Say You're Mine: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Southport Love Stories Book 4)

by Sarah J. Brooks

  Say You’re Mine

  Sarah J. Brooks

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  Copyright © 2021 by Sarah J. Brooks

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Special Invitation

  Hey Sweetie,

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright and Disclaimer

  Special Invitation

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Preview: “Say You’ll Stay”

  More books by Sarah

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Robert

  Eight years ago

  I was in a rush. I was always in a rush. I lived my life scrambling from one thing to the next. I was in my second year of college at one of the best undergraduate programs in the country and I was top of my class. I was pre-law and planned to go to law school when I graduated in two years. I was nineteen years old and knew exactly what I wanted to do with my life. I had it all mapped out.

  I was smart. I was capable. I had a bright future ahead of me.

  And I was going to drown if I wasn’t careful.

  I checked the time. I was already running late. That wouldn’t do. Robert Jenkins didn’t do “late.” I grabbed my duffle bag with my work ‘uniform’ and tried to find my keys somewhere in the mess that I called a dorm. I had been lucky to secure campus accommodation, otherwise, I’d never been able to afford to live in Philadelphia.

  I was also lucky that I had been able to get enough financial aid to cover my costs. Sure, I’d have a mountain of loans to pay off once I graduated but I’d have to worry about that later.

  My phone rang and I thought about not answering it. If I were more than ten minutes late my boss Darla would give my shift to someone else. And I couldn’t afford that. But I also knew it could be my mom. I didn’t want her to worry if she couldn't get hold of me.

  “Hello?”

  “Rob, you’re home!” It was my mom and she sounded relieved to hear my voice. My guts twisted into uncomfortable knots of concern. I braced myself for whatever storm approached.

  “Hey, Ma. I was just heading off to work,” I told her, making it clear I couldn’t talk long. It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to my mother. I loved her. More than anything. She had always been my loudest cheerleader. She couldn’t be prouder of her eldest son graduating top of his class from high school and going pre-law at one of the best colleges in the country. She bragged to everyone about her genius kid. She had spent the last five years caring for my dad as he slowly wasted away from bowel cancer. When he died last year I hated how relieved I had been. Mostly that he was no longer in pain, but also so that my mother could have some semblance of her life back.

  “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to make sure you’re still able to visit Sam on Saturday. He’s very excited to see you.”

  My guts twisted tighter. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. I’ll take the bus to the house and we can head over together.”

  “I’m going to make him some of his favorite peanut butter bars. He so loves them.” I could hear the guilt in her voice. I could feel it like a physical thing. My mom had made the painful decision to put my younger brother, Sam, in residential care six months ago. It was a great facility and he was getting the absolute best care. The truth was my mother couldn’t care for Sam on her own. My brother, older by eighteen months, was born with Downs Syndrome. He had never been able to attend a regular school setting, requiring my mother to homeschool him to the best of her ability. Sam was also born with congenital heart disease that required frequent medical attention. Between my father’s cancer and my brother’s increasing demands, my mother was ill-equipped to handle the pressure. My brother’s social worker suggested residential care, which my mother was adamantly against at first. She wouldn’t have it. Her son belonged at home with her. She’d figure it out. But as my brother grew bigger and his fits became increasingly more violent, his needs increased to the point where she had to admit it was more than she could deal with. But there was the problem of cost. She wouldn’t ever allow Sam to live in a less than the amazing center. But my family wasn’t wealthy. My dad and brother’s continuous healthcare costs had eaten up what little money they had.

  So that’s where I stepped in. Riding to the rescue like I always did.

  My grandmother used to joke that I had been born wearing a superhero cape. From an early age, I took the role of a familial hero seriously. Whether it was sticking up for my brother against the neighborhood bullies or doing the laundry so my mom could get a few hours of sleep while my dad was resting and my brother was watching Aladdin, his favorite movie, for the thousandth time.

  It was a hard role to have, but it was one I embraced wholeheartedly. I had no other choice but to be the guy they all counted on. It was ingrained in my DNA.

  “I hope you can save some for me. I’ll fight Sam for them, if I have to,” I teased, finally finding my keys beneath a pile of clothes. I was a total slob and my tiny space was littered with so much debris it made walking to the door difficult. The dorms were shit. I was one of the lucky ones not to be saddled with a random roommate. I had secured a single room, but it was still awful especially with the thumping base from my neighbor’s techno music at all hours of the night; I freaking hated it. I fantasized about the day I could have a nice, big house with walls that weren’t paper-thin. I had grown up with barely enough and I longed for the days I didn’t have to worry about money all the time. Which is why I was working my ass off to be something better. Something more.

