Hiys guys! We have Brien Michaels visiting today with his new release Anyone But You, we have a great excerpt and a fantastic $10 Riptide GC giveaway so check out the post and enter the giveaway! ❤️ ~Pixie~

Anyone But You

Brien Michaels

Murder is one hell of a drag.

Jack Kieza has a problem. He’s deeply attracted to men, but his homophobic family has left him too afraid to act on it. With his thirtieth birthday around the corner, his curiosity gets the best of him, and he finds himself at a gay club. After spending a fiery night with drag queen Sheila Saltue, everything changes. Especially when he discovers her alter ego: his boss, Ryan Swift.

Ryan knew he should’ve said no the second Jack approached him. Now he can’t stop himself from texting Jack every chance he gets. But Jack won’t let him take the wig off during sex, and being Sheila off-stage is wearing thin.

The more time they spend together, the more intense their feelings get, but Jack isn’t ready to date a man yet. When drag queens start turning up murdered, it forces Jack to reexamine his feelings, because what if Ryan is next? While Jack wants their burgeoning relationship to work, it would mean having to admit who he is to the world. And that’s an idea as frightening as death.

Reader discretion advised. This title contains the following sensitive themes: Dubious Consent. Emotional Abuse. Explicit Violence. Heavy Kink, Queer-phobic language, Mentions of suicidal thoughts

Excerpt!

Thinking with your dick was never a good idea. Jack had learned that back in high school, but he’d stopped using his upstairs brain to think as soon as Sheila shimmied on stage, sequins glimmering in the club’s overhead lights. The drag queen’s set had started with a slow, sultry song that’d gotten Jack’s pulse racing, and now, she was doing acrobatics on a pole one of the bouncers had wheeled out for her. Fuck, he needed to get laid.

And he hoped Sheila would help him with that. She jumped off the pole and landed in a split, grinding against the ground to the beat of one of Britney Spears’s early hits. Jack swallowed. He couldn’t tear his gaze away from the queen. Her face was mostly makeup, that was clear, and she was still one of the most beautiful people he’d ever seen. There was something familiar about her, as well, though. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but he felt like he’d seen her before. The horndog in him wanted to get closer. Wanted to know more. Wanted to know if she’d do a split like that on his cock.

He took a few steps forward, pulled some ones from his back pocket. Everyone else had thrown their bills on the stage, but he wanted her to know that these were from him. He sidled up to the edge and shook the dollars to signal her. She looked down, faltered for half a second. He wouldn’t have even noticed if he hadn’t been watching so intently. A heartbeat later, she was back on routine. She sank to her knees and crawled to him, eyes practically screaming Fuck me! as she lip-synched.

Her face was nearly in his crotch before she straightened up and gestured for him to stick the money in her cleavage. He did as instructed. Their eyes met and he licked his lips. He wanted to follow her to her dressing room, bend her over the vanity, and not stop until she saw stars. But that would be creepy. He couldn’t go back there, uninvited. Maybe if he had a chance to talk after the show, he could charm her and she’d invite him. Yeah. That’s what he’d do.

She winked and climbed to her feet, giving her ass a little shake before strutting off to the other side of the stage.

He needed a drink. A cold shower. Anything to take his mind off her. He couldn’t tear himself away, though. He stayed rooted to that spot until she took her final bow.

“My name is Sheila Saltue,” she said in a false, chipper voice, “and I’m here every weekend. Thank you all for coming!” She busied herself collecting the rest of the dollar bills as the club’s own music blared through the speakers and the crowd surrounding the stage started to disperse.

Jack looked around. While Sheila had been on, a red glow had filled the club, adding to the allure of her performance, but now it was just a room again. Dance floor right behind him with couples here and there, grinding against one another to whatever song was playing. The bar was on the other end of the floor, crowded with people getting their liquid courage for the night. The bartender was flustered already. Jack scanned the balcony above them. A few people leaned against the railing, but everyone was absorbed in their own conversations. Which meant that no one was paying attention to him.

