Page 101 of Bred
For the two weeks she's been living with me, I've tried to spend the majority of my time working in my onsite office instead of from home. The evenings are quiet at home while she's at work, Ted mentioned that she got a 'nice job' at a cafe while she apartment hunts. I barely skimmed his email because the less I know about her, the less I think about her, and I need all the help I can get in curbing that.
The nights are when it's the hardest to keep her out of my head and my dreams. I'll be in the den watching the latest true crime documentary when I hear her come in. Every night she tries to be quiet, but the mouth on that girl is loud and silent is not a mode she can activate.
I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts from the vixen that is my step-niece when I notice the time. It's already ten-fifteen and the latest she's come in is nine-thirty. What fucking cafe is open past eight pm?
Scenarios fly in and out of my head on what she could be doing or what may be happening to her. I swear if she comes in smelling like sex and cheap body spray and infects my home with that disgusting mixture, I’m taking her over my knee and spanking some sense into her.
I stew for another five minutes before my thoughts consume me and I know I shouldn’t be so worried about Zoey and what she does but it’s like that rational part of my brain has gone on hiatus and the devil whispering in my ear is telling me that Zoey Harrisismy business. Fuck it, this is my house and everything in it belongs to me. That’s the rationale I use for entering Zoey's room. I remind myself that this is the guest room and Zoey is a guest, so it’s perfectly acceptable for me to enter as I glance around the space she’s been occupying.
I take a deep breath as my eyes sweep from left to right, noticing all the little things that make up Zoey. It’s not a pigsty but looking around, you can tell this room is lived in. She has little bottles of presumably perfume and lotion placed on the end table and there are a few articles of clothes on the end of her bed. At least the bed is made, granted it does not look crisp, but I know I can be particular in how things are done in my own regards. The blame lies with Lana on that one and it’s never been a habit I’ve been able to break.
I grab one of the shirts and before I can help myself, I bring it up to my nose and inhale deeply. Zoey’s warm apple scent rushes through me and I realize what a mistake this was, but I can’t help but let the cotton linger close to my face. I’ve always loved the smell of apples and now I feel stuck between obsession and annoyance with the scent.
Slowly I bring the shirt down and when I do, I see a logo with the words Flesh & Fiddle across the left breast. What the hell is Flesh & Fiddle? I pull my phone out of my pocket and do a quick search, and what I find has me seething. An upscale burlesque inspired bar. What the hell is she thinking? A cute little cafe this is not. She’s out of her fucking mind if she thinks she can work here while living with me. What would her mother and Ted say if they found out? I won’t stand for it.
With that thought in mind, I leave her room and immediately head down the stairs to the garage. If I have to drag her out of there kicking and screaming, I will. I waste no time jumping into my black Audi R8, the first car I bought as a splurge purchase.
Approaching the gate for Hillcrest Hills, I see the red hair of Vernon and immediately my annoyance starts battling with my anger. Dealing with Vernon is like dealing with fruit flies. Persistent and annoying and just when you think you’ve managed to pull ahead, they pop up out of nowhere… again. I slowly pull up to the booth and the attendant should just open the gate and let me out, but considering who it is, I know it will not be that easy.
I’m proven right when he walks up to my car, and I take a deep breath before rolling down my window so I can calmly let Vernon know I’m in a hurry.
“Hey there Silas, how ya doing? Where’s that pretty young thing of yours at?” He asks me with a smirk on his face while exaggeratingly looking in my backseat to my front.
“Vernon, quit the bullshit. You know that Zoey is my brother's step-daughter and if you don’t quit eye-fucking her every time you see her, I’m going to pluck your eyes out with my cufflinks and hang them from your balls. Understood?” I forcefully cut my eyes to his face and watch as drops of sweat start beading on his temples. He’s trying hard to not show how my words have affected him, but his tells are all there. And he knows I mean every word I’ve just said.
I don’t even let him say anything in response before I bark out, “I don’t have time for your ‘never matured past high school and I’m stuck working the security booth bullshit’. Open the fucking gate and do your fucking job.”
For once, Vernon uses some common sense and decides to not reply or cause me any more grief and walks back to his little white and gray booth to activate the gate and when I drive past, I turn and eye him with a scowl and watch as his eyes drop in deference.
Entering the address for Flesh & Fiddle into my GPS shows it’ll be a twenty-minute drive, and that gives me too much time to think of all the things that can happen once I walk into the building. One side of me is intent on remaining calm and letting Zoey know she needs to come home and the other side… well the beast is beating against his cage ready to be let out. I feel the urge to cause chaos and destruction just brimming at the surface, ready to spill over the edge.