  “I’m making lemon bars for you, don’t worry,” Mom laughed and my chest tightened. She may not have much, but she gave her kids everything she had. My mother was the best person I had ever known and I wanted nothing more than to make her faith in me justified.

  “You’re the best, Ma.” I closed the door behind me and headed down the stairs, saying hello to a few people I passed on the way.

  “I just want you and Sam to always know I love you. He knows that, doesn’t he? I don’t want Sam to think I’ve abandoned him. Do you think he thinks that?” I could hear Mom’s voice wobble and I knew she was close to tears. Being separated from Sam was hard for her. Harder now Dad was gone and I lived thirty minutes away. But I knew Sam was in the best place he could be
and lately my phone calls with Mom had been a lot of reassurances about it.

  “Lakewood House is one of the best facilities in the country. Sam’s getting top-notch care. He’s happy. Don’t you remember how excited he was about the picture he made in art class?” What I was saying was true. I had never seen my brother as happy as he had been since moving to Lakewood House. The staff was well-trained and compassionate. There were tons of activities and classes for Sam to take. He was learning a modicum of independence and he was making friends. In truth, he was getting more out of life now that he was living away from my mother than he would ever have if he stayed home. But of course, I’d never say that. I would never do anything to make my mother feel worse. It was better to hide and lie than tell her all the truth.

  I heard Mom’s heavy sigh. “You’re right. He’s happy. I need to remember that.” She sniffed a little but she hadn’t devolved into tears, which I considered a victory. Growing up, my mother was the strongest woman I had ever known. I could remember the times she cried on one hand. Since Dad had died and Sam had gone to live at Lakewood House she was still strong, but she was also more prone to sobbing and emotional outbursts. She had lost so much; she was entitled to her tears. But it still broke my heart and made me feel helpless.

  That’s why she would never, ever know what it took to keep Sam in his fancy residential home and her mortgage paid. She couldn’t know. It would kill off the last of her.

  “I can’t believe what this job of yours is paying you. All that money to do a little filing? And it’s not interfering with your school work, right? Because I could figure out how to pay for everything. I’m sure there’s some financial aid—”

  “I’ve got it covered, Ma, don’t worry. I’d tell you if it was too much,” I reassured her, once again lying through my teeth. I checked the time. Shit. I was officially late. “But I really have to go. I’ll see you this weekend.”

  “Ok, my sweet. I love you.” Words that twisted like a knife.

  “I love you too,” I replied, hanging up the phone.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder and ran out the door, hoping I could make it in time to keep my shift.

  **

  The Landing Strip was busy even though it was a Wednesday night. But it was half off cocktails before ten, so it usually brought a lot of people through the door. The music was loud and the air was thick with the smell of sweat and aftershave. Strobe lights flashed and the smoke machine was going while my buddy, Franklin—otherwise known as Officer Spank—was gyrating his hips in his tiny G-string, wearing a British-style police cap on his head. I could see from my spot at the back of the stage that he had overdone it with the baby oil. He was going to fall on his ass if he wasn’t careful.

  “You’re late, Rob,” Darla Tiedwich snapped once she caught sight of me in the dressing room.

  “Sorry. Won’t happen again.” I didn’t bother to give her excuses, she wouldn’t care. Instead, I dug out my costume, a tight-fitting suit that I could easily rip off when the time was right. Once Darla had found out I was in school to become a lawyer she had dubbed me “Billy the Sexy Barrister” as my stage name. The ladies—and some of the men—definitely seemed to like it. I made money hand over fist. Recently Darla had started putting me on for the shower shows. There were three showers installed in the back of the club, encased in clear glass, where people could pay me 300 bucks to watch me take a shower. It sounded crazy but women went nuts for it. It was funny what a little soap and water could do to turn people on.

  “I’ve given your shower spot to Jeremy,” she informed me and my stomach dropped. The showers were where I made most of my money. I could do up to twelve showers in a shift, which was a good chunk of change even after the club took its cut.

  “Darla, please. I need that money tonight—” I started to say but she held up her hand, cutting me off.

  “Someone’s hired you for a private dance. Paid a g for the privilege,” she said, practically licking her lips. Private dances had to be requested and were reserved for certain high-paying clients. I had never been requested before. My stomach flipped over. It was common knowledge that the private dances usually involved...other things. There were no cameras or bouncers in the secluded rooms and the usual rules of “no touching” weren’t adhered to.

  Was I expected to have sex with this person?

  I couldn’t do that.

