Definition of Stripped: Book One of the Definition series Read online

  Definition of Stripped

  Book One of the Definition series

  Lia Peele

  Foreword

  Welcome to book one of the Definition series; Definition of Stripped.

  I can’t believe I’m actually cutting the apron strings and releasing it into the world. Events in this book take place six years after Definition of Flawed ended. While it isn’t essential to read Flawed first, it would probably give you a deeper understanding of how past events affect the present.

  Something I’d like to mention is that I’m a British author and it’s based in the NE of England, which is where I hail from.

  There will be words spelt differently and I’m mentioning the ones my US beta readers highlighted.

  Our version of estrogen is oestrogen. We say kerb instead of curb (actually, we do say curb, but in the sense of keeping something in check). Practise with an s isn’t a typo; we use it as a verb.

  We say jewellery, instead of jewelry. Lasagne, instead of lasagna.

  There may be more … in fact, I’m willing to bet there will be, I just can’t think of them right now!

  It’s great that you’re here with me on the next step up the mountain of indie-author land. I love that. If you enjoy my work, can I ask you to please leave a review on your local Amazon? They’re the life-blood of every author on the planet and we can never have too many!

  Okay, enough from me. I know my place.

  Let me take a step back and introduce you to Definition of Stripped.

  Luv

  Lia xx

  Prologue

  July 2010

  I wake suddenly, a shaft of sunlight managing to squeeze through the tiny space between the blackout blinds and the window frame. Blinking rapidly, I rub my eyes and stretch my arms above my head.

  Ouch. That stung.

  Twisting my arm behind my back, I pick off a blob of dried wax stuck to the tiny hairs at the base of my spine. Unwelcome memories of last night’s activities come rushing back.

  My movement disturbs the person lying next to me and he snuggles in deeper under the duvet, pulling it over his head. I sigh because I know I’ve got to give him the speech, the same one I give all my lovers.

  “I don’t want you in my life. I don’t want anyone in my life. Please leave.”

  Still, he’s lasted longer than most in recent months. I’ve been sleeping with him for about four weeks and the reason for his longevity is because he allows me to step outside myself for a short while. He has a skilled tongue and helps me orgasm, but it’s not enough.

  There’s no fizz and the only buzz he gives me is when he circles my clit with my vibrator. And that’s something I can manage myself.

  Is it too much to want butterflies and giggles, and a strong pair of arms to drag me out of myself?

  Pulled out of my musings by the urgent need to pee, I get out of bed, not caring whether I wake him or not. My flat, my territory.

  When I return, I start clearing the floor of last night’s goodies, dropping the various toys into the storage box and replacing it on the bottom shelf of my wardrobe. I sense his eyes on me as I click the door closed and turn around to see he’s fully awake now. Shrugging slightly, I flick my hair behind my ear.

  “Morning.”

  Oh no. He’s got that look in his eye and he’s trying to decide whether I’m up for another round. Let’s stamp that thought out right away. “You’re awake, then?”

  “I am,” he agrees, stretching. The duvet moves down his body, exposing his pallid white flesh. “Did you sleep okay?”

  He cares about how I slept? I can’t decide if he’s feigning interest or if he’s really interested because the way he worked me last night was intense. The knots in my shoulders tell me so and I’m certain he’s bruised my arse. He’s got a hell of a hand on him and isn’t big on aftercare.

  I clear my throat. “Yeah. Slept like a baby, you?”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  We’re not getting anywhere here. I don’t feel like communicating and I can tell he’s picking up on it so I need to get straight to the point. “Hey, do you think you can get sorted quickly? I promised Sian that I’d meet her for a coffee in town.”

  He blinks and clears the sleep from his eyes. For a second, I feel a heartbeat’s worth of sympathy before it slips away.

  “Um, yeah, sure. Gimme five minutes and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

  He looks at me quizzically and gets out of bed, adjusting his cock in his underpants. Ugh. I don’t need to see that. Repressing a shiver of revulsion, I slip on my dressing gown because I can see his cock stiffen as he takes in my naked body. I break the silence to keep this moving.

  “Great. I’ve got a brief to work on before I meet her, so make it snappy, babe.”

  Okay, so I don’t pull my punches. That said, if I don’t soften my approach, I’m not going to get what I ultimately want which is him out of my bed and my life.

  The next five minutes usually goes badly so I need to manipulate the situation to suit me. It never gets easier but what’s the point of one more date, one more fuck, when it’s not working?

  He pulls on his clothes and nips into the bathroom. I listen to the toilet flush and then he leaves the bathroom. I shiver again. This guy never washes his hands after visiting the bathroom. What is this thing with some men?

  Perversely, it pleases me. This makes my decision to cut him loose so much easier. He walks back into the bedroom and slips on his shoes, then looks up at me. I can tell he doesn’t recognise the person in front of him. It’s my fault because I haven’t always been this reticent in the short time we’ve known each other.

  He looks at me with a mix of hopefulness and expectation, while clearing his throat. “So Scarlett, d’you wanna meet for lunch tomorrow?”

  Uh-oh. “Can I get back to you on that? I’m rammed with work and I’ve got plans to get caught up on stuff at the office tomorrow.”

