Page 20 of Kane

“I do not understand.” I look at him with wide eyes. “What is the problem?”

His gaze goes to my chest again, lingering. My mouth goes dry, and a shiver scurries from the objects of his stare down to the place between my thighs, where, suddenly, I am always tingling and warm, now.

“Nothin’.” He rips his gaze away. “Go put it on.”

I hold his eyes, until he turns away, passing his hand through his hair—the movement is frustrated, but I cannot fathom why.

He turns again, sees me. “Anjalee.” It is a bitten-out word. “Go.”

The vehemence in his voice shocks me into movement, and I find an empty changing room, put the bra on, replace my shirt, and meet him where he has waited.

A quick scan, and he nods. “Better. Let’s go.” He glances at me. “Tag?”

“Tag?” I repeat, confused.

“For the bra.”

“Oh.” I have the hanger in my hand, along with the tag torn from the garment, and I give them to him.

We head toward the exit, and I make for the doors.

“Anjalee?” His voice stops me, especially puzzled and irritated tone.

I stop, look him. “Yes?”

“Where you goin’?”

I gesture at the exit. “We have shopped. Now we are going, yes?”

He in turn gestures at the cashier lanes. “We gotta pay, babe.”

“Pay?”

He laughs. “Yeah. When you buy stuff, you gotta pay for it.”

“Oh, of course.” I join him at the register.

He hands the tags and shoe box to the cashier, an older Black woman with a beautiful burst of hair. “She’s wearing it all.”

The woman does not seem to care. “Mmmhmmm.” She just scans the tags and the shoe box. “Want the tags?”

“No.”

I hand her the purse, she scans it and returns it to me, and I remove the tag.

“Two-twenty sixty-three.” Another bored statement, barely bothering to look at us.

Another swipe of his card.

At the exit, he removes the saree and my shoes from the box, rolls them up together, and discards the box. Then, as we head for his motorcycle, he looks at me again—I’ve slid my sunglasses, purloined from the Monster, onto my face. With my new jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers, I feel like a different person. Not the fashionable young lady Pappa prefers me to be when we are out and about, nor am I a person I am comfortable being, alone, at home, in my silk pajamas or my lazy clothes, the leggings and blouses only Mamma and Pappa see me in.

No, I am now someone new.

“You look like a whole new woman, Anjalee.” His voice is soft.

I smile at him. “It is funny—I was just thinking about how I feel like a different person, wearing this clothing.” He swings on, and I climb on behind him, feeling more comfortable in the act, now. “So, now to where do we go?”

“Bank. Need cash.”