Only Me: A Surprisingly Safe Book

by Ayers, Brandy

  Clark’s eyes widen in shock but then his lips curve up in a slow smile. I try not to notice how thick they are or how much I want to bite them. “Nice to meet you, Casey. I’m Zeke Fairwater. Murray’s nephew and apparently now part owner of this club.”

  Behind me, Zsa Zsa whistles and all the girls start tittering together at the poker table.

  Hell.

  Gossip spreads in this place faster than the dancers’ thighs when they see a fat wad of cash.

  I’ve been on edge ever since hearing the details of the will. Just waiting for the famous nephew I’d heard so much about growing up to pop in and take over the club. I don’t care how hot this guy is, there is no way I’m letting him take everything I love in this world away from me. I’ve lost too much already.

  “Maybe we should talk someplace a little more private.” I nod to Butch, letting him know it’s okay to let Clark… I mean Zeke past. “The office is back here.”

  I turn, leading him back a well-lit hallway to the large office Murray and Luther shared for twenty years. As I lead this stranger that claims to have a stake in my club, I can feel his eyes watching my ass, like those twin green eyes are burning a hole right through the thin fabric of my Lycra skirt to see the thong underneath.

  Blood rushes to my cheeks at both the dirty thoughts I can’t seem to control and the state of the office as I show him inside. There are papers strewn everywhere, my textbooks from business school, and wrappers from lunch earlier. Luther and Murray were always neat to a fault, but I’ve discovered over the past month that they weren’t actually organized. They just slipped bills and invoices in whatever drawer had room, with no actual filing system. I’ve been trying to change that, get everything squared away so I can make this place mine, make it go even further.

  But I’m not quite there yet. Right now, the place just looks like a pigsty with piles of paper everywhere.

  “Sorry about the mess, still trying to figure out what my system is going to be.” I clear a pile of liquor inventory logs from a chair and gesture for Zeke to take a seat.

  As he does, I swear I can hear the cheap fabric encasing his legs groan as his muscles stretch the seams to near capacity. A corresponding groan builds in my lungs as he comes eye level with my tits.

  “So, you’re Murray’s nephew. I must admit you’re nothing like I pictured.” Seriously, there is almost no family resemblance. Murray was a skinny guy with a completely bald head though they do share the height.

  “I know the feeling. I was expecting Casey Hughes to be a guy. Why are you dressed like that?” I’m not sure what to make of this Zeke guy. He seems nice enough, but his voice is also hard when he asks about my clothes.

  “One of the waitresses called in sick. I have to fill in for her. This is my uniform.” Not wanting to sit behind the mess, I simply lean back on the cluttered desk I’ve taken over as mine. The other desk is piled high with the merchandise we sell on our website.

  “I don’t think the owner of the club should be dressed like that.” Tension radiates from this stranger that is now my business partner. He seems angry, and I have no idea why.

  For my part, my temper is quickly rising. “Well, I’m not the only owner. I’ve also been an employee since I turned eighteen. So, this is nothing new to me.”

  Zeke’s eyes go wide and his nostrils flare. “You’ve worked out there… since eighteen? Your uncle allowed that?”

  I can see he has immediately jumped to the exact same false conclusion everyone else does when they hear I work here. He thinks I strip. I don’t. Not because I think there is anything wrong with it. There isn’t. Those women do hard work and get paid extraordinarily well for it. We are a respected establishment with none of the stereotypes like drugs or prostitution, so many other places fall into. Hell, the girls even get health insurance. No, I don’t dance because I have zero coordination or rhythm. I can barely even carry the tray of drinks around the floor without tripping over my own feet.

  But I’m not going to correct him. This guy can think whatever he wants. It makes no difference to me. Even as the thought runs through my head a part of me rejects it. I do care what he thinks. But I shouldn’t.

  “Yes, my uncle was fine with me working here. I’ve practically lived here since I moved in with Luther and Murray when I turned ten, and my mom said she couldn’t handle me anymore.” My eyes slide across the bright office. The white walls with pictures hanging all over them. The corner where I would sit on the sofa and do my homework after school. The same sofa where my uncles tried to give me the sex talk and then gave up and brought in one of the old dancers to talk to me about my period. “This place is my home.”

