a job that has nothing to do with that. I guess my recent
disaster of a breakup didn’t help with my motivation. God, I want to
quit. I want to quit so bad. But that’s not me. No, I’m much more
responsible than that. I’m a professional at what I do, even when it
feels like it’s slowly killing me. I have to keep keeping or I’m just
some idiot loser, can’t have that.
The entire night is longer than I thought and after working
like a robot doing the work of two people, the night slowly dwindles
down, as the patrons and customers begin to thin out until no one
left. .
Soon enough, Claude wraps up the post shift meeting, and
we get up to leave this dreaded kitchen. I, for one cannot wait to
get out of this place. We pile out of the grease and bleach scented
kitchen and into the dining room when Gary’s voice stops me in my
tracks. “Rhea, can I talk to you for a minute?”
Oh great, probably another scolding, I think. “Sure thing!” I
say, attempting a cheerful voice. Some of the waitresses giggle like a
bunch of high schoolers, expecting that I’d get embarrassed again
by Claude. I can only imagine how Manny’s face is right now.
I walk towards Claude’s office and begin to wish it would be
further away as I close in, knowing that makes no sense, but that no
part of this night did. I desperately crave a warm bath and a bed
right now, but in the meantime, I brace up for another scolding. At
least this one will be private. It was one thing to be scolded by your
boss, it was another thing to be embarrassed in front of the people
you work with, and Claude always combined both.
‘’You wanted to see me sir?’’ I say as I walk into his office and
clasp my hands in front of me.
Claude shifts in his seat and takes off his glasses as he
gestures for me to sit, I do as he says and take a seat, still confused
why he hasn’t started shouting yet.
“Now, I know we don’t always see eye to eye,” Claude says as
soon as I sit down, “and don’t think I don’t notice how hard you’ve
been working. I do, I really do, and I recognize you for that’’ he
paused and stares at me, I am still a bit confused as I am not sure
where he is going with this. ‘’I have also realized that you can be a
real asset here, more than you already are’’
My heart is racing with anticipation now, but I still say
nothing, just stare at him intently.
''So, I’m giving you the chance of working lunch shift as well
as dinner this weekend! What do you say?” he said it as if he had
just announced a promotion or something. He was offering more
work!
My face falls, color draining from it. He must have seen it.
‘’Don’t freak out, Rhea! Be professional! He says.
“I appreciate the opportunity, Claude,” I start to say,
attempting to sound sincere, “But I just can’t take on extra work
right now.”
He chuckles, almost as if he had just heard a joke. “Oh, you
thought I was asking for your permission?”
“Well... aren’t you?”
“Oh, Rhea,” he says, still laughing, “I’m your boss. You work
for me. Why would I ask for your permission?” he raises an eye-
brow, and I know I shouldn’t, but all I feel for him now is disgust
and unbridled anger!
“Well, I just thought—”
“You thought nothing,” he says, his voice suddenly
threatening, “Be here this weekend. No excuses.”
“But Claude—”
“You know what?” he says, as he stands. “Because of your
attitude this evening, your work this weekend will go without pay.
Besides, it will make up for the broken dishes, as well as the burnt
lamb. I’ll see you Saturday morning.” He turns to leave.
Blood rushes to my face, and I dig my nails into my palms as
I clench my fists, desperately trying to keep my emotions in check.
My entire body is taut, filled with years of bent up rage. I can’t keep
taking this crap! I’m a hard worker and diligent in what I do, I’m a
decent chef, I don’t need this disrespect, not from Manny, not from
Claude, not from anyone. My heart begs my brain to hold it in, but I
can’t. As Claude turns back casually to his work, the words fly out of
my mouth.
“I’m sorry, Claude,” I say, shaking with anger. “But you won’t
see me this Saturday.”
He pauses for a moment and looks over his shoulder,
stunned. “Excuse me?”
I draw in a deep breath. “Claude, you have to understand
that I can’t come to work this weekend for no pay.”
“Rhea...” he says, standing up and slowly making his way
towards where I’m seated. He adopts a pitying tone, which drips
with condescension. “I don’t understand, and, frankly, I don’t really
care. You will either come to work this weekend, or you can say
goodbye to your job.”
My hands are sweating, and my heart is beating faster than a
drum, I’m even scared that Claude can hear it if he listens hard
enough.
