Stripped raw, p.1
Stripped Raw, page 1
Stripped Raw
By
Prescott Lane
Copyright © 2016 Prescott Lane
Kindle Edition
Cover design by Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Cover images from Shutterstock
Editing by Nikki Rushbrook
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
PROLOGUE
KANE
Slipping off the gold band, I roll it between my thumb and forefinger, thinking about all of the feelings wrapped up in a piece of metal. I just want what I had, but I know that’s not going to happen.
It’s over.
I’m not a quitter, and I’ve never failed at anything before in my life. I tried my hardest to make it work, but my best wasn’t good enough this time, and there’s nothing more I could do. That doesn’t make it any easier and doesn’t mean I don’t have regrets. I have big ones. It’s hard to let go of the past—even harder to let go of what could’ve been, what should’ve been. That’s the thing about regret. It never dies, never lets go. It swallows you whole and makes guilt your best friend. But I’m tired of it. I know it will always live in me, but it’s time to lay it down. I can’t feed that wolf anymore. I just hope I can tame it.
I never thought I’d get to this point. I had the career, the house, the car, the money, but I’d trade it all for something that matters. Holding the ring out over the trash can, I realize the time for trading is over. It’s time to let go—to let her go. I look down at the ring between my fingers, the light illuminating the gold, staring me in the face, blinding me. I was so very blind. I was living the dream, and I thought she was, too. My fingers spread apart, and the ring falls in the trash, on top of a dirty napkin beside yesterday’s newspaper. For a second, I’m frozen, then I close the lid.
I had it all, until my world stopped.
CHAPTER ONE
KENZIE
Whore is not a word I’d normally use. I hate all those colorful euphemisms used to criticize women—slut, whore, tramp, bitch, skank, hoe, cunt. I think men created these words to try to hold us down, but the word whore is completely appropriate in this instance.
My name is Kenzie Scott, and I am a total shoe whore.
That’s the first thing you should know about me. Pumps, peep-toes, platforms, it doesn’t matter to me. I love them all!
Wearing my favorite camel-colored suede Christian Louboutin peep-toe booties for my television debut today may seem odd to some, considering my feet probably won’t even be showing, but they make me feel good. At this ungodly hour, they also give me a little extra boost, especially since my coffee isn’t helping. That’s the second thing you should know about me. I am not a morning person, so getting camera-ready by six a.m. is throwing my usual happy demeanor for a loop.
Crack of dawn wakeup call notwithstanding, I’m thankful for this opportunity. My new lingerie line can use it. And I’ll be on soon—probably in the third segment. That gives me just enough time to polish up my pitch. Preparation equals confidence. The host will probably ask what makes my lingerie different, whether it’s available online and in local Dallas stores, what inspired me to create this particular line, and whether it is suitable for women of all shapes and sizes, all questions I’m prepared to answer. There’s nothing to worry about—I got this. And if I crash and burn, it will all be over soon. Reviewing my notes on my phone, I head down a hallway, hoping to find a ladies room. I need a touchup.
“So I banged this chick so hard last night,” a smarmy voice says from inside a cracked office door, “we actually broke the bed.”
I know I shouldn’t spy, but that sentence is enough to stop me in my tracks. Plus, I’d recognize that voice anywhere—Deacon Barnes, one of the hosts of the morning show, the host I’m hoping isn’t interviewing me. It will be much easier to discuss ladies’ undies with the female co-host.
“Were you on a futon? Those aren’t too hard to break,” another man snarks.
I bite my tongue not to laugh and peek inside, needing to know who that sexy, smartass voice belongs to and hoping he’s as hot as he sounds. Unfortunately, I’m only able to catch a glimpse of his tan, muscular arm, sporting a cool, vintage Rolex.
“Piss off,” Deacon says. “I’ve got to get ready to interview some chick who thinks designing women’s underwear is going to change the world.”
Crap, he’s doing the interview.
“Should work out well,” the sexy voice says, “since you like to strut around in that banana hammock shit that looks like a woman’s G-string.”
This time I can’t help it and bust out laughing. When I hear a chair scrape on the floor, I realize they heard me. Shit, time to bolt! I’m hurrying down the hall, juggling my purse, phone, and mug when my coffee sloshes over the side and a few drops make their way to my shoes. My shoes! My favorite shoes! The horror! I can’t go on the air with coffee stains on my booties!
People always say diamonds are a girl’s best friend, but that’s not the case for me. I’ll take shoes over jewelry any day, and these are the best shoes! I spent way too much on them after my breakup with Charles. I heard “These Boots Are Made for Walking” on the radio and figured the universe—or maybe even God—was telling me the right pair of shoes would make everything better, and it did. This is a disaster. I have no business trying to multi-task—standing and sipping, much less running—at this ungodly hour. I’m wide-awake now.
How am I going to deal with Deacon Barnes and sell my product line if I can’t even snoop and sip at the same time?