The warring feelings battle back and forth the entire ride until I am pulling into the packed parking lot. The thought of men and women ogling Zoey has my jaw tightening until there’s a bite of pain traveling through me. That is until I think about them touching her and I see red, and I get out of my car and storm inside the building without paying an ounce of attention to my surroundings.
As soon as I walk in and see the interior is a lavish black with gold accents everywhere, I stop to appreciate the architecture and design but my mouth opens on its own accord, “What idiot spent money and designed this place?”
“That would be me. The idiot, as you so eloquently said. I spent the money and designed this place. Miss Monica Sinclair, and you are?” An older redhead is staring at me with one eyebrow raised and proper decorum has me feeling chastised because I know I’ve offended this woman. My tone and verbiage indicated this place as garish when truly it is not. All the crisp lines and expensive decor alone can attest to that, but I’m so blinded about my niece, I mean step-niece working here that the usual filter I have is misfiring.
“You’ll have to excuse my poor form, Miss Sinclair. I’m Silas Barlow. I’ve been a bit under the weather lately and I’ve just found out that my brother’s step-daughter works here. Zoey Harris. If you are so inclined, would you be able to tell me where I could find her within your establishment?” I use my boardroom voice infusing all the professionalism I can into my tone to counteract the fact I called this woman an idiot just a few moments ago. It’s as if the last fifteen years in corporate America have disappeared and I’m behaving no better than Vernon.
“Hmm, Mr. Barlow, I do employyourZoey. But how do I know you come here with good intentions? What makes you different from any other man that acts in such a manner when it comes to a young woman? In good conscience, I’m afraid I will not be letting you in to see Miss Harris. You can call her and she can respond to her dear uncle as she sees fit.” And with that statement, Miss Monica Sinclair turns away from me and heads away from the front desk, and I am left speechless at the reprimand I’ve just been given.
I linger for a few minutes, debating on how to approach getting behind the rope when an opportunity presents itself when the hostess is helping a couple and the security guard at the rope abruptly leaves with the sounds of a scuffle occurring in the interior room. I stride with purpose past the rope and enter into the bar. They scattered intimate tables throughout the floor with small booths lining the outside. A long bar is to my right and all the lights are dimmed and there is a scent in the air I can’t quite place. To the left is a stage… where I assume both the flesh and the fiddle occur. I hate to admit it, but this place is somewhere I could see myself at, in any other circumstance.
I survey the room looking for Zoey and take two steps toward the scuffle that I see between a man and the bouncer and there are two women looking on. Neither of them are Zoey and one clearly works here because she’s wearing the same shirt that I found on the bed. I move toward the stage and I swear if she’s one of the girls on stage, I’m calling Mel and telling her just what her daughter got up to while she rides both my brother and the RV.
“Shit!” I hear behind me and whip around and there’s my girl. Fuck, I mean Zoey. Her hair is down in loose waves, and she’s got on one of those damn shirts with high-waisted shorts and suspenders. All black shoes on her feet and bright red lips complete the look. She looks like a knockout, and that only causes my blood to boil even further.
“Where have you been? It’s over an hour from when you usually get home and do you know the scenarios that played out in my head that I would then have to tell Mel and Ted about? Do you understand what kind of position you’ve put me in?”
She scoffs, but the widening of her eyes gives it away that no, she hadn’t considered what I just said.
“Look, I’m still a waitress. I just may have omitted a little bit about where, but I didn’t want them to worry. I typically only work during the day but three of the evening shift girls called out sick, so they offered me an evening spot. I could use the money.”
“Money. Money. Money. Again this wouldn’t even be an issue if you had properly handled your finances while in school. We’re leaving right now and you will not be back. You are no longer employed here.” I firmly let her know before noticing the eyes of at least two men trailing up and down her backside, and I lose it. I don’t even give her time to respond before I grab her left wrist and pull her toward me, and she drops the empty tray she held in her right hand. I waste no time bending down slightly and throwing her over my shoulder and storming back toward the rope and archway leading back out to the waiting area.
She’s kicking and pounding on my back, and I see security approaching, rightfully so before she waves them off, “He’s family. It’s fine, he just has anger issues because his dick hasn’t worked since he started using steroids in ‘82.”
This lying little brat! I wasn’t even born in fucking 1982, let alone have I ever used steroids, and my fucking cock works just fine. I slam my hand against her ass hard enough to have her squeal in surprise before shutting the fuck up and I finish striding past everyone, looking at the spectacle that she’s caused.