“Then I quit, Claude.’’ I say in measured tones. ‘’I wish you
luck finding someone else to take that ridiculous load, Chef.”
Claude stands there dazed and in a way, that makes me feel
good. I know I may regret this when I get home, if not in the next
 “Yeah, she quit a couple of days ago. Scared of a little storm,
can you believe that?” the pilot says, laughing as he snatches a bag
of Fritos from a staged basket, popping a handful of chips
nonchalantly into his mouth.
“I mean, she would probably have a good reason to quit if the
storm is really dangerous right? Like if this flight had us headed in
the direction every other airplane is evacuating…” I ask them,
probing for acknowledgement that they proposed to fly into the face
of a hurricane.
The pilot pauses, mouth full of chips.
“What, don’t tell me you’re scared too?” he says, tauntingly.
“Of course not!” I suddenly feel like a teenager trying to
impress the cool kids. “I just... heard that it is supposed to be a little
rain.”
“A Little rain? No way. It’s a giant storm for sure, we definitely
need to get in, get the boss to his meeting quickly, and then get the
hell out of there faster than Reggie can clear a hotel elevator after
his trademark gas attacks.”
I wanted to punch this pilot square in his face. As a pilot, you
should be concerned about safety first, you should advise the boss
to postpone the meeting or something, and this was all too surreal.
“Then why the hell are we still going to Anguilla?” I blurt out,
shaking my head and smiling slightly at the bad joke. “This meeting
can’t be that important, why can’t Vasquez wait until it passes?”
“We don’t know, and we don’t care,” Reggie says, wiping chip
crumbs off the front of his uniform. “Vasquez is paying us enough
money to make this trip happen despite the storm, and we’re not
passing up an opportunity like this. I have kids in private school.
Besides, as long as we get off the island in time, we won’t fly into
any of the bad stuff. Believe me, I am not reckless, and we won’t be
flying into any serious stuff. This airplane can handle anything else.”
Nick, the younger looking pilot shows me the equipment in
the galley, the drink and snack drawers, and then finally the
emergency equipment. He breezes through it all quickly, while my
eyes dart back and forth, and questions tumble over each other in
my head. How am I going to remember all of this?
 My thoughts are quickly interrupted as I’m distracted by
movement through the window of the plane. Was that Vazquez? The
front of a car door opens and Hannah steps out, walks towards the
back door, and opens it. I narrow my eyes to get a better look. It
was definitely the boss.
He walks towards the plane and climbs aboard. His suit was
Italian, and his shoes, probably Italian as well. He looked a dignified
kind of old. Somewhere in his 50s. His black hair slicked back, his
suit probably more expensive than anything I own, and an intense
gaze in his eyes. He takes a few steps towards. Taking a deep
breath, I smooth a hand across my clothes, making sure I look
professional.
As he approaches, I offer him a professional handshake with
a smile on my face. “Hello, Mr. Vasquez,” I say, “It's an honor to
meet you. I am—”
“Rhea Ward. The new flight attendant,” he says, interrupting
me. “Hannah here told me all about you. I expect you to be an
efficient flight attendant, Ms. Ward.” Vasquez grips my hand quickly
and efficiently, and then seats himself, opening a file.
I quickly glance at Hannah standing behind Vasquez. She
gives me a quick thumbs up with a smile and mouths good bye to
me.
“Shall we, then?” says Vasquez. Looking up to me and the
pilots.
Captain Nick flicks a switch to close the aircraft's door. After
he sits, I make my way to the jump seat in the cockpit, squeeze
myself onto the narrow fold-out seat that emerges from a cabinet in
the rear of the cockpit between the pilots. Twisting my body around
in the chair to look back in the cabin and check the passengers, I
lock eyes with Vasquez and give him my warmest smile.
“All right Nick let’s start up, time is money!” Vasquez calls up
to the front, startling the young pilots into action. Nick begins
reaching above his head and flips several switches.
“Get ready with the engine start checklist” he tells Reggie
over the headset. Nick turns to me and hands me a headset of my
Another random document with
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Six little
Bunkers at farmer Joel's
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
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you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Six little Bunkers at farmer Joel's

