Wanting Mr. Cane

ONE

KANDY

I remember the very first day I met Mr. Cane.

I was only nine years old, but I remember exactly what I saw and how I felt when I first laid eyes on him.

A shiny black car pulled into the driveway of our two-story home, parking only a few feet away from me. I was sitting on the tire swing in the big tree on the front lawn, wearing dingy-white chucks with rainbow laces, jean overalls, and knee-high pink socks. I was covered in grass stains after playing hide-and-seek with Frankie earlier that day.

I squinted my eyes and watched as the car door swung open and the sole of a shiny, black dress-shoe planted itself on the pavement. My eyes shifted over to the navy blue slacks he wore, then up to the white button-down shirt that was rolled at the sleeves, revealing strong, inked forearms. And then I found his face. He stood tall, shoulders broad, a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes. He rolled his neck, and I swear I could hear the crack of it from where I sat.

I don't think he saw me right away, but I saw him. He was too busy looking at the house, probably impressed by it. I really liked that house too.

The man shut the door behind him and when he took a step to the side, I noticed a tattoo on the curve of his neck. RISE. I could see the word from the short distance away, in bold script.

His jawline was sharp, the stubble scarce on his face. There was ink on his hands and all over his arms, some dark, some colorful. His brown hair was tapered on the sides and in the back, the lengthier part at the crown gelled back. If I were to guess, I would have assumed he was no older than thirty. Maybe 26 or 27?

He inhaled and then exhaled, taking off his sunglasses, and when he finally turned his head to the left, his eyes landed right on mine.

His face didn't change.
He almost seemed unbothered by my presence . . . or like he already knew who I was.

Too bad I didn't know him at all.

He walked toward the hood of his Jaguar, still eyeing me, head in a slight tilt, a small smile on the corners of his lips. Reaching into his back pocket, he pulled out a carton of cigarettes, plucked one out, and then stuck it between his lips. A lighter was in his other hand and he lit the cigarette in a flash, taking a hard pull from it.

I frowned at him. "You shouldn't smoke," I said, pushing back, lifting my feet, and easing into a light swing. "It's bad for you."

He continued puffing, sitting on the hood of his car. "You should mind your own business."

I stopped swinging, planting my feet on the ground. "Who are you?"

"A friend."

"You're not my friend. I don't know you," I challenged.

"Maybe I don't want to be your friend, and maybe I don't want to get to know you."

Okay. This guy was being a real jerk. I stood up, narrowing my eyes at him. "I'll tell my Dad. You're not even supposed to be in front of my house."

At that, he smirked and stood tall, looking at me beneath thick eyebrows. He waved his free hand at me. "Go on. Tell him."

My heart was pounding now. I'd never had an adult talk to me this way. I panicked, running for the house before he could do something crazy, like stop me, or trap me, kidnap me, or something. I didn't know who he was. For all I knew he could have been here to kill my entire family.

"Dad!" I screamed, bursting through the front door. The soles of my shoes pounded into the wooden floorboards as I ran down the hallway. "Dad!"

Dad popped his head around the corner of the kitchen, brows heavily stitched. "What, Kandy? What is it?" he asked, concern etching his face.