  He looks at me with incredulity. “On a Sunday?”

  “Well, yeah. It is my business, so I have a vested interest in keeping the wheels on the track.”

  “Um. Okay. If you’re sure. How about a drink next week?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  I think he’s got it bad for me. I’m not being arrogant but I recognise the signs. Doesn’t every woman? We walk to my front door.

  “How about Monday? We could …”

  “No … thanks, but I’m busy then too.”

  He leaves my life with my footprint on his arse four weeks after he entered it. I shut the door behind him and feel relieved he left without too much of a fight.

  Sometimes they get all tactile and pleading, wondering what they’ve done wrong, how can they make it right? The answer is they can’t make it right.

  It isn’t them. It’s me. I’m too fussy, too dominant, too submissive, too much of everything because I can’t achieve the right balance.

  I’m calm inside now he’s gone. All I feel is peace.

  My tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth I’m so thirsty. I wander through to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of apple juice. As I savour the tart sweetness on my tongue, I wonder how many apples actually made it inside the carton.

  Deciding on a bath to soothe my aching muscles, I throw bath salts in and switch the jets on. Swirling my hand through the silky water, I fill it high enough to cover my shoulders.

  Everything I said earlier was a lie. Well, almost. I’m not meeting Sian in town this afternoon, nor am I going to the office tomorrow. The only truth among the lies is that I’m rammed at work but the days of visiting the of
fice on a Sunday are behind me.

  My mind drifts, thinking about a new client. It’s gonna be a challenge positioning their brand front and centre within a saturated marketplace. The thoughts don’t stick because I’m getting way too relaxed.

  Nostalgia flushes over me; a rarity because I’m always focused on the present and future. Who’d have thought one man would help to shape my professional life? Knowing the mess he made of his life gave me the impetus to do something with mine.

  My last thirty minutes with him were brutal and they weren’t his finest moments. Without Paul knowing it, he epitomised a negative role model that I didn’t want to become.

  I lived with him during my final months at uni. He cheated on me with a colleague so I left him. The split was mutual but Dev, his son, was the unwilling casualty. Born when Paul was seventeen, he’s four years younger than me and we grew close—too close—while I lived with them. Dev was eighteen when I left and he took it badly.

  I blink, leaving the past where it belongs.

  The jets pummel my skin and I inspect my body, noticing a couple of love bites on my boobs, one on each side. I loathe them but at least they’re not on my neck so I don’t need to wear a scarf.

  After towelling off, I slip on yoga pants and a T-shirt. There’s no way I can risk going to the gym today with those purple hickeys sitting up front. My boobs catch the eye of most people anyway without pushing the obvious into their faces. I decide to watch reality TV and allow my mind to freefall.

  This morning’s situation has left me out-of-sorts. Agitated. Antsy.

  I do know one thing, though.

  I’m steering clear of men until I find someone who can give me fizz and the buzz I deserve, without the need for batteries.

  Eight months later

  My phone beeps and it’s Sian.

  I groan because I know what it’ll say. Sure enough, she’s reminding me about the girls’ night out I promised to go to next Friday. Building my business, Trent:ches, has been thrilling but it’s had its downside. Most of my friends have moved on and Sian is the only person I’ve kept in touch with.

  Sian: Is Lisa’s hen party next Friday in your diary?

  Me: Yes, hon, it is xx

  Sian: Fab. So what are the arrangements then?

  Me: 7.30 outside the Oasis then on to Taboo. Meet the girls inside x

  Sian: Well done, you’ve surprised me chick x

  Me: Yeah, well, my brain isn’t that frazzled yet x

  Sian: You know what I mean!!!

  Me: No worries babe, I’ll see you then xx

  Sian: Mwah xxx

  Sian thinks that by inviting me to these girly nights I’ll meet my perfect match. She hasn’t grasped that I don’t think there’s a man out there who can keep me happy. Inseparable since uni, we bunked together, worked together, and got drunk together. I can’t count the number of times she’s dragged me to parties I didn’t want to go to. She thinks she’s doing me a favour by handing me a bespoke social life.

  I go to keep her happy and because I know I’m in danger of being sucked into a work vortex if I don’t.

  Plus, there’s the possibility she might be right one of these days.

  ∞∞∞

  One blink later, it’s Friday and here I am, inside Oasis, observing the bull-bait I’d surrendered my Friday night for. Then I realise the problem isn’t everybody else it’s me. They’re out for a good time while I’m nursing a JD and lemonade.

  Sian sighs and rests her chin on my shoulder. “Come on Scarlett, what’s the problem. You’re standing there like you’re trying to solve the mystery of the universe. Newsflash, chick … Stephen Hawking got there before you so listen carefully. I will take it very personally if you don't enjoy it tonight.

  “I’m determined you're going to have a fantastic time and I’ll only keep springing these nights on you until you loosen up. You never used to be like this, you need to drop the ice queen act when you're out with me. Leave her at home and remember how it feels to belly laugh rather than smirk behind your hand.”

  “I want to Sian, but I don’t fit in. When did the club scene become so aggressive? We’ve been hit on three times since walking in here and two of those guys wore wedding rings. Do they think we’re stupid?”

