Stripped Bare Read online

  Stripped Bare is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by Heidi McLaughlin

  Excerpt from Blow by Heidi McLaughlin copyright © 2016 by Heidi McLaughlin

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780425285268

  Cover design: Diane Luger

  Cover photograph: anetta/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Macey

  Chapter 2: Finn

  Chapter 3: Macey

  Chapter 4: Finn

  Chapter 5: Macey

  Chapter 6: Finn

  Chapter 7: Macey

  Chapter 8: Finn

  Chapter 9: Macey

  Chapter 10: Finn

  Chapter 11: Macey

  Chapter 12: Finn

  Chapter 13: Macey

  Chapter 14: Finn

  Chapter 15: Macey

  Chapter 16: Finn

  Chapter 17: Macey

  Chapter 18: Finn

  Chapter 19: Macey

  Chapter 20: Finn

  Chapter 21: Macey

  Chapter 22: Finn

  Chapter 23: Macey

  Chapter 24: Finn

  Chapter 25: Macey

  Chapter 26: Finn

  Epilogue: Macey

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Heidi McLaughlin

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Blow

  Chapter 1

  Macey

  The stench of deep fry emanates from my clothes. I hate the smell and I know the other girls can smell it, but I ignore the looks they’re giving me and hustle through the dressing room to my locker. The older women and the ones who have been stripping here longer always look down on the younger girls and the newbies. I’m somewhere in the middle. I stripped here when I was younger, during my first trimester with my daughter, and then again after she was born when I had my figure back. Actually, stripping helped me tone as a result of all the pole work that I had to do. I took some time off after that, but I always come back because the money is fast and somewhat decent. Each time I leave, though, I say that it’s for good and that was the last time and yet a few months later, I always find myself back again, knocking on Lew’s door and asking for my spot in the rotation back. Girls come and go around here, and in this business you can’t expect to make a lasting connection with anyone.

  I strip down and throw my dress, apron and nylons into my bag as quickly as possible before the stench of grease becomes any more noticeable. I change into a thong and bootie shorts, add tassels to my nipples and cover them with a bra before slipping a tank top over my head and stepping into an old pair of cowboy boots that I picked up at the secondhand store. I have an array of costumes meant to hit the mark on every fantasy a man can have. Cowboys, librarian, naughty schoolgirl…you name it I’m doing it. I need the money. More so now than ever. My kid is getting older and she’s seeing things she shouldn’t, like her grandmother being so drunk that she can’t get up to answer the door, or strange men in the house. She’s ten and shouldn’t have to babysit an adult. Nor should she have to live in the slums, but that’s on me.

  Seventeen and pregnant isn’t how I saw my life. I had had enough of living with barely any food, no new clothes and the strange looks, so I swore that I was getting out. I was smart, got good grades in high school, but none of that mattered once I found out I was knocked up and the baby daddy had already left town. I tried to tell his mother, but she took one look at me and shut the door. Back then I didn’t want money, but I do now. I’d take that money and run right across the tracks, under the bridge and through the fucking blueberry bushes if it meant my kid wasn’t going to be a victim of a drug deal gone wrong or end up with a drinking problem by the time she’s a teen.

  Morgan, though, she’s a good kid who loves to read and is a whiz at math. She’s all I have in this world and I’ll do anything I have to, to make sure she has food and clothes.

  So I strip at night and wait tables during the day. Depending on the day or night, one pays better than the other, but they’re jobs that I need. I have a goal. I want to move Morgan and me into a better neighborhood. One where kids want to play and not sell drugs. I want her to live in a place where she feels safe and doesn’t need to hide in the closet of our bedroom because my mother invited one of her friends over.

  My dreams for Morgan are unreachable, I know this, but I try every day to make them happen. I want such a different life for her that sometimes when I look out the window of the city bus I’m on and I see other kids her age walking along the street without a care in the world, I imagine her being one of those kids. If only…

  Waiting my turn, I go over my self-choreographed routine in my head. When I was little, I wanted to take dance lessons like all the other girls in my class, but I couldn’t, so I taught myself by watching music videos when my mom would actually remember to pay the cable bill. Even now, Morgan and I will go to the library so I can watch clips while she looks for books.

  As soon as one of the other girls comes off the stage, my music starts. “Back That Thing Up” by Justin Moore is how I start my night off. I want to be remembered so they’ll stay for the next set. Right now I’ll play the sweet little cowgirl before the sexy librarian blows your mind. This is my high-energy song and the one I love dancing to the most.

  Everything comes off except my panties, cowboy boots and tassels. The lady bits have to stay covered in Washington State and I’m fine with that. I know a lot of girls cross the state line to hit the clubs because you can get naked, but I don’t think I’m comfortable with that. Would the extra tips be nice? Yep, but my dignity is worth more than a hundred bucks. Besides, the diner I work at is close to the border and I’d rather keep my dirty customers on this side of the tracks.

