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

  “What? Me?” she screeches. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Speaking of Lisa,”—I nudge Sian slyly, out of sight—“have you seen her? She’s already out of her skull on champagne and now her friends have got her on shots.”

  After a quick peep at her cousin, she murmurs, “Bollocks.” Eyes widening, Sian giggles into her hand in the infectious way she does when she’s tipsy. “Fuck, I’m supposed to be looking after her. And who the hell has stuck those condoms to her glass?”

  One of Lisa’s friends tries to pour her another glass of champagne but misses the glass and pours it on the table instead. The others fall around giggling. Lisa decides she wants to stand, but after a couple of wobbly attempts, Sian and I have to support her.

  Holding her glass high above her head, she toasts us in a slurred, drunken voice. “I love you all and thanks for coming.”

  At least I think that’s what she says. It’s difficult to hear her over the music. Guilt washes over me for thinking less than charitable thoughts about being here when Lisa is being so nice. Everybody stands, returns the toast, and follows Lisa’s lead by swallowing the champagne in two gulps.

  Sian puts her mouth next to my ear, so I can hear her above Beyoncé’s, Single Ladies.

  “Forgive me, Lettie, pleeease, she wails.

  “Jeez, it’s hardly a hanging crime, but you counted on me being too busy to check this place out didn’t you?”

  She cranes her neck to glance at the stage. “Not denying it, chick, but more importantly, Adrian is five minutes late. If he doesn’t get his arse out here soon, there’ll be blood on the walls.”

  “Why? It’s just another dick.”

  “I did my research,” she says, wearing a smug smile. “There’s a very obvious reason he’s the headline act.”

  “Honestly, Sian …”

  My words drift off as the lights dim. The glowing, fluorescent map of Hades hints at mortal danger as the flames consume the walls and ceiling. Charon is there ferrying the souls of the dead along the glittering, inky black River Styx.

  When the opening riff of Bon Jovi’s, Keep The Faith blasts our eardrums, the screams begin.

  Sian’s overexcited elbow digs into my side as she points at the stage. Gulping the dry red wine, it converts into a saliva-seeking, blotting potion once it hits my mouth. Tangy sharpness corrodes my throat and tomorrow’s chemically induced hangover creeps closer.

  Her eyes don’t leave the stage as she screams, “Hey, Lettie, remember when we used to do this five nights a week?”

  “Hell, yes, I couldn’t manage three nights now. Actually, scratch that, make it once.”

  I follow her line of vision as she watches the black velvet curtains twitch.

  “Oh. My. God. Scarlett. Get a load of that.” Flapping her hands at the stage, she stands to get a better view.

  The curtains have ripped apart and six feet plus of male perfection stands at the back of the oval-shaped stage. Damn, if his body doesn’t remind me of how the god Hades has been captured by the artist.

  He’s wearing an unbuttoned denim waistcoat, washed-out jeans and a wig, à la Jon Bon Jovi in the Keep The Faith video. And yeah. He’s working everything.

  His entrance has such a powerful effect on me that I’ve forgotten the reason I didn’t want to be here. Working on Trent:ches management accounts versus watching this guy? No competition between the two and I’m pleased I made the trade. Even if I’d lost all five senses in that moment, I’m certain I could’ve detected Adrian’s arrival on the strength of his aura.

  I grip the back of Sian’s hand. “Forget what I said. He’s gorgeous.”

  Sian smirks and uses her free hand to cover mine. “Told you. They’ve left the best until last.”

  White noise rings inside my head as my heartbeat synchronises to the drumbeat driving the track. Adrian looks straight at me and my mouth dries. It could be a side effect of the cheap red wine, or the head rush I got when he did it. Either way, I’ll own it. Eight months celibate, he’s stunned my body into responding after one quick glimpse.

  His greased, performance-ready body accentuates sharp, cut muscles. Toned, well-muscled arms hang by his sides. His waistcoat reveals furrows of abs so deep they could hold water. I know my way around a gym and those arms could bench press a hundred plus kilos, making it look easy. Wraparound designer sunglasses hide his face. Yeah, he’s a walking cliché, but on this guy, and wearing that outfit, they’re fucking hot.

