Page 5 of Only Me
3
Zeke
Iwalk 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 shit 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.
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.