  The stripper pole is a cesspool of germs. I hate it, but it’s a necessary evil. Over the years I’ve learned how to do pretty much everything on it. Hanging from the top by my ankles, pulling myself up just by my hands and spinning in every way possible. For the longest time I couldn’t figure out why guys like the pole so much until I dated one who commented on my flexibility. I believe it’s a guy’s mission to see how many different positions he can get your body into while he’s fucking you. It becomes more of a game to them than the actual deed.

  One of our handlers picks my clothes up off the stage while I scoop up the money that has been slammed down for me. Some stick it in my G-string while others set it on the stage. Those men are the creepy fuckers. They do it that way so you have to make eye contact with them. They want to see your eyes when you pick up the money they’re paying you to make them hard so they can jack off later in the bathroom because the five-dollar movie they can buy in the restroom isn’t enough.

  Backstage I slip a long white T-shirt over my head to keep myself covered. Some women like to let it all hang out. It’s a personal choice that we all have to make. I know I share my body with a room full of men, but sharing it with the men who work here isn’t something I want to do. Most of the male employees want to date us and a few of the dancers do, but not me. I want someone who doesn’t stare at my naked body all night and e
xpect me to act like I do onstage. That’s not who I am. I do this to support my daughter.

  When we’re not onstage, the dancers are expected to wait tables wearing our lingerie. The less we have covered up the better because it encourages interest in lap dances. I pay special attention to the guys that creeped me out earlier and try to work the other side of the room. The more they drink, the more dances they buy. The more dances, the more tips. The cycle is endless and you can bet your ass that the drinks are watered down. The owner milks these pervs for every cent they have, our drinks too, as we’re expected to drink with our customers.

  “Tips are shitty tonight,” I complain backstage to whoever will listen.

  “You should try another club.” The dancer’s name is Rumor. It’s not her real name, as we all go by something fake in this place. Here my name is Catalina. When I first started here, the owner thought I was Brazilian. I loved the compliment and have never forgotten it even though he was probably making that shit up. I don’t know if it was my light blue eyes and brunette hair or the fact that I have a natural set of C tits that made him drool. Either way, I lied about my age when I started and let him believe I had some Brazilian in me.

  “The only other club is at the border and I wouldn’t be able to get home each night.” Right now I can take a cab and it will cost me eight dollars. Going to the border of Idaho would cost me most of my night’s tips. It’s not worth it.

  “I’m heading to Vegas tomorrow,” Cora, another one of the girls, says.

  “Why Vegas?” I ask.

  “Because there you can make triple in one night what you make here in a week. The best times to go are spring break when those horny rich kids are looking for action or in May because most weddings take place in June so the bachelor parties are thriving at that time.”

  “And you just show up at a club and dance?” The thought of making triple in one night is more than appealing.

  “Yeah, most clubs don’t care. Fill out the paperwork and get onstage. They have waitresses and shit, so you literally take off your clothes, pick up your money and leave, or do another set. It’s full-frontal, though.”

  “Oh.” By instinct my arms try to cover my already covered boobs.

  “And I’ve worked with an escort service.”

  Both Rumor and I drop our mouths open. We’re not naive, we know sex sells, but I’ve never heard someone admit to being an escort.

  “Five thousand to fuck someone, yeah I’m doing it. Besides, the men are usually rich, lonely and horny and need some arm candy for an event. And if you treat them right, they’re usually begging for the hookup.”

  “I could never—”

  “You could if you needed the money that bad.” Cora walks over to me and hands me a card. “This is the service I use. A plane ticket is under a hundred and there are motels that you can rent dirt cheap. Some of the clubs even have rooms they rent out.”

  I take the card and look at the name. CLINE ESCORTS. On the back is a list of clubs to dance at.

  “Thanks.”

  “Look, I know you have a kid, but think about it. One week and you could easily make a grand a night. You’re a good dancer.”

  “Thanks,” I say again, turning back to my locker. I put the card away so I don’t lose it, although I don’t plan to go to Vegas. I can’t leave Morgan for that long.

  By closing, I’m dead tired. My legs hurt, my feet ache and my back is sore. The tips I made tonight, a little over a hundred and fifty dollars in ones, are wrapped in a rubber band and tucked under my bra. If I get jacked on the way home, they’ll take my bag and make me empty my pockets, but there’s not enough time, typically, for an entire strip down—or at least that’s what I’m counting on.

  As soon as I walk in the door, I can hear the television blaring and see my mom passed out cold with a couple of empty forties lying on the ground. I lock up, shut off the TV and leave her there. I don’t see the point in waking her. I unlock my bedroom door and find Morgan already fast asleep.

  “Mommy,” she groggily calls out to me.

  “I’m home.”

  “I didn’t eat dinner.”

  I close my eyes and scream inside my head. I left my mother money to make sure Morgan got something to eat.

  “Okay, sweetie. Get dressed.”

  She moves out of bed quickly while I call for a cab. Tonight’s tips will go on cab fare and an early morning breakfast at the local Denny’s. I’m a shoo-in for mother-of-the-fucking-year. It’s three in the morning, my ten-year-old has school in five hours and I have to be at work in four. Fuck my life.