  “Christ, for an intelligent woman, you can be a bit thick, can’t you? It’s always been this way.”

  “Has it? I don’t remember.”

  “You wouldn’t, it’s been so long since you let yourself go. When you started Trent:ches you became Miss Prim and Proper and I stood by while you re-invented yourself as the Ice Queen. C’mon Lettie, relax and live a little.”

  Sian’s referring to my public persona, the one she labelled Ms Ice Queen or Ms IQ. I created her to handle the hits a business owner takes. Now we’re inseparable and I can’t pinpoint my transformation into the person I’d projected at will.

  “I’m trying—”

  “Yeah, you’re definitely trying my patience,” she says, scowling. “Look, think of it as a double celebration after getting the … what’s it called again?”

  “North East Businesswoman of the Year. The NEBY.”

  “Yeah, that. If the thought of winning that won’t make you smile, I don’t know what will. I know one thing though. It’s time to move on to the club.”

  What am I supposed to say?

  Taboo is a five-minute walk away and as we wait in the short queue, my eyes wander to the promotional posters on the side of the building.

  “Hey Sian, what’s all this? I thought we were coming to watch a burlesque cabaret act. What’s happening?”

  One glance at her and I know she didn’t want to tell me that we’re here to watch male strippers. We’re almost at the door, so I need to make a quick decision.

  I have two choices.

  Walk through the velvet ropes.

  Go home and work on the management accounts.

  I walk across the threshold.

  Chapter One

  March 2011

  Come on, all you sex-starved ladies, let me hear you scream!” Miss Interpreted, a drag queen and our MC this evening, hollers into her handheld mic. “Aaannd … pump it, pump it, pump it, pump it!”

  Taboo Burlesque Club is packed with 300 oestrogen-loaded women. The noise ripples through the glitzy throng as 299 voices scream their appreciation.

  As guests with hen party status, we’re seated in the alleged VIP section giving us a perfect view of the entertainment. If this is the VIP section, then who are the people occupying the three rooms with one-way glass on the other side of the club? They’re obviously far too important to sit stage-side. Empty shot glasses crowd our alcohol-drenched table and the pervasive, sweet smell of vodka and Red Bull fills the air. Underfoot the wooden laminate is sticky with the spilt drinks of drunken partygoers.

  Why did I agree to this? I usually spend Friday nights at home, my nose buried in reports. Taboo isn’t where I’d choose to be, yet here I am waiting for the headline act and eighth member of the male striptease performance group, the Alphas. The people I’m with don’t know me and they wouldn’t notice if I disappeared to the loo and didn’t come back.

  Well, one of them would and she’s the reason I’m still here.

  At least the club is finished to a high standard. Chandeliers laden with fat black crystals vibrate to the sound of George Michael’s, Outside, and black walls provide the backdrop to a stunning trompe l’oeil depicting Hades. Blood red and ochre tipped flames scorch the scene. Hades’ unwilling subjects, visible by the whites of their eyes, keep their distance beyond the fire. It’s so realistic, I feel a visceral connection urging me to touch it and discover whether the inhabitants would drag me to the dark side.

  A waiter’s bulked up body severs the link as he walks past my line of sight, forcing my attention on him instead. He’s cute and I shouldn’t judge, but I immediately think shared custody followed by bathroom slot.

  Startling me out of my reverie, Sian snaps her fingers
in front of my jaded, glazed-over eyes.

  “Scarlett, look at me, not him,” she shouts.

  “Yeah?”

  “Sorry about tonight.”

  She rubs my cheeks with both hands and purses my lips with her fingers. Sian knows me so well it’s annoying.

  I remove her hands and force a shot glass into one of them. “You should be sorry, Sian. When you asked me to Lisa’s hen party, you didn’t mention the Alphas would be the entertainment.”

  She thrusts an impatient hand through her short, black hair and shakes her head with exasperation. “You wouldn’t have come. That’s why I didn’t.”

  Quirking an eyebrow at her, I take another sip of my red wine. “Ah, come on, Sian, you know I was up for a celebration after today’s news.” I glance at the crowd, chewing my bottom lip. “It’ll screw my rep if anybody sees me here.”

  With a look reminiscent of something between boredom and sympathy, she takes my hands in hers and sighs. “Hey now, Ms IQ, I know your nomination for the award means everything to you but stop worrying about someone spotting you. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself.”

  “I enjoy myself, just not in seedy places like this.”

  “Oh my God, have you heard yourself? This place is not seedy, okay? I think it’s kinda cool. Anyway, you’re my mate and I need you here. Lisa may be my cousin but we’re a million miles apart in every way. I mean seriously, take a look.”

  We glance at Lisa and her cronies.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Are you kidding me?” she shrieks. “They’re clones, Lettie. Ten women who share the same hairdresser, train at the same gym, shop at the same designer shops, and have their eyebrows tattooed by the same artist. No imagination, that’s their problem.”

  I look at Sian’s perfectly arched black eyebrows, Chanel makeup, gym-streamlined body, Vivienne Westwood dress, and Michael Kors handbag. “Pot and kettle mean anything to you, hon?”