by Zoey Castile
Praise for STRIPPED
“Tantalizing . . . Their chemistry is intense.”
—The New York Times
“A witty, wonderful romance that speaks to who we are, who
we are meant to be, and who we are meant to be with.”
—The Washington Post
“Vivid and naughty.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“Much like Magic Mike, Stripped is swoony, exciting
and an all-around entertaining ride.”
—Booklist
“A sweet and sexy story that shows how life-changing—
and gratifying—it can be to step outside of your comfort
zone and question expectations.”
—Shondaland
“A perfect read for fans of Magic Mike.”
—Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
“A sexy, funny contemporary romance . . . devilishly fun.”
—NPR
“Castile delivers genuine chemistry . . . thoroughly entertaining.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Take one sexy stripper hero, add one wild, witty school
teacher heroine, and watch the fireworks. This book is my
cherry pie!”
—Ann Aguirre, New York Times bestselling author
“Castile’s writing sparkles with wit. Readers will
swoon for Robyn and Fallon’s love story.”
—Alexis Daria, author of Take the Lead
“In a perfect mix of sexy attraction that sizzles on the
page and enchanting romance between characters you fall
in love with, Castile’s novel hits all the right notes!”
—Priscilla Oliveras, author of Her Perfect Affair
“Zoey Castile is a fresh and fun new voice, and the characters
in Stripped will capture your heart (and possibly your dollar bills).”
—Alisha Rai, author of Hurts to Love You
Books by Zoey Castile
Stripped
Hired
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
HIRED
A HAPPY ENDINGS NOVEL
ZOEY CASTILE
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Praise
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1 - Suavemente
2 - Daughter
3 - Crush
4 - Pour Some Sugar on Me
5 - Blow Me (One Last Kiss)
6 - No Me Ames
7 - Up Around the Bend
8 - Tango del Pecado
9 - When You Put Your Hands On Me
10 - Wild Love
11 - If You Only Knew
12 - Nuestro Juramento
13 - La Tortura
14 - Despacito
15 - Sin Contrato
16 - Lovefool
17 - Deuces Are Wild
18 - Heartbreaker
19 - Si Una Vez
20 - I’ll Never Break Your Heart
21 - Ten Minutes Ago
22 - ¿Dónde Estás, Corazón?
23 - Here I Go Again
24 - So Close
25 - You Are My Home
Acknowledgments
Teaser chapter
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2019 by Zoey Castile
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-1526-5
Kensington Electronic Edition: March 2019
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1526-5
ISBN-10: 1-4967-1526-8
Natalie Horbachevsky,
for your friendship and love
1
Suavemente
AIDEN
I’m not the kind of guy who would end up in this kind of hotel bar at this time of night, but here I am, sipping my fifth hurricane of the evening, trying to figure out exactly what led me here. It’s easy, really. The answer is a series of bad choices and a woman. And, well, myself.
The bar at the swank Hotel Sucré in the heart of New Orleans is quieter post happy hour, leaving me with a prized corner all to myself. I pick up my strangely voluptuous glass, fascinated by the fat condensation running down my hands. My mom always said I had fine hands, romantic hands. It sounded a lot prettier when she said it to me in Spanish, because what are romantic hands supposed to look like?
I set the empty glass down and try to flag my bartender. “One more, please.”
Angelique, the bartender, struts toward me. She’s a dancer, same as me, though her performances are a lot more family friendly. Her hair is shaved at the sides, and a thick braid runs down her back, laced with bits of gold, giving her a warrior-princess vibe. Brown skin shimmers under the twinkling bar lights, and her thick painted lips smirk while her eyes contain nothing but sass.
“I can’t in good conscience let you have another hurricane.”
“Mi reina,” I say. My queen.
But she cuts me off, her glossy white teeth showing as she tries to suppress a smile.
“Don’t start that suavemente shit on me,” she says, leaning on the bar to make better eye contact. I notice how her black tank top is digging into her shoulders, leaving marks on the smooth plane of her skin. “You know it’s not going to work.”
“Come on. I’ve been behaving, haven’t I?” I spin in my seat and instantly regret it when she laughs at my expense. Five hurricanes and balance do not blend.
There’s a flurry of activity as security guards stomp through the bar and toward the lobby. There’s some sort of big meeting or convention happening, lots of suits with black sunglasses and lanyards and press badges hanging around.
“Maybe,” Angelique says in that sweet Southern accent of hers. “But you’ve spent the last two nights here in this bar. You should be out celebrating. With people. Especially today.”
I suck the straw to get the sugary liquid at the bottom of my drink. “You’re people. They’re people.” I point at the couple at the opposite end of the bar who are so wrapped up in an embrace that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
I want to roll my eyes at them, but I turn to Angelique instead. I breathe deep and sit back. I give her the look she says won’t work on her. I may not know a lot of things, like what I want to do with the rest of my life or how to be in a relationship for more than a week, but I know how to make women feel good.