Author: Laura Lee Hope

Illustrator: Walter S. Rogers

Release date: October 3, 2023 [eBook #71791]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1923

Credits: Bob Taylor, David Edwards and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SIX LITTLE

BUNKERS AT FARMER JOEL'S ***
THE HAY SLIPPED OFF ALONG WITH THE SIX LITTLE
BUNKERS AND ADAM.
Six Little Bunkers at Farmer Joel’s. Frontispiece—(Page 152)
SIX LITTLE BUNKERS
AT FARMER JOEL’S

BY

LAURA LEE HOPE

Author of “Six Little Bunkers at Grandma Bell’s,”
“Six Little Bunkers at Mammy June’s,” “The
Bobbsey Twins Series,” “The Bunny Brown
Series,” “The Make Believe Series,” Etc.

ILLUSTRATED BY
WALTER S. ROGERS

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

 BOOKS BY LAURA LEE HOPE
12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.

THE SIX LITTLE BUNKERS SERIES

SIX LITTLE BUNKERS AT GRANDMA BELL’S
SIX LITTLE BUNKERS AT AUNT JO’S
SIX LITTLE BUNKERS AT COUSIN TOM’S
SIX LITTLE BUNKERS AT GRANDPA FORD’S
SIX LITTLE BUNKERS AT UNCLE FRED’S
SIX LITTLE BUNKERS AT CAPTAIN BEN’S
SIX LITTLE BUNKERS AT COWBOY JACK’S
SIX LITTLE BUNKERS AT MAMMY JUNE’S
SIX LITTLE BUNKERS AT FARMER JOEL’S

THE BUNNY BROWN SERIES

BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE ON GRANDPA’S
FARM
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE PLAYING CIRCUS
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AT AUNT LU’S CITY
HOME
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AT CAMP REST-A-
WHILE
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE IN THE BIG WOODS
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE ON AN AUTO TOUR
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AND THEIR
SHETLAND PONY
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE GIVING A SHOW
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AT CHRISTMAS
TREE COVE
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE IN THE SUNNY
SOUTH
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE KEEPING STORE
BUNNY BROWN AND HIS SISTER SUE AND THEIR TRICK
DOG
 THE BOBBSEY TWINS SERIES
(Sixteen Titles)
THE MAKE BELIEVE SERIES
(Twelve Titles)
THE OUTDOOR GIRLS SERIES
(Thirteen Titles)
GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK

Copyright, 1923, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP

Six Little Bunkers at Farmer Joel’s

 CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Russ in Danger 1
II. A Load of Flowers 13
III. The Secret 24
IV. Where is Laddie? 36
V. Off to the Farm 44
VI. Something in the Straw 54
VII. At Farmer Joel’s 64
VIII. In the Hay 74
IX. When the Cows Came Home 85
X. Buzzing Bees 97
XI. Mun Bun’s Garden 106
XII. A Strawberry Shortcake 118
XIII. The Shoe-Lace Boy 128
XIV. The Shortcake Comes Back 136
XV. An Exciting Ride 147
XVI. Off on a Picnic 155
XVII. The Ice Cave 163
XVIII. A Big Splash 172
XIX. A Fight 184
XX. Yellow and White 192
XXI. A Mad Bull 201
XXII. After Wild Flowers 208
XXIII. A Mean Boy 220
XXIV. Stung 229
XXV. The Honey Tree 236
SIX LITTLE BUNKERS AT
FARMER JOEL’S
 CHAPTER I
RUSS IN DANGER

