Only Me: A Surprisingly Safe Book

by Ayers, Brandy

  Shaking off the crazy thoughts, I make my way up the stairs to the second floor. There are five bedrooms on this floor. Four are made up like guest rooms, pretty, but not personalized in any way. The fifth is the master bedroom and looks as is if it hasn’t been touched since the day Murray and Luther died. The bed is unmade, a basket half full of laundry sits to one side. A glass of water rests on the nightstand. I stand in the doorway and breathe in the stale air. Sadness sweeps through me. I wish I had known my uncle. He seemed like a good man. I’ve tried not to be judgmental of people with different lifestyles as mine. I hope he never thought my parents would have convinced me to be like them, shouting damnation at anyone that stepped outside their narrow view of the world.

  Silently, I close the door once more and make my way to another staircase. On the third floor, I find what is obviously Casey’s room. It takes up the entire attic. There is gauzy fabric billowing from the rafters in a makeshift ceiling. Bookcases line the short walls where the sloped ceilings meet them. Books of every size and color fill the shelves. At one end of the giant room is a queen-sized bed under a large window. A small couch is tucked into one corner with a TV hanging on the opposite wall. At the other end of the room is a desk with a laptop and yet more books. A thick, lush rug covers the wood floors. Everything is done in shades of teal and purple. The room gives the impression of youth and innocence. I would think a teenager lived here, not a twenty-something woman that owned and worked at a strip club.

  The reminder of where Casey is right at this second snaps me out of my self-guided tour of her house. No, our house. Quickly, I cross to the closet and put my duffle bag inside. I’ll put my things away later− in her room. Because I have no intention of sleeping anywhere but in her bed tonight.

  * * *

  After changing into jeans and a T-shirt, I race back to the club my heart pounding in my chest and my stomach in a knot. But not from the almost three-mile run. No, I took longer than I wanted to check out the house, and now it’s almost eight thirty. Casey has been in that club, in that tiny outfit for thirty minutes already.

  How many men have ogled her? How many men am I going to have to kill? I try not to think about whether or not Casey ever graced that stage before I arrived. She said she’s worked at the club since she turned eighteen. Surely her uncle, my uncle, would never let her take her clothes off for strange men.

  Rage like I’ve never known boils in my gut at the thought. It doesn’t matter. Now that I’m in the picture, I’ll make sure she never steps foot on that stage again, unless it’s for a private show of one.

  I burst through the front door, Butch jumping in surprise at my abrupt entrance.

  “Hey, new boss. How’s it hanging?” The bouncer smirks as I rushed past without another look.

  At the end of the short hall, I pause to take a deep breath. I can’t fly off the handle and murder every man in the place. That would end with me in prison, and I won’t be able to protect my woman behind bars. Sufficiently calmed, I step into the club. It takes no time at all to find her.

  Pressed up against some sleazeball at the bar.

  So much for calm.

  4

  Casey

  “I totally forgot the pharmaceutical convention was in town this week.” I shove the slip with the latest drink order across the bar to our mixologist, Rose. Not bartender. Mixologist. Call her anything else, and the old battle ax would give you a two-hour lecture on the difference between someone that pours drinks and someone that creates magic in a glass.

  Rose rolls her eyes at the list of run of the mill drinks. None of these guys were interested in her concoctions. They want whiskey or beer. Oh, and tits. Lots of tits. “Wasn’t it on the convention calendar?”

  “Yeah, I missed it though because Luther marked it as pill poppers con. I thought it was a Narcotics Anonymous convention or something. No way that crowd would have filled the place within ten minutes of unlocking the doors.”

  As she fills up the tray, Rose glances around the room. “These assholes are the worst. I’ll take the old men in sweatpants any day to the dickheads that think they can pay their way into our pants. I don't give a shit if half the women in this joint are taking off their clothes, show a little respect.”

  I nod. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. Won’t be the last either.

