His hand closed on her arm, the big thick fingers pinching her muscle, making her squirm.
“Stand still,” he said. With his free hand he began exploring her body. Letting his hand run over her, like some farmer poking and examining a plump bird. Then he let her go, and sat back with a grunt. “You’re growing up,” he said.
Myra stepped back, a little flush of anger on her face. “You keep your paws off me,” she said.
Butch pulled at the coarse hairs growing out of his ears. “Siddown,” he said, “I’m goin’ to talk to you.”
“Supper ain’t ready,” she said; “I ain’t got time to listen to you.”
He left his chair with incredible speed, and before she could dart away from him he struck her shoulder with the flat of his hand. He was aiming at her head, but he misjudged. She went over on hands and knees and stayed there, dazed. He knelt down beside her. “You’re getting big ideas, ain’t you?” he snarled at her. “You think I can’t hold you, but I can. Do you get that? Maybe I’ve lost my peepers, but that ain’t goin’ to mean a thing to you. So get wise to yourself, will you?”
She sat up slowly, nervously feeling her shoulder. A smack from Butch meant something.
“I gotta hunch you’re goin’ to take after your Ma. I’ve had my eye on you for some time. I hear what’s been said. You’re after the punks already. Like your Ma. That dirty little whore had the ants okay. You’re showing yourself off, an’ you’re working up a hot spot for yourself. Well, I’m watchin’ you, see? I’m goin’ to crack down on you, once I catch you at it. You leave punks alone, and make ’em leave you alone.”
She said uneasily, “You’re nuts! I don’t go around with fellas.”
Butch sneered. “I’m tellin’ you before you start. You’re ripe. You’re ready to go ahead. Well, start somethin’ an’ see what you get.”