Page 112 of Kane
There’s a loud burst of laughter—Chance’s voice is loudest, then Myka’s, but I also hear Lash and Rev. The brothers, far as I know, never got issued a sense of humor, since I’ve never seen Saxon, Solomon, or Silas ever so much as crack a grin, much less laugh out loud.
She tenses. “Kane, I…”
“Relax, babe. They’re cool. Just be yourself.”
“Who else should I be?”
I laugh, pull her into my arms, huffing a laugh into her hair. “I just mean don’t try to impress anyone. Don’t worry about trying to be…I dunno. Anything that you’re not. Just be comfortable in who you are. I love you, they’ll love you.”
She inhales shakily through her nose. Nods.
I lead her the rest of the way down the hall and halt where the hall opens into the common room. Kitchen to the left, TV room to the right. Two long cafeteria-style tables with built-in benches bisect the room, separating the kitchen from the open area, and then on the right side of the room a massive U-shaped black leather sectional faces a projector screen, with a tall glass-front cabinet next to it, containing a DVD player, the latest version X-Box and PlayStation, a couple shelves of games for both, the head unit for the surround sound, and a cable box. A large glass coffee table sits in the opening of the sectional, littered with plates, beer cans, rocks glasses with the melted dregs of ice and booze, and an ashtray with the roaches of Lash’s hand-rolled cigarettes.
The gang’s all here, crowded into the kitchen.
Chance is at the eight-burner range, browning ground turkey—six feet eight and weighing well over three hundred pounds of rock-solid muscle with only a minimal layer of padding, Chance is a giant. He’s half-Mexican, half-Hawaiian, with shoulder-length black hair bound in a low pony, and if he’s not on duty up top in the club, he never wears anything but baggy basketball shorts that hang low on his hips and swish around his shins. He’s also covered in traditional Polynesian tribal tattoos, from his throat down over his massive shoulders, across his chest, and full sleeves on both arms. No douchey fake tribal bullshit, his tats are legit, done in the ancient style.
Sax, Sol, and Silas are, as always, removed from the group but present, sitting together at the one table, where the rest of the gang is together at the other. Saxon and Solomon could be twins, but are actually on either end of Silas—Solomon is the oldest, then Silas, then Saxon. Sol and Sax are blond, their hair buzzed to the skin on the sides and just long enough on top to be swept to one side; Silas’s hair is cut the same, but his is more copper than blond. They share a body type—tall, lean, and ripped. Not as jacked as Rev, nor as bulky as me, they’re in the middle somewhere. And they’re all fuckin’ pretty boys—as a straight dude, I can say without reservation that those three brothers are the prettiest men I’ve ever seen, just in the face. Just over six feet tall, each of them, and supremely fit. And despite being pretty boys, they’re scary motherfuckers. They don’t share, at all, ever, so I’m not sure where they came from, what their skill set is, I just know I know killers when I see them, and those three men are stone-cold, hard-ass killers. They’re loyal to the Arrows, though, and damn good at their jobs, they’re just not…friendly. They keep to themselves, and they rarely speak, even to each other. They lift, they eat, they work. That’s it.
Rev, Myka, and Lash are together at the other table. Rev is six-six, of unknown ethnic origin, with brown skin and a tight, short, wide black mohawk with shaved sides and a stubbly beard. He’s a brawny son of a bitch, with almost as much muscle as me but with seriously low body fat. He’s the definition of a hardened badass alpha male, a cage fighter, a Marine Recon like Chance—he and Chance are brothers in every way but blood relation, having taken each other’s backs as homeless kids and then being in a gang together andthenjoining the Marines and fighting downrange together. Fact is, they’re honestly probably closer even than actual brothers would be, in the way you can only be with a man you’ve killed and bled with, on top of sharing life as orphans and street kids.
