Page 32 of Kane

“I don’t like this movie,” I say, watching as the man in the hockey mask chases down a woman with a machete.

“It’s not real,” the girl says, flashing her dark eyes at me.

Mama’s voice raises, but I can’t hear what she’s saying.

We usually don’t go to other people’s houses, but when Mama came upstairs with the nice lady and the little girl, she said we were going to take them home.

When we got here, she told me to stay put on the couch, and the lady told the dark-haired girl to stay put, too. Then she turned the TV on and she and Mama went to the kitchen, where they’ve been for a while.

“It’s still scary,” I say weakly as the hockey mask man starts stabbing the woman. I close my eyes.

I blink, dispelling the weird thought—memory—away, realizing Ryder is looking at me in question.

My head hurts, and I think I’m getting a migraine. That’s probably what this is. Some weird migraine induced hallucination.

Which caffeine is bound to fix.

I pinch the space between my eyes. “Sorry, headache’s a bitch.”

I clear my throat, open my eyes and look Ryder in the eyes. He doesn’t look worried or concerned, or even judgmental. His blue eyes sparkle as he looks at me like I’ve got all the answers to the secrets of the universe.

No one’s ever looked at me like this.

I swallow, forcing the words out of my mouth, though they aren’t the ones I wish I could say. That I could find the courage to say…

“What do you have for me today?” I ask, clasping my hands together. My fingers cover up the 13 and my decayed rose. I don’t want to think about my father, or my fucked up shit right now. Not in his presence.

I just want to soak up the little bit of happiness I get when I come here, between the storms. I find his dark gaze and hold it. I watch as he bites his lip and pretends to think about his recommendation.

This is the game we play every Tuesday, Ryder and I.

I come here and tell him to make me something he thinks I’ll like. And every week, he takes his time to make my drink perfect, and we talk while I wait for my cinnamon bun.

Ryder glances from my mouth to my eyes and clears his throat as he says, “Well, we got this new syrup in—”

“Sounds good,” I say, pulling out my card.

“You don’t even know what the flavor is,” he says, twisting his lips, his eyes lighting up with mischief. “It could be tuna flavored.”

The smile that forms on my face is genuine as I let out a laugh.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Ryder crosses his arms, his lips twitching as he holds my gaze rather petulantly.

I can’t say I hate it. In fact, I am tempted to push his buttons further, just to see if I can.

“What is it?” I ask, feeling my smile brighten. “This delicious new syrup you speak of?”

“Well, now I don’t want to tell you,” he says as he sticks his tongue out, which does nothing to quell the dirty thoughts that pervade my mind in his presence.

I’m half tempted to tell him if he sticks his tongue out at me again, I’ll punish him.

But I know I can’t do that. I can’t say things like that to people without an extensive discussion on limits and a contractual agreement.

Margie’s words reverberate in my brain. Do I want to serve him?

I can’t say the thought isn’t tempting, but I also know that despite his obvious flirtation, that doesn’t mean he’s into me, or that he’s into the lifestyle.