  Zeke doesn’t look happy about that. “I don’t like the idea of you growing up here, around the types of men that come here.”

  “Until eighteen, I was never here late enough for opening.” Why I’m explaining myself to this guy is beyond me. “Besides, it’s none of your business how I was raised. What do you plan to do with your half of the business?”

  That seems to stump him for a moment. He looks down at his hands, and my own eyes follow. Those big mitts of his are fisted tight in his lap until he stretches them out and flexes his fingers a few times as if to get the blood flowing again. “I don’t know.” The hardness has leached from his voice and replacing it is vulnerability I don’t expect from a man his size. It makes me want to wrap my arms around him and stroke his hair, his soft, shiny, hair. “I didn’t know about Murray or this place until this morning. I’ve been trying to remember him since getting the letter, and the best I can come up with are some fuzzy memories of being happy and safe. But from what I understand from the lawyer, we either both have to sell it or both have to keep it, right?”

  “Well, not exactly. I’ve been over this a lot with my lawyer, and we can’t make a decision without the consent of the other party. You can’t sell your half of the business unless I say it is okay. And vice versa. Same with the house.” I stand, needing to feel like I have some power in this situation. “I want to buy your half of the business. It was appraised for the will, and it is worth four million. I have the money Luther left me, it’s not quite two million after taxes, but I’d be willing to give it all to you for your half of the business. We could draw the paperwork up tomorrow, and by next week you could be out of here and back to where ever you came from.”

  I expect him to jump at the proposition. It’s obvious this guy has never stepped foot inside a strip club, he wouldn’t have the first clue what it takes to keep this place running. But he grits his teeth, the tendon at his lean jaw popping a few times. He looks pissed at my suggestion that he leave. The flash of vulnerability I saw just a moment ago is gone, and the hard asshole seems to be back. “Like I said, I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet. I’d like a little time to catch my breath and figure it all out.”

  “I suppose that’s fair.” I have no clue what else to say. It is hard to reconcile the sweet young boy Murray talked so often about with this big, burly, sexy man dwarfing the chair and room around him. Murray was a good man who obviously loved and missed his nephew. But he never went into the specifics of why they were no longer in touch. I try not to be hurt that Murray, a man that helped raise me, left half the business to essentially a stranger. But it’s hard. Now that his nephew is sitting right in front of me, I can’t deny there is something about this man that draws me in. I want to tell him things in this moment that I’ve not told a single person outside my uncle. Things about my family. About my history. About my loneliness, since the only two people I could call real family, left this world. But I stuff it all back down inside. “Have you seen the house yet?”

  “Just the pictures the lawyer had. It looks colorful.” Zeke finally cracks a real smile for the first time since walking into the Pony.

  The little laugh that pops out of my lips takes me by surprise, and I slap a hand over my mouth to contain the bubble of laughter.

  Zeke stands from his chair and tak
es the two steps to plant himself directly in front of me. Slowly, he reaches up and gently grasps my wrist, pulling it down from my face. “Don’t hide that sound. Your laugh is beautiful.”

  For a moment I think he’s going to say more, but he slides his gaze down to where his rough fingers are still holding my wrist. The size difference between us strikes me like a wrecking ball against a wall, against my walls. He’s tall and broad, his fingers long and thick with a light sprinkle of hair on them. If he wanted to, he could pin me down effortlessly. Hold me still and take whatever he wanted from me. I know this not because he’s exercising that strength over me now, but because of the way he’s holding himself back. The tension rolling off of him is like a third person in the room. But his hold on me is gentle. That dichotomy has more moisture rushing to soak my panties.

  Slowly, I return my gaze to his eyes, taking time to appreciate the scent of soap and mint and cotton that fills my senses. I pause to appreciate the throb of his pulse at his neck. Once I gather the courage to connect our gazes again, my knees nearly give out beneath me because there is a storm of lust swirling in his intense green eyes.