  On stage, Divine wraps up her set with a flourish to the end of Britney’s Toxic. As the veteran dancer quickly scoops up her tips from the floor, Zsa Zsa attempts to wow the men in the crowd with her off-color humor. But a bunch of Patrick Bateman look-a-likes aren’t the right crowd for a drag queen's antics. The regulars love Zsa Zsa. The outsiders sometimes have trouble understanding why a drag queen is even in a strip club.

  “Dang, boys. There are some mighty fine poles in the house tonight. And I’m not talking about the ones on stage.” Zsa Zsa leans over the edge of the stage and waggles her eyebrows at the lap of one of the men in the front row.

  The target of Zsa Zsa’s little joke clenches his jaw and looks away.

  “Get the real tits on stage, freak.”

  I can’t see which of these greased back assholes yelled out that comment, but I glance at Butch’s second in command, Roger, and give him the universal look for get ready to kick ass.

  “Oh, honey bear, if you’re here for some real tits you came to the wrong place darling.” That joke does get Zsa Zsa some chuckles.

  Someone brushes against my back, but before I can move out of the way, I find myself pulled back onto a stranger’s lap. “Now, I much prefer the junk in the trunk you are sporting to all these skinny bitches on stage. What do you say you give me a private show in the back?”

  I try to turn and wedge my arm between Handsy McGrabberson and myself. I’ve barely moved an inch when I’m ripped from the guy’s lap and shoved behind a wall of heaving grey cotton.

  “Get your hands off what doesn’t belong to you.” The words are ground out from deep in the belly of Zeke, who I’m not shocked to see fills out a pair of jeans very nicely.

  “I’m pretty sure everything in this place is up for grabs, for a price, asshole.” Handsy doesn’t know when to back down.

  “Wrong. You were welcome to watch the show on the stage, but now even that isn’t up for grabs to you.” Zeke clutches the guy by the back of his polo shirt and straight up drags him to the door.

  “Get your hands off of me!”

  Zeke doesn't listen to the blubbering idiot, instead, he tosses him into the hall. “Butch, toss this guy on his ass and make sure he knows he’s not allowed back here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Seriously? Sir? Zeke’s been the owner for all of ten minutes, and he’s getting called sir? Butch still calls me kiddo most of the time.

  “Hey, cow shit for brains, I could have handled that.” I plant my fists on my hips and stand firm. When Zeke turns and levels me with the most intense, pissed off eyes, my knees don't go weak at all. Not even a little. Nope.

  When he stalks toward me with obvious lust in his eyes, I definitely don’t hold my breath and hope he literally sweeps me off my feet to kiss me. Uh huh. Not me.

  “We need to talk.” He doesn’t let me answer. Caveman Ken takes my hand in a firm but gentle hold and drags me back toward the office.

  “I’ve got customers to serve,” I yell as I try to rip away from his hold.

  “Take your time, lover boy, we got it out here,” Rose calls after us just as the music starts up again.

  I shoot a what the fuck look over to Zsa Zsa, but she winks, laughs, and starts playing Like A Virgin. Bitch.

  Just as I’m afraid I’ll fall flat on my face trying to keep up with Zeke in these insane heels, he swings me into the office, slams and locks the door, and crowds me against the wall.

  “No more waitressing.” His minty breath washes over me, and it is such a relief from the whiskey-soaked dude just pawing me that I momentarily don’t register his words.

  But then they penetrate. And d
amn they piss me off. “Excuse me! This is my business.” I stab my finger out toward the main floor but manage to reel in the desire to stomp my foot. Petulant toddler isn’t the management style I’m going for. “I will do what needs to be done to make sure it continues to run smoothly. If that means I need to serve assholes in suits drinks, hell, if it means I need to get up on that stage and take my clothes off, I will.” Through my little tirade, I inched closer and closer to Zeke, but he doesn’t move back. Instead, we’re standing practically pressed together, both breathing like bulls waiting to be released and stomp on some cowboys.

