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)
It occurs to me that he could tell me the true identity of his cellmate—the name of Fake Kane. But really, what would I do with that information? It’s not like I’m ever going to contact him and give him another chance to hurt me. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me, as my Momma used to say.
“Well…do you want something to eat?” I ask at last, lamely. There doesn’t seem to be anything else to say. It’s not like it was with Fake Kane—I don’t feel that instant connection—that little click like a missing piece of my heart falling into place.
“Sure—I could eat. Anything you got on the menu’s gotta be better than that fucking slop they served us in prison,” he says, dropping back into his chair. “Bring me whatever’s good, sweet thing.”
I don’t particularly care for this nickname, but I figure that I probably won’t see him again after this. Despite writing to him for years and yearning to have family in my life, I find I have no interest in building any kind of relationship with this man. He feels foreign to me—strange. I’ll be fine if he leaves after eating his dinner and never comes back again.
I serve him the Blue Plate Special and a slice of pie and he inhales it all…except for the pie.
“Don’t you got any cake?” he asks, frowning at it. It’s my Chocolate Crème Supreme—one of our best sellers. “I don’t like pie.”
“Sorry—we don’t have any cake right now,” I say coldly, even though I made a big carrot cake this morning. But I don’t think this man deserves it after turning up his nose at my pie.
“Fuck it.” He shrugs and rises from his chair.
“Er, that’s going to be 16.99,” I say, tearing the check off my pad.
“I’ll pay you later,” Real Kane says casually. “I’m sure I’ll run into you again sometime, sweet thing. Maybe even sooner than you think.”
And with that, he saunters out of the diner without even paying his bill!
I stare after him in disbelieving silence until Annabelle comes up beside me.
“Did he just leave without paying?” she asks, frowning.
“Uh-huh.” I nod. “Said he’d ‘pay me later’ if you can believe that.”
“That man looks like five miles of bad road,” is Annabelle’s verdict. “Sorry, Sunny, but I think I liked your fake brother better. Your real brother is a jerk.”
She’s not wrong. I watch his hairy shoulders disappear down the sidewalk as he swaggers away. I hope I never see him again—family or not, I don’t want anything to do with him.
I have no idea that I’ll soon have no choice about spending time with my real big brother. Or what a nightmare having him find me is going to turn out to be…
34
SUNNY
On the walk home, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize. That’s not actually unusual—everybody gets spam texts these days, right? But when I start to read the message, my heart skips a beat.
Dear Sunny, it begins.
I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I have to warn you of something. I just got word that your real brother has made contact with you. Let me warn you, Kane is dangerous! He—”
I delete the rest of the message and block the number. My heart is aching and I’m so angry I want to throw my cell phone. Only the fact that I don’t have the money to replace it keeps me from hurling it straight into a tree.
It was Fake Kane—I’m sure of it. But what does he care if my big brother is dangerous? It’s not like he really cared about me—he lied to me. Used me. He’s probably just using this as an excuse to worm his way back into my life. And I’m not falling for that.
I stomp home as the shadows grow long and the full moon comes out, still feeling wounded and angry. It’s like he poured lemon juice on a fresh wound. I’ll never forgive him for how he tricked me and used me—never!
When I get home I feed Miss Sassy and then let her out for the night. Sometimes she likes to roam and I don’t blame her. Besides, she always comes back in the morning.
I take a long, hot bubblebath—trying to soak away all the anger and sorrow and irritation of the day but it doesn’t work. I’m still just as angry and sad and frustrated as ever when I get out of the tub.
My breasts are aching and my nipples have turned a darker pink. They’re leaking even more of the strange golden liquid—it leaves sticky trails down the undersides of my breasts.
I wash off and then dry off again and wrap myself in a towel that can absorb the liquid. I’m going to have to find a new solution. Also, I should probably go to the doctor—if I can find one that will take self-pay instead of insurance. It’s probably going to eat up every bit of the tiny savings I’ve been able to put away in the last year or so and put me in debt, like as not.