  Adrian is my identikit male. How can it be that the person I’ve been waiting to meet my whole life has been performing as a stripper in Newcastle city centre?

  Needing more than the length of the song to replenish my ravenous ogle quota, I shift to the edge of my seat for a better view. Loud whoops from the hens catch his attention as he struts across the stage and jumps to the floor. His choreography is on point as he transitions with slick and practised ease.

  The crowd and I track each step. They’re yelling at him to strip and their manic, glazed eyes show how his act affects them. His hips roll as he allows the women in the front row to grope his arse, giving them a playful tap if they become too invasive.

  As Bon Jovi sing the chorus, Adrian throws his waistcoat to the floor. I’m ultra-aware of the primed muscles beneath his gleaming, tanned and fuzz-free skin. He pivots in our direction and that’s when I notice tiny barbells skewering each nipple. Mine tingle in response because body mods on a man do it for me. In my head, they’re a benchmark for between-the-sheets compatibility.

  Adrian is responsible for my libido’s renaissance and I visualise him carrying me to the nearest backstage room. I’d jam the handle with a chair and introduce him to the jewellery adorning my secret places.

  He stalks towards us, ignoring an expectant Lisa to reach me. Using his knee, he levers my legs apart and plants himself between them. My body wants to Velcro itself to his and I suppress the desire to stroke his skin. I’d love to know if it feels as smooth as it looks.

  The club’s clientele cheers him on when he holds my hands above my head and fucks me fully dressed. My instincts urge me to spread him wide and touch him all over, starting with his angular jaw.

  I can’t believe I’m allowing him to do this in public but as soon as I think it, I crush the thought with one of my four-inch heels. I’m living in the moment and that moment has him front and centre.

  We’re so close I smell a hint of shea butter and something else. Vanilla, maybe? Or bergamot? Inhaling deeply, the blend lodges in my brain and becomes my new favourite fragrance.

  When he drops my hands and moves away, he smirks at me over his shoulder. Sweat beads my top lip and my nipples tingle where my chest touched his. He’s left me craving more and achieved it in the time it’s taken Bon Jovi to whip through half a song.

  We stare at each other for a second that lasts an hour, or it did to me. He moves on to Lisa and she’s so drunk he has to support her as she flips all over him.

  Before moving on he glances at me again, but I tell myself not to read anything into it. As alpha of the Alphas, he’s probably an arrogant dick and I’m just another punter.

  Synching his routine with the song as it winds to a close, he mounts the stage. Two women in bling-covered bikinis appear, ripping his jeans apart along the outside seams, revealing a thong decorated with the stars and stripes of the American flag. He picks up a bottle of water and pours it over his shaking head, causing droplets to shower over his body.

  The performance is over as quickly as it began and it’s left us screaming for more. Mass audience hysteria follows as Adrian heads for the velvet curtains. Before disappearing, he glances at our table and despite his sunglasses, I know he’s staring at me.

  I need five minutes of peace for a mental reset, but it’s not going to happen. The horny audience show solidarity as their howls and whistles echo through the club, accompanied by 600 feet stamping on the floor.

  Yeah, this time around, mine joined in. A
fter my cameo in his performance, how could they not?

  Gulping the last of my wine with one hand, I wave at our waiter with the other. He proves he’s worth the tip I gave him earlier when he delivers our drinks within five minutes.

  Miss Interpreted returns to the stage, entertaining us with her witty double entendre wordplay. Like I could give a damn? I need one more fix of Adrian before reverting to the person I was before passing through the black velvet ropes. Maybe it’s the wine or the electric atmosphere inside Taboo, but the notion of someone seeing me here doesn’t seem as important as it did earlier.

  Sian interrupts my scattered thoughts. “He’s good, isn’t he? Pleased you came?”

  “God, yeah. What a pity we couldn’t see his eyes. And did you notice those cheekbones … his jawline?”

  “He’s a work of art, isn’t he?” Sian flutters her eyelashes, vamping up the melodrama as she pats her heart with a rapid tap. “A body with his bumping muscles could give anyone a good workout. I knew you’d enjoy it. See, even Ms Ice Queen needs a little downtime to replace her ice crystals.”

