My Neighbor's A What? (Book 3 of "Forbidden Secrets")

By Alana Church

The new neighbors have a secret. Five gorgeous women have moved in next door. When Clark Fowler takes a summer job as a handyman, he never expected to find out that the sexy cougar who owns the house is running it as a bordello. As he gets to learn his new neighbors better, it promises to be one incredible summer!

~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~

I’m not going to do it.

In his bedroom, late the next night, Clark eyed his laptop as if it were a poisonous snake.

Could it be true? Could the gorgeous woman next door really have been (hell, still was, if she was telling him the truth) one of the most sought-after escorts in America?

It would be easy to find out. He looked out his window. A few lights glowed on the first floor, where Heidi’s room was, but the upper story was dark. Which was both a relief and frustrating as hell. He could imagine Josephine, her body a naked silhouette, watching him from across the way.

He had crossed paths with Consuela earlier in the day, while working on a balky entertainment center for Jo. The large, flat-screen television, stereo receiver, and DVD player had laughed at their best efforts, and they had both been reduced to muttered threats and curses until they finally figured out the right combination of cords, cable, and remote controls. The Latina woman had watched them for a while, an amused smile on her lips, and after a casual remark or two about Americans who had more money than her entire village, had asked Clark to help her hang some pictures when he was done. Any hopes of a mid-afternoon siesta had been dashed when Jo had tagged along, commenting admiringly on the way Consuela had decorated the limited living space.

Oh, to hell with it. He knew himself well enough. If he didn’t look up Josephine now, he’d do it sometime between now and when the sun burned out. The temptation, once thought of, was all but impossible to ignore.

He powered on his laptop and opened a browser window. After thinking for a moment, he typed in ‘Josephine Devereaux escort Chicago,’ and hit the enter button.

Holy crap.

Any lingering doubts he might have had were removed in moments. The third result that popped up came with a thumbnail picture. When he clicked on it, the truth was undeniable. Oh, sure. It was obvious the picture had been taken a few years ago. The silver that accentuated the midnight mass of Josephine’s hair had not yet put in an appearance, but it was still the same smiling mouth, the same exquisitely carved body, the same upright, regal bearing.

It was her.

He followed a link to her webpage, and gazed at it the way a starving man would look at a five-course meal. She had an entire page devoted to her pictures, and he clicked through them, one by one. She appeared in every possible combination of clothing and lingerie. Sometimes gowned like a queen, sometimes in nothing more than wisps of satin and lace. Never fully nude. Oh, no. He knew, instinctively, that doing so would destroy the reputation for class and style she had carefully cultivated over the years.

His heart in his throat, he clicked over to the ‘touring and appointments’ button, and sighed. Apparently Josephine didn’t go out of town too often. The page informed him that she had no tours currently scheduled, but invited him to check back soon. And that the donations for all appointments were done based on where Josephine was hosting.

Just as well. He clicked back to the pictures. Can you imagine trying to set up an appointment with her? It’d probably tap you out for the rest of the summer. He snorted. Or maybe you can offer to work for her for free until school starts.

But when he finally fell into a fitful, uneasy sleep, it was Jo that he dreamed of.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boruma Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Apr 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463244630

Alana Church

Born and raised in Illinois, Alana attended the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, graduating with a degree in Education in 1994. She soon found out that the teaching life was not for her, and after a series of adventures has settled down in the Chicago suburbs, where she works for a telecommunications company.Alana lives alone, surrounded by books, pictures, a pile of story ideas, and a turtle named Pedro.

Book preview

My Neighbor’s A What?

By Alana Church

Artwork by Moira Nelligar

Copyright 2019 Alana Church

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~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~

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Clark! Get up!

Clark Fowler rolled over in his bed, tempted to pull the pillows over his head and muffle the sound of his mother’s frustrated voice. "I am up."

A snort sounded from above his bed, far too close for him to be comfortable. No. You’re not. I can see you.

He blinked blearily and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Mom! Get out of my bedroom!

Not until you get up. His mother set her fists firmly on her ample hips, eying him the way she would an uncooperative loan applicant. Come on, Clark, she wheedled. Are you going to sleep away your entire summer vacation? It’s a gorgeous morning. You should be up and at ’em.

For God’s sake, Mom. He levered himself into a sitting position. His bowed head rested on his hands as he stared between his feet at the floor. I was up until two. I have a life, you know. I was over at Dave’s. And it’s not even seven. Just because you and Dad have to be at work on time doesn’t mean that I want to be up at the crack of dawn.

Sheila looked disgusted. It’s June. The crack of dawn was two hours ago, child of my loins. You missed that by quite a bit.

Farmer’s daughter, he accused.

Guilty as charged. Her lips twitched. So are you going to sit there and mope? Or come down and eat breakfast like a civilized human being? She cocked her head at his sullen silence. Well?

I was hoping there might be a third option, he grumbled.

Smart ass. Five minutes.

Just to be contrary, he didn’t make an appearance in the kitchen for nearly ten minutes.