  “First, it is our club. I own half.”

  I roll my eyes because that’s a technicality and I’ll get him to sell his half of the business to me.

  “Second…” Zeke surges forward, pressing my back against the wall again and wedging one big, beefy leg between my thighs. “You will not serve anyone but me. You will not take off your clothes for anyone but me. You need something. I will do it. I will provide it.” His chest puffs out like he takes pride in the thought of being the one to take care of me.

  I refuse to admit that the same thought sends a thrill of excitement through me. I loved my uncles; they were good men who took care of me when I needed it most. But their love never felt like this. Like they had to do it to fulfill their purpose in life. And that is the exact vibe I’m getting from Zeke. A man I met, what, five hours ago?

  Pride and deep seeded stubbornness won’t allow me to tell him any of that though. “Who do you think you are, caveman? I don’t know how they do it in the land of the Amish, but around here women are not put on this earth to serve men. And I am not some housewife wannabe looking to be taken care of. The women out on that floor trust me, they rely on me for money in their pockets and food on their tables. And to keep them safe. You don’t have the slightest clue what it takes to run this place. You should just sell to me, go back to cow country and find yourself a nice docile wife.”

  Even as the words fall from my mouth, I want to take them back. The image of Zeke with some sweet young thing tucked under his big, strong arms burns in my brain turning my stomach sour. For a second, I have no clue what this new feeling is, but then it dawns on me that it’s jealousy. I have no right to be jealous of some hypothetical future wife of the near-stranger standing in front of me, but there it is. I’m jealous.

  “I don’t want docile. I want fiery. I want stubborn. I want you, my Spitfire.” Zeke leans in, and I hold my breath. He runs his nose up along my neck, sending a shiver down my spine and a heavy weight settling deep in my pelvis. “I want you. And I think you want me too.”

  One of his hands disappears from where it was propped against the wall and with it, he yanks my tight pencil skirt up to my hips. An outraged screech fills the room as I reach down to tug it back into place. But I’m also rubbing my thighs together looking for any way to relieve the ache forming between them.

  Before I can so much as grip the hem of the skirt, Zeke sweeps both my wrists into his hands and pins them to the wall, quickly transferring them both into one wide palm. “Now I’ve not had much experience with women.” His free hand glides down between my breasts, down my belly, over the cinched-up fabric hugging my hips and waist. “But I’ve heard enough talk around the construction sites I worked on. Heard about how girls react when they see a man they like the look of, how their eyes dilate. How they subconsciously push their chest out. How you can smell the arousal rippling off them. How they get wet between the legs. I want to see if that’s all true. Because you, my Spitfire, are displaying every single one of those signs.”

  My breaths get shorter until I’m practically panting with the need for him to touch me there. Dammit, I’m supposed to be convincing this guy to sell me his half of the club and leave. Not praying his hands will go just a little bit further south. “I’m shocked you have no experience with women, given the charm you’re displaying at the moment.” I try to hide my obvious arousal behind the snarky comment, but he must see through it because he only smiles.

  But then he pauses. Just as his fingers graze the very top of my panties, he stops all progress south. “I want to find out if you’re wet between those thighs I couldn’t stop thinking about all afternoon. But I don’t like thinking I could be scaring you right now. Or that you don’t want this. So maybe I should just ask. Are you wet for me? Can I feel it?”

  Now it’s my turn to freeze because I don’t want him to stop. Maybe it’s a game we’re playing. Maybe I’ll regret this in five minutes. I don’t know. But this is the most alive my body has ever felt, and I don’t want to lose it. I want him to keep going− to go further. “Find out for yourself,” I whisper.

  A glint of surprise sparks in his eyes just before he does as I ask and delves his thick, long fingers into my cotton panties and slides them along my pussy lips.

  With a thunk, his forehead hits the wall by my ear. As if what he’s found at the very core of me has taken his ability to stand on his own and needs the wall to prop him up.