  Stripping was one thing. I actually enjoyed that part. It was sexy and hot and made me feel alive. I had always been a dweeb in high school. Growing up, I was the runt, not hitting a growth spurt until I turned sixteen. I didn’t go on a date until I was seventeen and about to graduate. I was the shy, smart kid who kept to himself. Not much changed when I went off to college either. It was hard for me to break out of my shell and meet people. I didn’t do parties or bar crawls because I wasn’t a drinker—never had a head for the stuff. I was definitely an outlier when it came to the whole college experience. I was awkward and small talk didn’t come naturally to me. I was the guy either friend-zoned or overlooked completely.

  Not much changed for me in college. Not at first anyway. I was still the quiet, smart guy. Sure I got the attention of women—I knew I was good-looking in my way—but once my natural awkwardness took over, they typically lost any interest. Looks only get you so far.

  I didn’t know what made me go to the open call for exotic dancers at The Landing Strip. The online ad promised it had the potential to make you lots of money. Mom and I were looking into residential facilities for Sam and the decent ones were way more than my mother could afford. Insurance would only cover so much, so the cash drew me in. The unexpected buzz of being on stage, transforming into someone completely different, was what kept me there.

  Darla had seen something in me. She said I had a nice face but it was my “aura” that made her hire me. I hadn’t known what she meant, but apparently, I had a sexy, mysterious thing about me that you couldn’t teach. She told me to start working on my body. She had another stripper named Mike to share with me his high-intensity workout meant to bulk me up. “Women don’t want scrawny. We want to see your muscles,” Darla stated in her usual gruff way.

  I started working out five times a week. I lifted weights and started running. Over time I developed a nice set of abs. I would never have a body builder’s physique—I wasn’t made that way—but I was toned and hard. The first night on stage was both the worst and best experience of my life. I had moved like there was a steel rod shoved up my ass, but the women loved me. They shoved so many bills down my tiny G-string that it looked ridiculous. I made three hundred and fifty dollars that night. I started putting half of my nightly tips aside to pay for my brother and mother’s care. And once I had been dancing long enough, I even developed a bit of a following. Despite this, I had never been requested for a private dance.

  Until now.

  “Okay,” I said, my voice a little high pitched.

  Darla raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on my very obvious nerves. She expected us to do our job and not bitch about it. “She’s waiting in the 70’s room.” She shooed me and I quickly made my way to the narrow hallway at the back of the club. There were three rooms, doors all closed. Each had a “theme,” if you could call it that. The 70’s room was complete with shag carpet and tacky wallpaper. It looked like the set of a bad porno. Which, I guess was the point.

  I braced myself before opening the door.

  I could do this. It’s a thousand dollars! That was a lot of money. It was for one hour of my time. That was it.

  I’d worry about the shame later.

  I opened the door.

  “Hi there,” I said, affecting a sultry tone. I slipped into my role seamlessly. I was a sex god. I was the alpha hero of their smutty fantasies.

  The woman was sitting casually in a two-person velvet-lined chair sipping dark liquor from a highball glass, her long legs crossed. “Hi,” she greeted, her voice smokey and deep.

  She was older, but she wo
re her age well. If I was a betting man, I’d say she was at least forty. And she was hot, with a body that was curvy but toned. She wore tight-fitting jeans and a low-cut blouse. Her boobs were massive and practically spilled out of her shirt. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head. She wore quite a bit of makeup, but it looked good on her.

  I walked further into the room, unsure of how this was supposed to go. Was I meant to start dancing right away? Talk to her first? It would have been nice if Darla would have given me some pointers.

  The woman watched me, her eyes sizing me up. She had paid well for my time so she clearly wasn’t going to hide her interest. She licked her lips. “You’re prettier up close,” she rasped, giving me a steamy smile.

  “Thanks,” I said lamely. What do you say to something like that?

  The woman crooked her finger, beckoning me closer. “Come here.”

  Shit. Okay.

  I strolled over, trying to act unaffected, even though I had started sweating like a pig. I stopped in front of her. She tilted her head back and took me in. “You’re positively yummy.”

  I licked my lips and gave her a slow, seductive smile. “Would you like to eat me?” Ugh. I felt so cheesy saying it but figured I had a part to play, might as well go all out.

  The woman cocked her head and then after a beat started laughing. I blinked, unsure what to do. Was she laughing at me? When she was finally able to get herself under control she patted the cushion beside her. “You’re nervous. That’s cute. Sit down. Talk to me a little bit.”

  “Don’t you want me to dance for you?” I asked, confused.

  She smiled, the expression was full of promise. “Eventually. But not yet. I’m a firm believer in delaying gratification. It makes things so much more...tantalizing.”

  Alright then.

  I sat down beside her. The chair, while deep and wide, still had me pressed up against her. I towered over her. I wasn’t a big guy but she was a small woman. I liked that about her. And she smelled good. Like honeysuckle. From my position, I could see straight down her shirt and she had one fine set of tits.