I rush to the green room, searching my purse for a napkin, a tissue, anything to wipe off the coffee before I go on the air and, more importantly, before it ruins the beautiful suede, but there is nothing. I see a magazine on the sink beside me and tear out a page before frantically rubbing it over the drops, which does absolutely nothing. I hear someone call out my name. It’s time to start. The sad state of my beautiful booties will have to wait.
*
KANE
My head whips around and my dick comes to attention as the most beautiful, infectious laugh echoes in from the hallway. I need to see this woman. If her laugh can give me a hard on, she must be sexy as fuck. Rising from my chair, I tilt my head and catch just a glimpse through the doorway—red soled, killer shoes, perfectly toned calves, and long, dark auburn hair. But that’s it. I have to get a better look. I haven’t had this kind of instant reaction to a woman since I met my ex-wife. But straining my neck will not do. The strain in my pants is already bad enough.
“Hold up a second,” Deacon says, reaching into his desk. “I almost forgot. I need you to take care of something for me.”
He pulls out a thick wad of crumpled parking tickets. I quickly flip through the stack. “This was so urgent? This is why I’m here at six a.m.? Some of these are over a year old!”
“Right,” Deacon says. “I didn’t want to waste more time.”
God, give me patience. My stepbrother can be such a spoiled cock. I mean, we’ve always gotten along well enough. As teenagers, we bonded over our mutual love of girls. I’ve moved on, but Deacon still chases anything in a skirt, and he has plenty of opportunities in or around the news station, or at some public appearance or hosting gig. Deacon lives the fast life, which often means a lot of pro bono work for me.
But Deacon is family, and family is the most important thing to me. My father died when I was very young, forcing my mother to work several jobs to support herself and me—a fact she never lets me forget. To hear her tell it, we were on the verge of homelessness when she had the good fortune to marry Dallas’ most eligible man, the owner of a local news station and several other businesses. My stepfather, James, loved her unconditionally and supported me emotionally and financially, making sure I had the best education money could buy.
I remain grateful for his help, quite certain I wouldn’t be where I am today without it—working for the most successful law firm in Texas. James’ only drawback was that he came as part of a package deal that included his son, and I feel obligated to help.
“Okay, Deacon, I’ll take care of the tickets,” I say.
He pats me on the back. “You’re the best, Kane.”
“Really appreciate this, man,” Deacon says, applying some more makeup. “I can always count on you.”
I head out of his office, needing to find the woman behind the laugh, needing to see what she looks like, but my phone rings. Of course, it’s my office. Work is always interrupting, sabotaging my plans. As I walk, I listen to my secretary talk about some supposed updates for court, all of which I’m already aware of. I’m fully prepared for jury selection today. I always am. Looking up and down the hallways, my eyes hunt for the woman. Where is she?
The halls are quiet, no laughing, no sexy shoes clacking. Just my fucking luck. And for once, work wasn’t to blame. Just wasn’t meant to be, I guess. That’s the way things have been going for me lately outside the courtroom, and I’m not going to lie—it sucks.
CHAPTER TWO
KENZIE
I take a seat on set, trying not to fidget as a young woman slides a microphone through my wrap dress and fastens it to the V-neck. The interview will start right after the commercial break. My pulse quickens, and my heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my temples. I hope it’s not broadcasting to everyone in the news station. I look down at my dress, a bright royal blue, the color I always wanted my ordinary brown eyes to be.
I smooth down the dress, hoping it covered, if not flattered, the parts of my thighs and ass that I hate. Long ago, I came to terms with my thighs—and by came to terms, I mean acceptance of something I can’t change—but my ass is another matter. I’m not obese, but yes, I have an ass complex. Working in Europe the last few years for top lingerie designers, and being surrounded by stick-thin women with two percent body fat didn’t help matters. Of course, dating a douche like Charles didn’t help, either.
There was a time I tried everything to get rid of my booty—eating right, swimming, riding horses, buying and using ridiculous gizmos—but nothing seemed to help. Eventually, I reached my limit and just gave up trying to lose my ass. I’m never going to look like a European model, and I decided I was done apologizing for it. I mean, regardless of how I feel about it, it’s not going anywhere! It practically needs its own zip code. Still, I can’t help the anxiety I’m feeling over how I look under all these bright lights. I hope the rumors aren’t true about the camera adding ten pounds.
The mystery guy’s sexy voice flies back in my mind. Focus! I can’t be distracted by anything right now, especially men. The very last thing I need is another man wreaking havoc in my life. Just thinking about that makes me nervous, and I’m nervous enough about going on live television in a matter of minutes. Besides, the dating market is closed to me and has been for almost two years. I fell hard off that damn horse, and I’m not climbing back on. It’s time to focus on the task at hand—nailing this interview, not nailing the hot guy with the panty dropping voice.