“Margy, will you look out on the porch and see if she’s there?”
“Yes, Vi, I will. But you ought to say please to me, ’cause mother
says——”
“All right then. Please look and see if she’s there,” begged Vi,
otherwise Violet Bunker. There were six of the little Bunkers. The
other four will be out presently.
Margy, who had been looking at picture books with her year-older
sister in a room off the porch, kindly dropped her book and started
for the door.
“If she’s there bring her in—please.” Violet laughed a little as she
added the last word. She remembered what Margy had started to
say about politeness.
Violet was piling up the books, for she had just thought of
something new to play, when Margy came hurrying back into the
room.
“She isn’t there!” gasped the smaller Bunker girl.
“She isn’t?” Violet fairly gasped out the words, and you could
easily tell that she was very much excited. “Are you sure, Margy?”
“No, she isn’t there, Vi! Maybe a tramp has taken her!”
“Oh!” cried Violet, in such a loud voice that Mrs. Bunker, having
heard part of the talk, came quickly from the room where she had
been sewing.
“Who’s gone?” demanded the mother of the six little Bunkers.
“Don’t tell me Mun Bun is lost again!”
Mun Bun was the youngest of the six little Bunkers. His real name
was Munroe Ford Bunker, but that was entirely too long for the little
fellow, so he was called “Mun Bun.” It was a name he had made up
for himself.
“Where is Mun Bun? Is he lost again?” asked Mrs. Bunker, starting
to take off her apron to go in search of the “little tyke,” as she often
called him, for he certainly did get into mischief very many times.
“Mun Bun isn’t lost,” answered Violet, as she hurried out on the
porch with Margy. “He’s out in the yard with Laddie, digging a hole.”
“An’ he says he’s going to dig down to China,” added Margy.
“And I just put clean bloomers on him!” sighed Mrs. Bunker. “But
who is gone?” she asked again. “It can’t be Rose or Russ—they’re
too old to be taken by a tramp!”
There, now you have heard the names of all six of the little
Bunkers, though Russ, being nearly ten, I think, wouldn’t like to be
called “little.”
“No, it isn’t Russ or Rose,” said Margy. “I saw them going down
the street. Maybe they’re going to daddy’s office to ask him for some
money to buy candy.”
“Oh, they mustn’t do that!” exclaimed Mrs. Bunker. “This is the first
of the month and daddy is very busy. They shouldn’t have gone
there. Are you sure, Margy?”
“Oh, they didn’t zactly say they were going there,” announced
Margy. “But I thought maybe——”
“You mustn’t tell things you aren’t sure of,” said her mother. “But
who is——”
“Mother, why is daddy so busy the first of the month?” asked Vi,
forgetting for the moment all about what she had sent Margy to look
for. Violet Bunker was, as her father said, “a great girl for asking
questions.” Her mother knew this, and, fearing that Vi would get
started on a list of inquiries that would take some time to answer,
Mrs. Bunker said:
“Now don’t begin that, Vi, dear. I’ll answer just this one question,
but not any more. Your father is busy the first of the month more than
at other times because tenants pay their rents then, and he collects
the rents for a large number of people. That’s one thing a real estate
dealer, like your father, does. Now, don’t ask another question!” she
commanded, for she saw that Vi was getting ready, as Russ would
say, “to spring another.”
“I wasn’t going to ask a question,” said Vi, looking a little hurt in
her feelings. “I was going to say——”
“Wait until I find out what’s happened first,” broke in Mrs. Bunker.
“Who is missing? It can’t be any of you, for you’re all present or
accounted for, as they say in the army. Who is——”
“It’s Esmeralda!” exclaimed Violet. “I had her out on the porch
playing with Margy. Then we went in to look at the picture books, and
I forgot about Esmeralda and——”
“Russ says her name ought to be Measles ’cause she’s all
spotted,” put in Margy, with a shake of her dark, tousled hair. “But it’s
only spots of dirt.”
“Come on,” demanded Vi of Margy, taking her younger sister by
the hand. “We’ve got to find Esmeralda!”
“Oh, it’s your doll!” remarked Mrs. Bunker, with a sigh of relief. “I
thought one of you children was missing. I had quite a start. It’s only
your doll. That’s different.”
“Esmeralda is my child, even if she is only a doll,” and Vi marched
away with Margy, her head held up proudly.
“Oh, my dear, I didn’t mean that you shouldn’t want to find your
missing play child,” called Mrs. Bunker quickly, for she realized that a
little girl’s feelings might be hurt by a slighting remark about even a
dirty and spotted doll. “I only meant that I was glad none of you
children was missing. I’ll help you look for Esmeralda.”
“She isn’t out on the porch. I looked,” said Margy.
“We left her there, didn’t we?” asked Vi, for sometimes there was
so much going on at the Bunker house that to remember where one
of the many dolls or other playthings was left became a task.
 “Yes, we left Esmeralda out on the porch,” agreed Margy. “But she
isn’t there now. I looked. She’s—she’s gone!”
Margy felt almost as sad over the loss as did Vi, though
Esmeralda, or “Measles,” as Russ called her, belonged particularly to
Violet.
“Do you s’pose a tramp would take my doll, Mother?” asked Violet,
for Mrs. Bunker was now walking toward the side porch with her two
little girls.
“No, my dear, I don’t believe so,” was the answer. “What would a
tramp want with a doll?”
This puzzled Vi for a moment, but she quickly had ready a reply.