  Lust is something I’ve seen a lot of in the club. It’s practically the signature scent of the Pink Pony. But it’s never been directed at me. I’m a little too lumpy to be noticed next to the svelte dancers that twirl around the poles on stage. Which I am fine with. I don’t want the skeevy guys that come in here wearing thin pants and a lecherous smile to notice me. But Zeke’s obvious attraction is more than welcomed, which surprises and scares me.

  The intensity of the moment has me squirming, and the awkwardness I’ve dealt with my entire life suddenly bitch slaps me right out of my lust coma. “Are you staying to watch tonight?”

  I slam my eyes closed, so embarrassed that I asked this man if he wanted to watch the strip show. But also a completely irrational wave of jealousy crashes over me, making my chest literally ache. I don’t want him to see the girls naked and writhing on stage. Once he sees them with their huge tits, tiny waists, and long legs, he won’t be looking at me with anything but pity.

  “Not tonight. I think I’ll just go back to the house and get settled in.” Reluctantly, he releases my wrist.

  That damn wrecking ball swings back against my gut as his warmth leaves my skin. I want his hands back on me, but I’m too embarrassed to say a damn thing. Once he steps back his words finally penetrate my brain. “Wait, the house? As in my house?”

  “You mean our house. Murray left me half of it in the will.” Zeke takes another step back and shoves his hands down into his pants pockets. His eyes zoom around the room, but refuse to look at me again.

  “And you’re planning to stay there? Not at a hotel.”

  He pauses for a minute, eyes glued to the toes of his cheap loafers. “Yes. I plan to stay at the house.” He looks back up at me, the lust now shuttered so tight I wonder if it was there at all. “With you.”

  3

  Zeke

  I walk straight from the office where all I could see, hear, and smell is Casey, out of the club without looking at another person and march over to the motel. Thankfully, I hadn’t unpacked a single thing, so all I have to do is pick up my duffel bag and walk out the door again.

  Marshall Harbor isn’t exactly a thriving metropolis, but it’s still a damn sight more active than the sleepy town I come from in Amish country, Pennsylvania. The possibility of trying out Uber for the first time occurs to me, but undiluted lust is still pounding in my veins. I know I need to work off some of this excess energy or I’m going to barge back into that office and pin Casey to the wall while I savage her mouth.

  My cock is still hard as concrete and tucked behind the waistband of my suit pants. Hopefully, the walk across town will help with that not so little problem. I pull my phone out from my pocket and punch in the address for the house I now own half of. It’s only three miles away; I can absolutely walk that.

  Following the map directions, I start toward the place I will now be living−with Casey.

  Never in my life have I been affected by a woman like that. Before I even saw her sweet heart-shaped face with those sparkling brown eyes and curly red hair pulled up into a bun, just the sound of her voice had my body and soul at attention. Then she stepped into view wearing that too tight cocktail waitress uniform, and I thought I was going to come in my pants right on the spot.

  She doesn’t look like the rest of the women that sat around the table where they were playing poker. As I walk down the smooth sidewalks, I call to mind the way her wide hips swayed as she walked down the hall to the office, with a little bounce in her ass in the tight black skirt. Then, leaning against the desk in front of me, her slightly sloped belly and softly swelling breasts made my mouth water.

  Fuck.

  Picturing it all again is not helping the situation in my pants.

  She’s real. No fake tits. No fake tan. No fake hair. No make-up. Just natural beauty. Such a contrast to the table full of fake people I caught a quick glimpse of when I left. They all watched me with curiosity. But I didn’t give any of those women half a thought. All my brain was focused on Casey and making her mine.

  Mine.

  That one word makes my cock pulse and a bead of precum leak from the tip of my cock. This can’t be normal. My experience with women is non-existent, but there’s no way attraction is like this for everyone. If it were, men would be walking around with their cocks in their hands all day.