  Once we’re at the restaurant I order coffee and a side of pancakes. If I eat less, she can eat more and I can keep it under twenty with a tip. My girl orders the biggest breakfast on the menu and I know her eyes are bigger than her stomach, but it’s leftovers for her later, as long as my mother doesn’t eat them.

  “Tonight when I’m at work, I want you to order pizza, okay? Eat a couple of slices and then put the rest in some tinfoil. Grandma won’t check. That way you can have food for a couple of days.” I fight back the tears as I tell her this. Her life shouldn’t be this fucking hard. There was a time when I was going to give her up, but I selfishly kept her because I wanted someone to love me. Every day I wonder what her life could be like if I had done the right thing. She deserves so much better.

  “Okay.”

  As I watch her eat in between yawns, I make up my mind. I’m going to Vegas. It’ll be one week and then I’ll be back. I can’t go on like this. We can’t. I need to ensure that Morgan has a better life and that means not living with my mother. And pole dancing at Lew’s XXX and waiting tables at Eddie’s is never going to make me enough money to get away.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Morgan as I leave the booth and head outside to use my phone. I call my best friend, Stephanie. She’s a bartender so I know she’s still awake.

  “Hey, do you need a ride?”

  “Nah, me and the miss are at Denny’s. When I got home, she hadn’t eaten.”

  “Fucking seriously?”

  “Yeah. My mom bought beer instead, but listen, I need a favor. Can Morgan stay with you for a week? I got a line on a gig in Vegas that pays pretty well and it could be enough to get us out of my mother’s. I’ll give you money for food and shit. I just…I can’t keep doing this to her. I’m afraid I’m going to lose her.” Every time Child Protective Services knocks on a neighbor’s door I wonder when it’ll be my turn. I know that’s me being paranoid and all because how would they know how much my life sucks? I try to keep Morgan away from the bad, but living with my mother is not healthy for either of us.

  “Vegas?”

  “Steph,” I warn. She hates that I strip, but there isn’t anything else I can do and make that kind of cash.

  “Yeah, I’ll watch her, but you’re going to be safe, right? Don’t be fucking strange men and shit.”

  “I promise. Thank you.”

  We hang up and I know it’s a promise I’m going to break. Five thousand for having sex is a lot of money and worth it just this once if I can get us a new place and maybe do something different with my life.

  Chapter 2

  Finn

  Even in the daylight, the bright lights of Las Vegas bounce off the lush red of the Ferrari California T convertible that I’ve been wanting for the past few years, and now I’m finally taking the plunge. This is as close to a long-term commitment as I’m going to get. The salesman drones on, citing facts about the car that he thinks I don’t already know. I don’t even pretend to acknowledge that I’m listening to him when I open the driver’s side door and slide in, my body molding to the Italian leather. The seat and I fit each other like a glove. She’s perfect for me.

  The salesman puts his hand on the side of the car, smearing his oily fingerprints all over the paint. I’m tempted to walk away or choose another color, but I want red. And I want this car. My eyes cast toward him, letting him know that I’m not impressed wi
th his closeness. Glancing down quickly at the speedometer, it reads two miles. That’s enough to get it on and off the truck and into the storeroom.

  “I’ll take it.” I open the door, effectively pushing him out of the way.

  “Great, Mr….”

  “McCormick.” I hand him my business card and watch the recognition dawn on his face as he recognizes my name. He’s shocked, surprised and likely embarrassed. By all accounts he should’ve known who I was when I walked in, but he’s young and probably new and when he goes to speak to his manager, he’ll realize he should’ve been kissing my ass from the minute I walked in the door. And now, as much as he’s trying to hide it, the grin on his face speaks volumes. He’s calculating his commission on this sale.

  “I’ll go start the paperwork, Mr. McCormick. It shouldn’t take too long to get approval from the bank.”

  “Cash sale,” I tell him, turning away from him to focus on the car again. He stammers behind me before scampering away, the footsteps on the marble floor sounding more distant. My phone vibrates in my pocket. A quick look at the screen shows me it’s Brandy. She wants one of two things, neither of which I’m interested in providing her right now: sex and a commitment.

  I’ve known her since college; we dated for about a year until I realized that I enjoyed being a bachelor far more than being a boyfriend. The shitty part is that Brandy is the twin sister of one of my best friends, Brady, and I knew better than to get involved with her. By the time I realized I had made a mistake, I was in too deep and she was head over heels in love.

  “Mr. McCormick.” A large, thundering man comes barreling toward me, giving me hardly enough time to slip my phone back into my pocket before he’s thrusting his hand forward, leaving me no option but to shake it. As soon as he releases my hand, I’m pushing it into my pocket. “It’s a pleasure to do business with you. I have your contract right here.” He grips the papers as if he’s going to hold them hostage. I quickly survey the room and spot my sales guy in the corner looking at us sullenly.