  “Hey, don’t bring my alter ego into this. She’s helped us out of a few tight spots before today.”

  We continue to yell for more and my drunken giggle makes its first appearance in forever. It sounds rusty, maybe even a little croaky. I could do with gargling WD40, but who cares, when it feels this good to enjoy myself. I’d forgotten how it felt, it’s been so long.

  Lisa squeezes past us to visit the loo as the Marilyn Manson version of Personal Jesus opens the next performance and brilliant white light bathes the club in its brilliance. Two stunning nuns wearing short habits appear on stage, genuflecting and praying.

  Adrian forces the curtains apart and barges onto the stage, wearing a black, floor-length frock coat with a lush velvet pile I’d love to stroke.

  He’s captured the singer’s ethereal visage in its glamorous perfection. De rigeur gothic makeup, white contact lenses, and a black mask emphasise his eyes. More tribute act than stripper, the similarity ends there. Wasting no time, he unbuttons the coat with quick flicks of his wrist.

  His confidence is off-the-charts ridiculous as he works the audience from the stage. I notice his lips quirk when he points to a woman close by. He takes her hand, leading her to a chair waiting on stage. She feigns shyness, covering her eyes with her fingers.

  He dances around her in a slow, sexy, body roll and invites her to remove his coat. A foot shorter than him, he takes the lucky woman’s hand and helps her to stand on the chair. She peels the coat off his shoulders and pushes it to the floor, revealing black latex trousers and a pair of Doctor Marten boots. I shiver. Mmm, black latex, my favourite medium.

  One of the nuns passes him a small, lit candle. A consummate performer, he hands it to his guest and the pleasure is all hers as he allows her to run hot wax over his smooth chest.

  His eyes widen as he pretends to be shocked at the sizzle. He kisses her hand, signalling her moment in the spotlight is over and the nuns escort her off the stage.

  By the time she reaches her friends, he’s shucked off the boots and somersaulted to a clear space on the floor, so he can work the crowd. Several lucky ladies get a personal invitation to undo a fly button.

  People throw their cash onto the stage, so I take £20 from my purse and do the same. He catches me doing it and I swear he winks at me. On impulse, I stick my tongue out and wink back. His lips curve into the makings of a smile, but stalls before it gets there.

  Marilyn Manson is a quarter of the way through the song, but Adrian is still wearing his trousers, so the crowd screams at him to take them off.

  After running a circuit of the club, he jumps on stage as the drum solo kicks in. The nuns gather close, shimmy to their knees and rip the trousers from his body.

  The people in the front row go crazy because finally—finally—he’s naked. I angle my neck to get a better view and, oh my God, I lick my lips when I see his cock-head. The sublime apadravya and ampallang piercings combine as a magic cross, confirming Adrian’s place at the top of my fantasy man shortlist.

  The song ends and he runs off stage while the sycophantic nuns stuff his tips into a pouch hidden within their habits. We shout for more, but Miss Interpreted informs us that the show is over. Someone pulls a switch, lowering the stage to floor level. This is DJ Bruno’s cue and he’s oblivious to the death-glares from the disappointed audience.

  “I think it’s over.” I don’t look at Sian. I already know she’ll be gloating. “Okay, Sian, you were right and I was wrong. But wasn’t he stunning?”

  “I know. Did you see his body? Do you think he models?”

  A very drunk Lisa snags her sleeve, so she mouths, “Sorry”, before speaking to Lisa and her friends.

  DJ Bruno’s music draws people to the dance floor, but I’m too busy searching for my lost equilibrium to think about getting up there. Nobody’s struck me in the gut the way Adrian did. And those piercings? He caught me in his net with one flash of a silver barbell.

  Adrian’s still in my thoughts when Sian and Lisa suction my arse off the seat and we do our drunken version of the bump and grind. Now he’s gone, my adrenaline falters. I can’t stop yawning after cramming sixteen hours of work into ten every day for the past few weeks.

  “I’m going now,” I shout to Sian.

  In true Hollywood style, she clutches my arm, saying, “Don’t leave me. God, Lettie, you’re twenty-seven, not forty-seven. Stay a little longer.”