  Men like the ones that will be filling the Pink Pony in just a few hours. The thought stops me in my tracks, my duffel bag falling from my shoulder and landing on the sidewalk with a thud. Casey will be serving those men drinks. She’s been around those men for years, so I shouldn’t be as upset at just the idea of her walking around in that tight outfit and handing men glasses of liquor. But it does upset me, it downright pisses me off. With fists clenched at my sides, I turn to head back to the club, to make sure none of those men come near her.

  But when I almost trip over the bag, I remember my original intention to get settled into the house tonight. It’s six o’clock now. They said they open at eight. That’s plenty of time to get to the house, stow my stuff, clean up, and get back to the club in time to make sure Casey’s safe.

  Plan in place, I continue along the sidewalk. The neighborhood is nice, clean homes, trimmed lawns, neat flower beds. It’ll take some getting used to with all the neighbors right on top of each other. I spent the years since leaving my parent’s house living in a converted space above the garage of my boss. But even then, the house and garage had been separated by almost an acre of land. Here, the houses are barely separated by four feet of grass. The air is thick and hot, and I quickly sweat through the cheap fabric of my only suit.

  Finally, the house appears a few blocks in front of me. I freeze. The pictures could never have prepared me for seeing the house in person. It’s by far the biggest place on the street. An old Victorian that has been well maintained, but that isn’t the surprising part. No. The rainbow siding damn near blinds me. The two-story house has wood siding painted bright shades of good old ROY G BIV so that it sticks out against the otherwise sedate neighborhood. The wrap around porch is lined with flagpoles, each holding a different version of the gay pride flag. I had no idea there was such a range. Right next to the porch is a big U.S. flag. Hanging above the stairs is a sign reading, “All Are Safe Here.”

  For some reason heat rises behind my eyes, tears forming before I blink them back and take a deep breath. My steps slow until I stand before the very bottom stair, shocked at the appearance of the house.

  “Quite the eyesore isn’t it?” A voice the equivalent of dried clay calls from a neighboring house. My eyes adjust from the harsh assault of my uncle’s house to the bland beige ranch next door, where an old woman is sitting in a chair on her porch. “They painted it every summer for the past twelve years, ever since a boy was beaten to death by his daddy down the road. Came out of the closet. Ugly as s
hit if you ask me, but can’t complain because the boys that lived there were the best kind of people. Damn shame what happened to them.”

  The woman says everything in the same monotone level of annoyance, so it takes me a moment to figure out she’s talking kindly about Murray and Luther.

  “You the nephew? Ezekiel?”

  I nod, surprised she knows my name. “Just Zeke, ma’am.”

  “Your uncle has talked about you since he moved in. Said someday he’d get the courage to reach out and bring you down here. Said it every time he talked about you.” The woman sniffed, and I get the feeling this is the most emotion she’s ever shown. “That man always was an over-sharer. Glad you finally made it.”

  Looking back down at the book laying in her lap, the old woman effectively dismisses me.

  I glance back up at the sign. “All Are Safe Here.” I never felt safe as a child. Always tiptoed around my house, never stepped a foot out of line. Didn’t want to upset my stepfather. I never realized I held onto the fear of him appearing and dragging me back to that place until right this minute. But looking at the sign, I feel that lingering fear flow away.

  With my body still sweat soaked, but considerably more relaxed now, I climb the five steps to the porch, then take the key the lawyer had given me and fit it into the lock on the door. I’m not sure what I was expecting on the inside of such a blatantly flamboyant house, but it isn’t the tastefully appointed first floor I find.

  Neutral colored couches that look like you could take a great nap on them. A fireplace with painted white bricks. But the main feature of the entire first floor is the huge kitchen and table. No pretentious dining room. Instead, the bright white cabinets fill the back half of the space, and a long wooden table with benches and chairs tucked in around the perimeter.

  The walls are lined with photos. Some of just Luther and Murray, some other people their age, a lot with Casey starting around her preteens. A strange sense of longing infiltrates my chest as I watch her age through the photos. I can’t tell if that pang of having missed out on something is due to the looks of obvious adoration on our uncles’ faces or because I’ve missed out on so much of her life. It’s an irrational thought, she was a kid, but I have the strange sense I should have been here for her− with her. That it was me, she should be leaning on and only me.