This was his chance. Jack approached the stage, throat suddenly dry. His dick strained against the fabric of his boxers, and he’d go insane if he didn’t find some relief soon. If he couldn’t hit it off with Sheila, he’d beat off in the bathroom and then head home.

She looked up at him, and there it was again, that flash that something wasn’t right, but as soon as it had appeared it was gone. So fast he wondered if he’d imagined it.

“Hello,” he said, a little more hoarsely than he liked, so he cleared his throat and tried again.

Sheila smiled, a thousand-watt gleam that made her even more gorgeous. “Hey, handsome.”

Jack dared to take a step closer so they wouldn’t have to shout to hear each other over the music. “I’m Jack,” he said, holding out his hand, which she took in a surprisingly strong grip. “I really enjoyed your show.”

Her smile became a grin. “I could tell. You almost put my eye out with that thing.” She gestured at his crotch, and it took everything in him not to cover it. He shouldn’t have worn the sweats. “I’m Sheila. It’s nice to meet you.”

They stood in silence for a full five seconds before Sheila nodded and went back to collecting her pay. Jack racked his brains for something, anything to say, but he couldn’t think straight. His brain wasn’t working at all, but he couldn’t let her leave without trying.

He took a seat on the edge of the stage, still trying to figure out his next move. This was so stupid! What had he been thinking?

That you wanted to fuck a man before you’re thirty, and since you’re too much of a chickenshit to just do it, a drag queen is the safer bet. Since, you know, they at least look like women.

He hated the part of his brain that answered questions he hadn’t actually asked. But it wasn’t wrong. Not really.

“Well, I’ve gotta run, cutie, but I’ll see you around. Come check me out again.” She turned and headed for the steps.

“I was thinking about trying to get into doing drag,” he said, inventing wildly. “Could you maybe give me some pointers?”

She paused, spun around, and met his gaze again. “Have you now?”

No. He absolutely had not. “Yeah. But I don’t know how to do makeup or anything about wigs or dresses or stuff like that.”

She shot him a skeptical look. “You should maybe get a crash course in all that, first.”

“Yeah. I was hoping maybe you could help me.”

She appraised him for a moment. She didn’t seem to buy what he was selling but, right when he thought she was about to dismiss him, she jerked her head in the direction of a corner shrouded in shadows. “Follow me.”

His heart pounded as he tailed her down a hallway. Posters advertising different drag competitions lined the black walls. Red lights shined down on them from little circles in the ceiling. Jack couldn’t take his eyes off the queen, though; the way she filled out the skirt she wore, the glimmer of her top. Even her fucking pantyhose sparkled.

They turned a corner, and he could see a door set into the far wall. The closer they got, the harder his pulse beat. Maybe this was a mistake. Underneath all that foundation, Sheila was still a man. Jack had never been able to keep it up when he’d tried to fuck a man before, so why should this time be any different? They always got him hard in the beginning, and God, he always wanted to fuck them, but he’d get to “go” time, and everything would go to shit. Every time, without fail, he’d imagine his parents, or his fucking brother, or one of the other homophobic assholes in his family (Cal), and he’d go soft in an instant. What would they think of him if they knew what he was doing?

He wanted to turn and run before he embarrassed himself again, but sheer determination kept him following. He would try, because he couldn’t go his whole life refusing himself his desires. If it worked, it worked. If it didn’t, it didn’t.

They made it into the dressing room at last, and Sheila shut the door behind them. This was nothing like he’d imagined. He’d pictured a large, expansive space with a line of lit vanities and mannequin heads topped with wigs and rows and rows of dresses and heels. But this was almost exactly the opposite. It was hardly bigger than his bathroom at home. There was only one mirror perched atop a rickety-looking table and a large rolling rack to the right of it. On the tabletop were a few palettes of color, tubes of what Jack assumed were foundation, some brushes, and one foam head, but that was about as glamorous as it got.