  Still dancing to Christina Aguilera’s, Dirrty, I start the withdrawal process, smiling as I do it. “Sorry, Sian, but I have to leave.”

  “Fan-bloody-tastic. Go then. Leave me with Lisa.”

  “You told me about the cousin code and you are her maid of honour. It kinda means you’re responsible for her, Sian.”

  “Were you born sanctimonious, hmm?”

  “Probably,” I say, accompanying it with a sanctimonious laugh just for her. “I’m sorry, but I’m so tired. I could fall asleep right here.”

  She cuffs my shoulder and kisses my cheek. “Joshing with you, chick, see you next week.”

  “See you later, hon.”

  Chapter Two

  The cab controller informs me that the next available taxi is in twenty minutes. Plenty of time for another couple of dances before I leave. Still holding my phone, I weave through the crowd looking for Sian. A drunk, bra-less, forty-something wearing a tight, white dress stumbles headlong into me. She looks about ten hot seconds away from upchucking.

  Although I’ve had a few tonight and my reflexes aren’t as snappy as I’d like, I recover fast.

  I stick my face in hers, asking, “Where are your friends?”

  She giggles and belches garlic fragranced lager in my face. Grimacing, I’m saved by my phone as it buzzes with a text. She wanders into the crowd somewhere.

  When I check the screen, the text doesn’t have a name attached to the number, but the message asks if I enjoyed tonight.

  Unknown: Who is this?

  Sobering up quickly, it’s now I remember how my personal life is off limits to everybody who isn’t invited into it. A frisson of panic runs through me. Nothing can jeopardise my chances of winning the NEBY. I’ve worked too hard to put Trent:ches on the map. Recognition from my peers may seem shallow to some but to me It means everything.

  My phone vibrates again.

  Unknown: Meet me outside. You can trust me

  Me: Be serious. Trust someone who won’t tell me their identity? Who are you?

  Unknown: Come outside, you’ll see

  Yeah, that isn’t weird at all.

  Me: Tell me who you are

  Unknown: See you on the outside

  My taxi is due in ten minutes. I need to go. Sanity fights Reckless for pole position, but I mute her. My phone buzzes again.

  Unknown: I’ll come to you

  They’ve got me in a corner. I need to leave the club because the taxi can’t come to me. Before leav
ing, I hunt Sian down. When I find her on the dance floor, she’s trying to look interested in something Lisa is saying. She’ll hate that because she hates dancing and talking at the same time.

  I wait for a natural break in their conversation. After what seems like thirty minutes but in reality is probably three, one of Lisa’s friends drags her away. Linking arms with Sian, I walk her to the edge of the dance floor.

  “Ooh, you’re wearing your impatient face. What’s going on?”

  “Did you get someone to text me?”

  Her nose scrunches up and as she doesn’t have a poker face, I know she’s innocent.

  “Text you? No, why would I?”

  I thrust my phone into her hand. “Look at these texts. What do you think?”

  She takes a few seconds to scan them and looks back at me. “I think I’m coming with you. No way are you meeting anybody outside on your own.”

  Sanity recovers the lead from reckless and I hug Sian just for being my friend.

  “What was that for?” she asks, still hugging me. “You’d do the same for me.”

  “Totally, hon. But my taxi is due soon so I need you to be my chaperone, like, right now.”

  She grabs her bag and we walk up the stairs towards the exit.

  “At least you didn’t think about going alone. Every horror fan knows the dozy female character is always the first to get sliced and diced because she followed the script instead of her instincts.”

  I bump her waist with my elbow. “Trust you to fit my situation into a genre you love.”

  When we reach the exit, a scar-faced bouncer dressed in a black dinner jacket opens the door. “See you next time, ladies. Had a good night?”

  Sian is a sucker for a bad boy and the two-inch scar on his cheek gives this guy the edge. She warbles, “Fantastic, thanks, but my night isn’t over. Can I step outside with my friend while she waits for her taxi and then come back in?”

  “Sorry. Club policy dictates that you’re not allowed back in once you leave. Or, you can, but you pay again.” What a dick. He stands a little taller as though he didn’t just get hard at the thought of keeping us in place.