That’ll show her.

It was his own fault, he supposed. He should have chosen a different set of parents. But Sheila Fowler might as well have her picture in the dictionary next to overachiever. And his father wasn’t anyone’s idea of an idiot either, despite the fact that he didn’t have a college degree.

One parent the vice-president of West Des Moines Savings and Loan. The other the head of construction for Raccoon River Residential. No wonder you’d rather stay in bed.

His mother set a pitcher of juice on the table. Bagel? Or muffins? Or I can make you some eggs real quick before I leave for the office.

Mom. He hated the whining tone in his voice, but enough was enough. I’m eighteen. Not eight. I can make my own breakfast.

Fine. He jerked a hand up to catch a pack of cinnamon-raisin bagels, thrown with just a little more force than necessary. Are you going to sit around on your butt again all day?

Maybe. Despite his aggravation and his mother’s obvious irritation, his lips twitched. You know how it is, Mom. Being lazy isn’t something you get right on the first try. You have to work your way up to it.

Sheila nodded solemnly. Well, don’t try to do all of the nothing all at once. Pace yourself. Do some nothing for a while, but make sure you leave some nothing for later in the day. Otherwise, you might use it all up and have to do something this afternoon.

He shuddered dramatically. God, that’d be just awful. He changed the subject. Dad off to the construction site already?

His mother nodded as she spread butter over her muffin, the sun from the eastern windows catching auburn highlights in her rich brown hair. Yeah. You know how it is. As long as the good weather lasts, he’s going to be there from sunup to sundown, almost. She sighed. I wish he’d take the office job they keep offering him.

He shook his head and poured himself a glass of juice. Dad would go nuts in six months, doing that. You know how much he hates dealing with paperwork and all the other corporate stuff. Hell. He can barely stand to wear a tie. His stomach growled at him, and he pulled two bagels out of the pack, sliced them with a knife his mother passed to him, and put them in the toaster.

A loud, high-pitched beep from outside made his head jerk around. What the heck?

His mother grinned at him. Guess you wouldn’t have got much sleep after all, she said, peering out the window. Moving van next door.

Someone finally bought that eyesore?

Sheila lifted an eyebrow. The ‘sold’ sign has been up for two weeks, Clark. Didn’t you notice?

Didn’t care, he grumbled. I half thought Dad was going to buy it and renovate it in his spare time.

He wanted to. His jaw dropped as his mother went on. But I put my foot down. He could probably have flipped it for a lot of cash once he was done fixing it up, but I don’t want another mortgage payment, and we don’t need the money. I don’t see your father enough during the summer as it is. I didn’t want him to spend nights and weekends over there making that place habitable.

It’s not that bad, he protested.

To be honest, though, the place next door couldn’t hold a candle to the house his father had lovingly restored over the past dozen years. Both buildings were around the same age, sprawling two-story structures built by craftsmen, around the turn of the last century, back at a time when being a craftsman actually meant something.

But one house had been cared for, and another had not. Over the last ten years, Clark had watched people move in and out as if the place had come equipped with a revolving door. The owners, whoever they were, had divided the house into small two and three-room apartments, letting it out to a succession of families with small, squalling children who left after six months or a year. His father had muttered himself into a dark fury, more than once, as the paint on the outside peeled, the porch sagged, and the wooden shutters that framed the many windows hung crookedly on rusty, decaying hinges.

Well, whoever bought it, I hope they take care of it. That place makes the rest of the neighborhood look bad. I don’t care if it’s apartments or not. I’m just tired of having it drive the property values down for the rest of us.

The toaster dinged and his bagels popped up. He grinned at his mother as he rummaged in the pantry for honey and peanut butter to spread on his breakfast. Sounding pretty fierce, Mom.

Sheila sighed. Yeah. Maybe. It just reminds me of the home place, back in Magnolia. Your grandfather worked himself into an early grave, keeping the farm afloat. And as soon as your uncle Matt took over, he stopped taking care of it. I can’t hardly bear to look at it any more. The house and barns are practically falling apart. And it’s not because he’s broke, either. Pride might be a sin, but I think negligence and laziness is even worse.

Well, I’m sure Dad can recommend some people to help fix the place up, if he’s asked.

Or you could put what he taught you to good use. I bet there’s all sorts of small things you could do to help put that place in order. And put some money in your pocket.

He groaned. Growing up, he had often served as a go-fer and a second pair of hands as his father painstakingly restored the house. Never content to simply give orders, Steve Fowler had taught his son as they fixed faulty wiring, laid tile, painted walls and ceilings, and repaired leaky faucets and balky shower-heads. He had hinted, more than once, that if Clark didn’t find college to his liking, he could help get him a good union job as a roofer, electrician, or plumber.

"Better than sitting behind a desk all day and playing with other people’s money," he had said with a grin at the dining room table, while his mother laughed.

"I mean it, Clark. You leave for school in ten weeks. Your dad and I aren’t going to try to ruin your last summer vacation.