Page 18 of Kane

“Here? Now?”

“Yeah, darlin’. Here and now. Be right back.” A pause. “Shirt size?”

I tell him.

“Got it. Put the jeans on.” A T-shirt flops over top of the door a moment later. “That too.”

I change into the jeans—they are stiff, scratchy, and uncomfortable. I do not like them. The shirt fits perhaps too well. I feel…not naked, but…not me. Or perhaps, a different me, an unfamiliar and new version of me.

I step out.

His eyes rake over me. “Fit okay?”

I tug at leg of the jeans—they are tight as well, a little stretchy, and I feel like my bottom is being paraded around for everyone to see, even though it is covered. “I do not like this.”

“Sorry, babe, ain’t got the time to take you to fuckin’ Rodeo Drive. Nor do I got that kinda money, if I’m bein’ honest. Point here is for you to looknotlike you.”

“Oh.” I sigh. “I suppose that makes sense. Do you…” I look at him. “Do you think we are in danger?”

He snorts. “Babe,youtellme. I don’t know who you’re runnin’ from or why, but those boys weren’t carryin’ those Berettas for shits and giggles.” He gestures at the ceiling. “I just know if you’re determined to stay away, and your pops is abillionaire? A fuckin’ department store ain’t a smart place to hang around. Easy as fuck to find us here.”

I frown at him. “You curse too much.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I do. Ain’t changin’, either.” He gestures at the changing room. “Grab your shit, let’s go. You still need shoes.”

I fold my saree and carry it after him as he hustles to the shoe department.

He looks down at my feet. “Shit, woman, your feet are fuckin’ tiny.”

I lift my nose. “They are not so small as all that.”

He just snorts. “You need cross-trainers. Come on.” He goes to the athletic shoes, points. “Pick a pair, pick a size.”

I scan, understanding he is in a hurry. I feel panic. “I do not wear shoes like this. I do not know.”

“You don’t wear sneakers?” Again, disbelieving.

“No. I have a stylist,” I inform him. “She brings me outfits. Shoes, tops, skirts, slacks, purses, everything.”

He stares at me. “So, you don’t even shop on your own? Someone just brings you shit?”

“Most of the time, yes. Sometimes Pappa will take me to Paris or New York, but I do not go to the stores. They send people with clothes to me, and I pick.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

He grabs a sample black Nike. “Size?” When I tell him, he finds the correct pair. “Come on. Socks.”

He grabs a set of two from a rack, a blue pair and a purple pair of no-show socks. He points at the nearby bench. “Put ‘em on.”

I do as I’m told, and he keeps the other pair and the packaging, putting my saree and shoes in the shoe box.

“Good.” He eyes me—jeans, black sneakers, and a black T-shirt with a large, strange pair of lips and a sticking-out tongue. I do not know what it is, but it strikes me as humorous. “Shit, you need a purse. Every girl needs a purse.”

“This I can choose on my own.”

He snorts. “Bet you can.”

I pick one, a nice black leather backpack style cinch sack—it’s not a Birkin, but this is a department store, after all, and I will be on a motorcycle. “This will do.”