Lash is an enigma. No one knows the first thing about him, except he didn’t grow up on this side of either ocean and English isn’t his first language, and probably not even his second or third. He’s shorter than the rest of us, maybe five-ten or even five-nine, but what he lacks in height he makes up for in breadth of chest and shoulder. His skin is darker brown than Rev’s, almost the same shade as Anjalee, and his hair is the same thick, shiny black as hers as well. His is just as long, too, bound back low on the nape of his neck and hanging down to his shoulder blades. He has a long beard, trimmed to a neat, sharp point at his breastbone, with outlandish mustaches that curl and swoop up around his cheekbones. He always manages to include some bright color in addition to the standard Sin security uniform of black BDU trousers and black T-shirt, usually a sash of a solid bright color—red, yellow, green, blue, orange, purple, vibrant and shocking—tied around his waist in place of a belt with the ends hanging down one leg to his knee. He’s loud, charming, chatty, given to flowery language. He could charm the panties off a nun, or talk a fish into buying water, but all that hides a darkness, the same cold hard killer lurking beneath the exotic flair exterior.
Myka is Rev’s woman. Tall, maybe an inch or two shorter than Anj’s five-nine, with honey-blond hair and blue eyes. She’s stunning, truly, with generous curves and the sweetest disposition. She reminds me of Della-Marie, physically. Like, the spitting image, if maybe a bit taller and a bit curvier. Where Myka is sweet and soft and kind, Della was wild and crazy, a spitfire. But it was the physical resemblance that drove me away—she just looked too much like the woman I lost…the woman I killed.
Myka notices us first. She’s mid-bite, a forkful of shredded chicken and broccoli halfway to her mouth. She sees me, sees Anjalee beside me, hand squeezing mine for dear life, almost hiding behind me, her nose against my bicep. Rev is head down to his food, fork held like a shovel, scarfing his food down like only a soldier can. Myka elbows him, and he lifts his head, looks at her, then follows her gaze to Anjalee and me.
“What up, ya’ll,” I say, grinning, and then pull Anj in front of me, hands on her shoulders. “This is Anjalee Sharma. She’s gonna be with us.”
Saxon, snorts. “Inez is gonna fuckin’lovethis.”
“Shut it, Sax,” I snap. “It’ll be fine.” I wrap an arm around Anjalee. “Anj, honey. This is everyone.” I point to people as I name them. “Myka Donovan, she’s with Rev, who’s the big brown badass next to her. I know he’s scary-looking, but he’s cool. That’s Chance at the stove, there, the big-ass motherfucker—don’t let his size scare you, deep down, he’s a teddy bear. That’s Lash with the fancy beard and mustache, be careful around him or he’ll charm your pants right off.”
Lash laughs. “Guilty as charged, I fear,” he says, managing a sweeping bow while sitting.
Anjalee giggles at that.
“Over there is the antisocial club at the other table. They’re brothers, as you might have assumed. Closest to us is Saxon with the scar on his temple. Next to him is Silas, and then Solomon on the end. Don’t worry about trying to be friends with them—I don’t think they even like each other,” I say with a laugh, making a joke out of the truth.
Silas flips me double middle fingers as he leaves his seat. “Nice to meet you, Anjalee. Ignore him. We won’t bite.”
Saxon smirks, rising to his feet next. “Speak for yourself, bro. I bite.”
Sol gets to his feet last. He says nothing, just flips her a two-finger salute and swaggers off.
Myka hits her feet and comes over to us, taking Anjalee’s hands. “Ohmygosh, you’re so pretty!” She pulls Anjalee away from me, tucking in beside her as she leads my girl away and into the kitchen. “I can’t even tell you how excited I am to have another woman here! This place is seriously testosterone central.”
Anjalee looks back at me, as if for help. I just shrug and grin. “You are very beautiful as well. It is my pleasure to meet you, Myka.”
“Your accent is so cool. Is that offensive to say? So. How’d you meet Kane?”
Anjalee hesitates, and I move into the kitchen taking a seat beside Lash, across from Rev. “It is no offense to me. I ran away from my wedding, and Kane found me.”
Myka halts, blinking at her. “You ran away from your own wedding?”
Anjalee shrugs shyly. “It was not a marriage I agreed to. In my culture, arranged marriage is very common, but I just could not marry that man. So, I had no choice but to run away. Fortunately for me, I was rescued by Kane. It has been a very educational experience, I must say.”
“He rescued you? From the man you were supposed to marry?”