“He—he might want to give her to his little girl,” Vi said.
“Tramps, as a rule, don’t have little girls,” remarked Mrs. Bunker.
“If they had they wouldn’t be tramps.”
This gave Vi a chance to ask another question. Eagerly she had it
ready.
“Why don’t tramps have little girls?” she inquired of her mother.
“Do they run away? I mean do the little girls run away?”
“No, that isn’t the reason,” and Mrs. Bunker tried not to smile at
Vi’s eagerness. “I’ll tell you about it some other time. But show me
where you left your doll,” she added, as they reached the shady side
porch. “Esmeralda certainly isn’t here,” for a look around showed no
doll in sight.
“Oh, where can she be?” gasped Vi, now on the verge of tears.
Margy, seeing how her sister was affected, was also getting ready to
weep, but just then a merry whistle was heard around the corner of
the house. It was the merry whistle of a happy boy.
“Here comes Russ!” exclaimed Violet, for she knew her oldest
brother’s habit of being tuneful. “He’ll help me look for Esmeralda.”
“Maybe he took her,” suggested Margy.
“No. If he did he wouldn’t be coming back whistling,” decided Vi.
 Russ Bunker, next to his father the “man” of the family, swung
around the path at the side of the house. Following him was Rose,
his sister, a year younger, a pretty girl, with light, fluffy hair. And, very
often, Rose had a merry song on her lips. But as Russ was now
whistling Rose could not sing. She always said Russ whistled “out of
tune,” but Russ declared it was her singing that was off key.
“Oh, Russ!” exclaimed his mother, “you didn’t go to daddy’s office
and bother him to-day, did you, when it’s the first of the month? And
he is so busy——”
“No, Mother, I wasn’t at daddy’s office,” Russ answered. “Rose
and I just went to the store for some nails. I’m making a seesaw, and
——”
“Oh, can I be on it?” begged Margy. “I love to teeter-totter! Please,
Russ, can’t I——”
“I want a ride, too!” put in Vi.
“All right! All right!” agreed Russ, with a laugh. “You can all have
rides—Mun Bun and Laddie too—as soon as I get it made. But it’s a
lot of work and it’s got to be done right and——”
Russ paused. He could see that something was wrong, as he said
afterward. Russ was a quick thinker. Also he was always making
things about the house. These were mostly things with which to play
and have a good time, though once he built a bench for his mother.
The only trouble was that he didn’t make the legs strong enough,
and when Norah O’Grady, the cook, set a tub of water on the bench
the legs caved in and there was a “mess” in the kitchen.
“Has anything happened?” asked Russ, for he could see that his
mother and his two small sisters had come out on the porch with
some special idea in mind.
“Violet’s doll is gone,” explained Mrs. Bunker. “She left it on the
porch, and she feels sad over losing it. If you know anything about it,
Russ——”
“You mean that old Measles doll?” asked the oldest Bunker boy,
laughing.
 “She hasn’t the measles at all—so there!” and Violet stamped her
foot on the porch.
“Well, she looks so—all spotted,” added Russ, with another laugh.
Then, as he saw that Violet was ready to cry and that Margy was
going to follow with tears, Russ added: “I guess I know where your
doll is. Henry Miller just told me——”
“Oh, did he take her?” cried Violet. “If he did I’ll never speak to him
again and——”
“Now, wait a minute!” advised Russ. “You girls always get so
excited! I didn’t say Henry took your doll. I just met him and he said
he saw a dog running out of our yard with something in his mouth.
Maybe it was the dog that took your doll, Violet.”
“Oh! Oh!” cried the little girl, and she was now sobbing in real
earnest.
“Oh, the dog will eat up Esmeralda!” and Margy added her tears to
those of Violet.
“I’ll go down the street and look for her,” quickly offered Russ. He
was a kind boy that way. Of course he didn’t care for dolls, and he
was anxious to start making the seesaw, nails for which he and Rose
had gone after. But Russ was willing to give up his own pleasure to
help his little sister.
“I’ll get your doll,” he said. “I guess that dog wouldn’t carry her far
after he found out she wasn’t a bone or something good to eat.”
“She—she—she’s a nice doll, anyhow, so there!” sobbed Violet.
“An’—an’ I—I want her!”
“I guess I can find her,” offered Russ. “Here, Rose, you hold the
nails.”
Russ started on a run toward the front gate. Mrs. Bunker and the
three girls followed. As yet Laddie and Mun Bun had not heard the
excitement over the missing doll, for they were still in the back yard,
“digging down to China.”
 Russ reached the gate, looked down the road in the direction
Henry Miller had told him the dog had run with something in its
mouth, and then Russ cried:
“I see her! I see your doll, Vi! The dog dropped her in the street! I’ll
get her for you.”
Russ started on the run toward a small object lying in the dust of
the road. Before Russ could reach the doll a big automobile truck
swung around the corner and came straight for poor Esmeralda.
“Oh, she’ll be run over!” screamed Violet. “My child!”
But Russ had also seen the truck and, knowing there would be
little left of the doll if one of the heavy wheels went over her, he ran a
little faster and darted directly in front of the big lumbering,
thundering automobile.
“Russ! Russ! Be careful!” called his mother.
“Look out there, youngster!” yelled the man who was driving the
truck.
On came the heavy automobile, bearing down on Russ who was
now in the middle of the street, stooping over to pick up Esmeralda.
 CHAPTER II
A LOAD OF FLOWERS

