Page 138 of Kane

He’s a shrimp, she’s…

Fuck.

An Amazonian goddess, just an Irish-looking one.

He’s maybe five-six, at best, and a buck-twenty soaking wet. Greasy, lank, dirty blond hair, too long and too thin to look good long. Stringy, and not just dirty blond, but actuallydirty. He’s also fucking hideous. Twisted features marred by the sores and scars of a meth addict. Jesus. What a fucking mess this dude is. White wife-beater tank top, saggy jeans, chain wallet, oversized skater shoes. Big fucking attitude—you can see it, feel it, it radiates off him like a noxious green cloud.

Her?

I can’t fucking breathe. Stuck stone-still, frozen. Never seen a woman like her. Never taken one look at a woman and just…knew.

She’s mine.

Six-three, easily. Pure red hair in a wild explosion of curls, set loose and bouncing around her shoulders. Despite her height, she’s no bean pole. Mama’s gotcurves. I mean, fuck, that ass is a big round juicy peach—firm, taut, and ripe. A nice tuck-in to her waist, and miles and miles of long, sleek leg. She’s facing away from me, turned to the shrimp, who’s got his back to the wall, and he’s going off, ranting, stabbing a finger at her. I can just about hear him shouting from ten feet away, over the music.

Her shoulders are hunched, head dropped. Body posture tight, communicating anger, humiliation. She’s leaning on a cane—a length of helix-twisted, hand-carved, highly polished wood, with a sharp hook at the top as a hand rest. Her left knee is scarred, hellishly so. She obviously favors that leg, weight on her right.

The shrimp gestures again, at her, at the nearest bar. She nods, head dropped, and moves away from the bar with a pronounced limp. Clearly, with the crowd, it’s hard going for her, weaving through people, taking elbows and being knocked into—she fights through the crowd, giving elbows back, and viciously so. Once she’s at the bar and out of sight of her little master or whatever the fuck it is between them, she picks her head up, shakes it, squaring her shoulders. I watch her lean over the bar and place an order.

Two mixed drinks and a bottle of beer—she pays cash, tips well.

She hangs her cane on her forearm and limps through the crowd slowly, carrying the full plastic cups in one hand and the beer in the other, leaving no way for her to use her cane. The scrawny little fuck is lounging in the VIP section, arms slung wide along the bench back, feet kicked out, like he’s the master of all he surveys. While his girlfriend hobbles through the fucking crowd, getting spilled on, bumped into.

Fuck, I’m getting pissed.

As she comes back, I move through the crowd to get a better vantage, staying in the shadows where I can remain unseen.

Jesus, her body. Big, full tits, strong, athletic thighs. Her body screams athletic power, explosive energy, all wrapped up in a fine-as-fuck female package. Her eyes are bright fucking green—she’s not even looking at me and I’m hypnotized.

I wouldn’t have to crouch to kiss her, I’d be able to put my arm around her shoulders as we walk, hold her hand.

Guy my size, that’s hard to find.

Fuck, why am I thinking that?

She’s cowed. By the scrawny, meth-addict little fuck.

As she approaches him, her head goes down, her shoulders hunch. The bright, vibrant life in her eyes dies, visibly, as she nears him. He takes the beer and the mixer, slugs the mixer in one long chug, then sips the beer. She stands nearby, holding the other mixer—not drinking it.

It’s for him.

She’s his fucking servant.

Fuck no.

I watch.

He snaps, literally snaps to get her attention. Points at a girl in the crowd, crooks his finger; the meaning is clear—fetch, bitch.

She fetches. Dunno what she says, but the indicated girl—a nice-looking girl, a little bottom-heavy and not exactly beautiful but not bad either—sways over. Sits. Leans in. Giggles. Nods. Lets his hands roam, probe, slide under her skirt. The goddess watches, face curled in undisguised disgust.

Not wishing it was her, not by any stretch.

Another few minutes of giggling and groping—a baggie exchanges hands, him to her. She pockets it. Then bends over and blows him.

The goddess turns her face away, visibly nauseated.

Finished, the girl is dismissed. Another snap. He wants his next drink.