Deacon glides on set during the commercial break, his jet black hair slicked back like he bathed in a Texas oil field. “MacKenzie Scott?”
“Kenzie,” I correct, shaking Deacon’s hand and watching his eyes slide straight to my cleavage as the production assistant comes back to see me, adjusting my mic and offering me a mirror and a water bottle. When Deacon plops down in his chair, she begins touching up his makeup, but he waves her away.
“So,” Deacon says, “panty designer?”
“Lingerie.”
“I’d love to see your lingerie sometime.”
This guy is such a player, exactly as advertised. Does he think I’m stupid? Do women actually fall for this crap? Is he banging the microphone chick? I decide he probably is, but I’d let the human race die out before I allowed him to touch me. I hand him my catalog, hoping he can take a hint. “Here’s my lingerie. Feel free to look all you want.”
Deacon tosses the catalog on a table and leans forward, touching my knee. “Do you wear your own designs?”
What makes him think he can put his hand on me? Prick! I smack his hand hard, and he pulls it back, stung, just as a producer somewhere behind the cameras calls out, “Live in ten, nine, eight. . . .”
Deacon adjusts his posture, slicks a hand over his hair and slips right into character, flashing his newsman smile as he begins reading an introduction on the teleprompter. How can he do that? Just slip in and out of work mode so easily?
This is obviously a game to him. He knows just when to turn on the charm, just the right facial expressions to make to suck in the viewers. It makes me sick, but I’m not going to let him throw me off or get the best of me. This needs to go well. I put every ounce of my tiny nest egg into Kenzie Lingerie, saving every cent since college hoping to make my dream a reality. I’ll be damned if I’ll let some spoiled self-obsessed manwhore ruin it. Plastering on my best smile, I’m ready when he turns and introduces me.
“You’ve designed for some pretty elite companies,” he says. “What makes Kenzie Lingerie different?”
“First of all, everything is custom-fitted for each individual woman,” I say. “And secondly, the average woman, myself included. . . .”
“Now, don’t sell yourself short,” Deacon interrupts with a grin.
Is he flirting with me? It’s hard to tell. He’s probably pissed I smacked his hand. I offer a tight smile in return, which seems like a safe response. It’s hard to believe this thirty-something guy gets such awesome ratings. It’s probably best just to talk over him. Clearing my throat, I begin again. “The average woman, including me, can’t afford French or Italian lingerie. I try to make feeling sexy easy on the wallet without sacrificing quality.”
“A moment ago, you said custom-fitted. Can you explain that?”
“I meet with each woman individually whether in person or through a Skype appointment. It’s important I have a relationship with my customers. Each woman is treated as an individual, and I create a garment designed just for her. So, ladies who may be small or bigger up top, or curvier around the waist, can always have their specific needs met. Sexy isn’t about a size on a label or a number on a scale. The idea is that every woman, no matter her body issues, has the right to feel sexy, pretty, confident, and supported in her lingerie.”
Deacon nods as if he’s in perfect agreement, but I’m sure he doesn’t give a damn about anything I just said. There’s no way he was listening. He’s probably thinking about my breasts, or what he’s going to do backstage with the microphone chick during the next commercial break.
He picks up the catalog and holds it up to the camera. “I see there are women of all shapes and sizes in the catalog. Why don’t you use professional models?”
Did he just wrinkle his nose? Did the camera catch that? I reach for my water and take a small sip before answering, reminding myself to stay calm and advocate for real women. Kenzie Lingerie is about celebrating real women’s bodies, not bodies by Mattel—more plastic than flesh and blood. “I do occasionally use professional models, but I won’t airbrush anyone. We use good lighting, good hair and makeup teams, but no Photoshopping. Since I design my lingerie for real women’s bodies, I prefer to use women who aren’t professional models in my catalog.”
He holds up a particular page, his nose definitely wrinkled up this time. “Who is this bald woman?”
It’s time to put this guy down a few notches. “That bald woman has breast cancer, Deacon. She had a double mastectomy and wasn’t feeling very pretty. Some women aren’t candidates for reconstruction or simply choose not to go that route. There is no reason cancer survivors can’t feel sexy and beautiful. I know the shoot helped the woman.”
“That sounds fantastic, very noble,” Deacon says and quickly closes the catalog. “But isn’t lingerie supposed to be about fantasy, not the harsh reality of life?”
“It can be an escape and should be fun and flirty, something every woman deserves—no matter what she is going through in life. I hope Kenzie Lingerie can help any woman feel sexy. That’s my goal.”
“That is a great goal,” he says. “You know, I think a lot of our viewers this morning are asking whether Kenzie Lingerie has helped you feel sexy.”
My eyes pop. What did he just say? I look behind the cameras, hoping someone will intervene and shut this down, but all I see is an army of producers waving their hands, urging me to continue. “Deacon, is that really what viewers are wondering this morning?”