  “Good lord you’re soaked. Drenched.” He swirls a finger around my opening where a fresh wave of arousal meets his curious touch. “All this for me, Spitfire?”

  “Yes.” I drop the attitude. He knows the truth now anyway.

  Zeke presses his hips forward, so I feel the thick length of him press into my stomach. “This is all for you. I’ve been like this since the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

  Taking me by surprise once again, Zeke falls to his knees before me, hooking one of my legs over his shoulder and just stares at my aching pussy. I should be embarrassed by how wet I am. But I’m not, I can’t be with the absolute adoration evident on his face.

  He growls one word, “Mine.” Before swiping his stiff tongue up my slit, separating the lips puffy with arousal. He only gives my clit a glancing pass, but it’s enough to make my hips jerk forward. “You like that. I’ve never done this. I’m going to have to learn as I go.” He looks up at me, and his face is so serious, so determined, it causes me to melt a little more.

  “No one’s ever done it to me, so we’ll learn together.”

  Damn, the wide smile he gives me shatters all the indignation I’d been holding onto since he dragged me back here like a caveman hopped up on steroids.

  Quickly following the demise of my indignation is the demise of every thought in my brain as Zeke spreads me open with his fingers.

  5

  Zeke

  More. Mine.

  They’re the only words running through my head as I suck that sensitive little button at the top of Casey’s slit into my mouth. Her hips fly forward, almost bucking me off her, but I hold my ground. And I do it again. She moans, and her fingers weave into my hair, pulling my face closer.

  When guys on the work site would talk about how wet they got their women while they fucked them, I always just nodded and smirked along with them, because I had no idea what they were talking about. I was homeschooled by my mom and some of the other women in our compound, so there wasn’t exactly a whole lot in the way of sex education.

  But I’m smart and a quick study, so I plan to make up for my lack of knowledge right fucking now. “Casey.”

  She moans a little more as I whisper her name against her sensitive flesh.

  “What’s this called?” I flick my tongue over the gently throbbing little nub, and her legs begin to shake. No, quiver.

  “What?” She looks down at me, lust and confusion crowding her eyes.

  I back away a little, push up my glasses and return my finger to circling that spot that produces the most amazing sounds from my Spitfire. “This. What do you call it?”

  “My clit?”

  I look back at it. Clit. Just that short little word makes my dick jump in my pants. “I know this is your pussy.” I let my fingers drift down, pushing my middle one into her tight hole. “This is where I’ll plant my babies.” My other hand comes to her soft belly, pushing her shirt out of the way. “You’ll look so beautiful
round with them.”

  Sticky cum wells up to the tip of my dick, making a mess inside my pants.

  “Oh god, Zeke, you can’t talk like that. We just met. I’m guessing based off the fact you don’t know what a clit is, you’re a virgin. So am I. Babies are far down the road.” Her fingers are still in my hair, but instead of gripping the strands, she’s now stroking it back, soothing me.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing with any of this. I press my forehead against her belly, not able to look at her as I confess all the ways I’m lacking. But even as the mood shifts to something more emotional and less animalistic, I still toy with her clit and pussy. Exploring and seeing what makes her gasp and what makes her moan, refusing to take my fingers away.

  She pulls on my hair, forcing me to tip my face back and lock gazes with her once again. “Hey, I don’t know what I’m doing either. We’ll figure it out together.” Casey’s soft hand strokes down my face, her thumb gliding across my bottom lip. “Do you want to stop?”

  I practically growl at just the suggestion. Something about this girl trips a switch in my brain. Never in my life have I acted the way I did tonight. I’ve always been soft-spoken. Kept to myself as much as possible. Growing up it was best to fade into the background rather than incur the wrath of my stepfather. But just seeing Casey made an unknown part of me come to the front. I threatened a man. Threw her over my shoulder and dragged her off against her will. Crowded her against a wall. I never knew that part of me existed. But Casey brings out the primitive man in me. “Do you want me to stop?”