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Idon’t know what to think or what to say.Slowly,Iapproach him.

RealKaneis staring at me in an appraising kind of way—like he’s wondering whatI’mworth.Whichis a strange thing to think, but it’s what pops into my mind whenIsee him watching me.

“Er…hello.I’mSunny—SunnyYoung,”Isay. “Youmust be…are youKaneBlack?”

“That’s me, little sis,” he rumbles.Hehas a deep, grating voice like boulders rubbing together in a dry streambed.

“Oh, well…”Ibegin, butRealKanedoesn’t let me finish.Hegets up from the table and engulfs me in a hard hug that leaves me breathless.Ashe does, he bends his head down and presses his face to the side of my neck, inhaling deeply.OhmyGod, he’ssniffingme!Sniffingmy skin and hair!

I tighten up against him and want to get out of the hug at once.Thisis too weird—Idon’t even know him!Andit just feelswrong.

As he’s smelling me,Ican smell him too.Hehas a musky animal odor about him.Itreminds 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 reasonIfeel my body reacting to it.Mynipples are suddenly tight andI’mthrobbing between my legs.What’swrong with me?

RealKaneholds me a little longer, still sniffing, before finally letting me go.

“Uh-huh,” he says nodding, as though he just confirmed something. “You’reripe all right, little sis.I’dbet on it.”

“Excuse me?”Iput a hand on my hip. “Whatare you talking about?Itook a shower this morning!”

He lets out a bellow of laughter that hurts my ears and makes heads turn.

“That’s not whatImeant, sweet thing!”

“Well, what did you mean, then?”Idemand.

He shakes his bald head, still clearly amused about something.

“Never you mind.Don’tworry your pretty little head about it.”

I don’t know what to say to that, soIchange the subject.

“Why didn’t you ever write me back?”Iask. “Isent you hundreds of letters for years and years—the whole time you were in prison.”

He shrugs.

“Didn’t want to.I’mnot much for reading or writing.”

Well,IguessIcan’t argue with that, though it hurts my feelings.Ithink about telling him that his cellmate wrote me back—that he took advantage of me.ButIdon’t want to start trouble.

It occurs to me that he could tell me the true identity of his cellmate—the name ofFakeKane.Butreally, what wouldIdo with that information?It’snot likeI’mever going to contact him and give him another chance to hurt me.Foolme once, shame on you.Foolme twice, shame on me, as myMommaused to say.

“Well…do you want something to eat?”Iask at last, lamely.Theredoesn’t seem to be anything else to say.It’snot like it was withFakeKane—Idon’t feel that instant connection—that littleclicklike a missing piece of my heart falling into place.

“Sure—Icould eat.Anythingyou got on the menu’s gotta be better than that fucking slop they served us in prison,” he says, dropping back into his chair. “Bringme whatever’s good, sweet thing.”

I don’t particularly care for this nickname, butIfigure thatIprobably won’t see him again after this.Despitewriting to him for years and yearning to have family in my life,IfindIhave no interest in building any kind of relationship with this man.Hefeels foreign to me—strange.I’llbe fine if he leaves after eating his dinner and never comes back again.

I serve him theBluePlateSpecialand 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’smyChocolateCrèmeSupreme—one of our best sellers. “Idon’t like pie.”

“Sorry—we don’t have any cake right now,”Isay coldly, even thoughImade a big carrot cake this morning.ButIdon’t think this man deserves it after turning up his nose at my pie.

“Fuck it.”Heshrugs and rises from his chair.

“Er, that’s going to be 16.99,”Isay, tearing the check off my pad.