Three of the six little Bunkers—Rose, Margy and Violet—stood

grouped around their mother, looking with anxious eyes toward
Russ, who had made up his mind that he was going to get Vi’s doll
and snatch it out of danger before the big truck reached it. But, in
doing this, Russ was also in danger himself.
“Russ! Russ! Come back!” cried his mother, darting forward.
“It’s going to run right over him!” screamed Margy.
“He’ll be smashed!” and Violet covered her eyes with her hands.
“Let the old doll go!” shouted Rose.
But Russ did not heed. Straight across the street, directly in front
of the truck he ran, and toward Vi’s doll Esmeralda that was lying in
the highway, where she had been dropped by the stray dog.
The man driving the big truck, after giving one call of warning, had
ceased, and was now doing his best either to steer out of the way, so
he would not run over Russ, or else to put on the brakes. This last
was not so easy to do as the street just there was down hill and the
truck was a heavy one.
Russ reached the doll before the truck got to it. The Bunker boy
picked up Vi’s plaything and started to run out of danger, but he
slipped on a stone and down he fell in the dust of the road.
“Oh! Oh!” cried his mother. “Oh, Russ!”
Russ was down, but, as he said afterward, he was not “out.” He
rolled to one side, out of the way of the thundering big wheels of the
truck. A moment later he was on his feet, dirty and dusty, but holding
proudly aloft the doll he had rescued.