The aroma of cinnamon hanging in the air struck him as odd. Not exactly a staple smell for the backroom of a club he would have thought. He’d imagined it would have been more musky. Jack looked around and saw a scent diffuser plugged into a socket right next to the makeup station.

Sheila leaned against the wall to Jack’s left, drumming her false nails against a nail file Jack hadn’t even seen her pick up. She studied him a moment, seemingly taking in every inch of his appearance. When their eyes met, she smiled again and tilted her head to the side. Jack found himself inspecting her wig. At least, it seemed like a wig. The blonde hair could have easily been coming out of her own scalp. He didn’t see a line or an imperfection anywhere.

“It’s called lace-front, honey,” Sheila said. “Designed specially to make it look like I grew this all on my own.”

Jack’s face flooded with heat. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stare.” God, could he be any more of a creep?

“It’s fine.” She pushed herself off the wall and strode over to the mirror, where she took a seat and regarded him again. “People have been watching me all my life. May as well give them something to look at, right?” Jack nodded. But he still felt like a boob. “So what’s your style?”

“My . . . my style?”

“Yeah. Which corner of drag calls to you the most? Are you one of the pageant girls? Comedy? Are you a dancer? A singer? Or are you interested in the scandalous underbelly?”

“I . . . um . . .”

After a moment, Sheila sighed. “Let’s cut the crap, what do you say?” Her voice had dropped an octave or so, and now it sounded familiar. He just couldn’t place where he’d heard it. “It’s obvious you don’t know enough about drag to care about doing it, so why are you really here?”

Jack bit his bottom lip. “Honestly?” He scratched the back of his head and sighed. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“So why didn’t you say that? You didn’t have to make up a story.”

Jack shrugged and leaned against the door. “I don’t know. I got nervous and it just came out.”

“I hope that doesn’t happen often,” Sheila said without missing a beat.

Jack blinked. “That sounded dirty.”

Sheila tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and turned to the mirror. “Maybe it was.” She wiped a smudge of lipstick from the side of her mouth. “Or maybe it wasn’t. That, my dear, is for you to decide.”

This was his chance. That had basically been an invitation, right? But Jack’s legs had turned to lead. He tried to take a step forward, but the only thing he managed to do was stand there and look like a dummy.

Sheila studied him through the mirror and shook her head. “You really are bad at this, aren’t you?” She turned back around, spread her legs far enough to run a finger up her inner thigh. “I assume this is what you wanted?”

Jack’s mouth went dry. He opened it, but couldn’t make a word come out, so closed it again. He simply nodded.

“That’s all you had to say, then,” Sheila said with a seductive glint in her eyes. “Get your sexy ass over here.”

Jack’s stomach knotted as he took one step forward. Then another. And another. When he was in arm’s reach, Sheila tugged him closer. She slid down his sweats and appraised his dick through his boxer-briefs.

“I’ve always admired a man who can pull off canary.” She sank to her knees and slid the underwear down, and thank God he was still hard. He usually would have lost it by now.

Her face faltered. He didn’t have the biggest cock in the world, only average by the American standard, but he hoped it wouldn’t stop her from going through with this.

She wrapped her hand around it, looked up at him, and smiled. “This should be fun.”

About Brien!

Brien Michaels was hatched shortly before the turn of the century. He grew up in the DMV area and has been creating characters for as long as he can remember, starting with an imaginary friend named Farquad Beaverhausen. Before turning his considerably wicked imagination to writing, he was an actor, aspiring film student, movie theater concessionist, and the first human to enter the seventy-second dimension. Though it is unclear whether he made it back or if Farquad’s evil twin, Brad, has taken control of his body. He’s currently on the run from the Secret Police, who want to bring him in for questioning regarding the whereabouts of erotica authors L.A. Witt and Lauren Gallagher. If you encounter him, please contact his publishers immediately, as he likely should be chained to a desk writing and not out walking children in nature.

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