Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73162 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
I try looking it up on the internet, but I can’t find anything about breasts leaking sweet amber liquid and apparently the only people who have sex dreams are adolescent boys. None of it makes sense.
It feels like my whole life is spinning out of control and I can’t do anything to stop it.
About the fourth day after Fake Kane left, Sam, the new dishwasher, comes into the ladies room just as I’m changing the tissues I put in my bra to soak up the amber liquid my nipples are leaking.
Quickly, I finish stuffing the new tissues into my bra. Then I crumple the used tissues and throw them in the trash but I can tell she saw some of what I was doing.
“Hey, you all right?” she asks casually, coming up to the sink beside me.
“Fine,” I say shortly. “Just fine.”
“Okay, great. Uh…there’s someone here who says he wants to talk to you,” she says.
“What?” My heart starts pounding. Could it be Fake Kane? Did he come back to me? Of course, I won’t have anything to do with him but just the idea that he might be here makes my heart flutter.
“He says he’s your brother,” Sam says and shrugs. “I don’t know though—the two of you have the same hair and eye color but he’s huge and you’re tiny. So…” She shrugs again.
I feel my stomach drop. That can’t be Fake Kane, then.
“I’d better go see who it is,” I say, trying to sound like its no big deal.
“I sat him in your section—hope that’s okay,” Sam says. She’s pulling out her cell phone, clearly about to make a call.
“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”
I hurry out of the ladies room and around the corner. I stop dead in my tracks when I see him.
Sitting right there at table three is a huge mountain of a man. He’s as big as Fake Kane was but even beefier. His head is shaved bald but he has a thick, bushy black beard and mustache and when he looks up, his eyes are the same light amber mine are. He’s wearing a white muscle shirt that shows hairy arms and shoulders—ugh.
But his excess body hair isn’t what has me staring. This is the same man in the picture that Charles showed me on the night he exposed Fake Kane. This is the real Kane—my real big brother and he’s sitting right here in my section of the diner.
I have absolutely no idea what to say to him.
33
SUNNY
I don’t know what to think or what to say. Slowly, I approach him.
Real Kane is staring at me in an appraising kind of way—like he’s wondering what I’m worth. Which is a strange thing to think, but it’s what pops into my mind when I see him watching me.
“Er…hello. I’m Sunny—Sunny Young,” I say. “You must be…are you Kane Black?”
“That’s me, little sis,” he rumbles. He has a deep, grating voice like boulders rubbing together in a dry streambed.
“Oh, well…” I begin, but Real Kane doesn’t let me finish. He gets up from the table and engulfs me in a hard hug that leaves me breathless. As he does, he bends his head down and presses his face to the side of my neck, inhaling deeply. Oh my God, he’s sniffing me! Sniffing my skin and hair!
I tighten up against him and want to get out of the hug at once. This is too weird—I don’t even know him! And it just feels wrong.
As he’s smelling me, I can smell him too. He has a musky animal odor about him. It reminds me of going into a pet store or the place in the animal shelter where they keep all the dogs.
It’s not pleasant, but for some reason I feel my body reacting to it. My nipples are suddenly tight and I’m throbbing between my legs. What’s wrong with me?
Real Kane holds me a little longer, still sniffing, before finally letting me go.
“Uh-huh,” he says nodding, as though he just confirmed something. “You’re ripe all right, little sis. I’d bet on it.”
“Excuse me?” I put a hand on my hip. “What are you talking about? I took a shower this morning!”
He lets out a bellow of laughter that hurts my ears and makes heads turn.
“That’s not what I meant, sweet thing!”
“Well, what did you mean, then?” I demand.
He shakes his bald head, still clearly amused about something.
“Never you mind. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I change the subject.
“Why didn’t you ever write me back?” I ask. “I sent you hundreds of letters for years and years—the whole time you were in prison.”
He shrugs.
“Didn’t want to. I’m not much for reading or writing.”
Well, I guess I can’t argue with that, though it hurts my feelings. I think about telling him that his cellmate wrote me back—that he took advantage of me. But I don’t want to start trouble.