I love them. All of them.
So much, that I’ve never allowed myself to be in a relationship because it wouldn’t be fair to hurt anyone. I am the way I am. For twenty-four years, I’ve known how women react to me.
Fine, fine—Latino culture gives me all these advantages. I get that. My cousins Ginelle and Adriana remind me of the fact every time I visit home and get all the attention. My mother, for instance. There has never been someone as perfect as me in the eyes of my mother and my grandmother and my aunts.
Even if it isn’t true, they made me believe it. I grew up adored, loved so deeply that I’m afraid I can’t ever replicate that. Part of me doesn’t want to. My mother said that when I was born, the nurses in the hospital were all in love with me. My elementary school teachers gave me good grades because they couldn’t bear to make me look sad. My desk was overflowing with Valentine’s Day cards. Girls fought for me in high school hallways. I mean, I also got beat up a lot, but that’s another story.
Is it right that I get the kind of attention I do? No. Not always. But I’ve never claimed to be an angel, have I? Because of all of that, I’ve created a system to try my damnedest to stay out of trouble over the years. It’s a work in progress. Rule #1 in the Aiden Rios playbook: Don’t play games.
A little voice inside my head says, And what have these twenty-four years of adoration and rules and women brought you? Well, twenty-five, now.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Angelique tells me. And because she avoids my eyes and smiles once again, I know that I’ve already won.
“There is nowhere else I’d rather be tonight,” I say, hand to God, because rule #2 is Don’t lie. Lies are messy, even small ones. Even if I have to lose a client, it’s all better than getting caught in a web of my own making.
Angelique picks up her shaker and fills it with ice. “Okay, but this is the last one.”
“See?” I say, unbuttoning the top two buttons of my shirt and rolling up the sleeves of my royal blue blazer. It’s a little tight on my shoulders, but it was meant for taking off right away. “I’ve got everything I need right here and now.”
“You seem awfully dressed up for someone who wasn’t planning a night out on the town,” Angelique says, like she’s trying to draw out more of the story from me.
“Listen, mi reina, if I wanted to go out into that rowdy mess and step into some frat boy’s puke, I’d be out there. I have a good feeling about tonight.”
She purses her lips. “That’s generally the feeling rum gives you.”
“I can handle it.”
“You prepped your liver in Vegas?”
I chuckle, but look away. “I don’t want to talk about Vegas.”
She shrugs her shoulder but doesn’t pry. As with most of the people who come and go from her bar, she only knows superficial details of my life.
These are the things she knows: My name is Aiden Rios and I’m a dancer from New York by way of Vegas, previously starring in an all-male revue. When I’m in my cups, my Colombian-ness becomes more pronounced, and she seems to smile every time I drop “mi reina” in a sentence. I’m staying in the hotel, and I’m in town for a celebration that was cancelled about an hour ago, when my lady friend got a call that took her away on some official business I’m not allowed to ask about. Rule #3: No full names. No real names is even better.
These are the things she doesn’t know: I recently quit a really good thing in Vegas. A sure thing. I left my brothers in Mayhem City to pursue something else, a greatness I knew I was destined for. But that’s the thing—I’m not exactly sure what that something is anymore. I got greedy. I made shit bets. To get away from it all, I followed my lady friend, who pays me handsomely for my time and company.
I’m a stripper. An escort. Fucked, but not in the way I like. Sometimes my job can get messy, but that is what my playbook is for now. I know if I keep to my rules, the mess might just get less messy. I hope.
These are the rules I’ve always kept: Business is business. No feelings. No last names. No pictures and no videos. No sex unless both parties are into it after the contracted period has come to an end. No personal addresses. Hotels only, which I learned the hard way when one of my clients’ husbands came home early from some conference and I was massaging her feet.
I’ve always found it fairly easy to keep to these rules. But this time, something changed. I’m not in love or anything. I don’t think I’ve ever been in love, that’s the thing. I know, sad Aiden Rios. I’ve never had trouble finding a woman who will console me. And yet, when my client left an hour ago, I felt a hurt I haven’t in a while.
When I met Ginny, I was still in Vegas. She was on some errand for her husband, who I didn’t ask after. She’s a fine woman, tall and blond. A housewife, but without the Real Housewife surgery and claws. Just a smart, classy lady who picked me up at a whiskey bar in the Mandarin Hotel when I was at my lowest point. I hate whiskey but rich people and hipsters love to pay twenty dollars for an ounce of “the good stuff.” Anyway, Ginny told me she wanted to take me on a special trip. That New Orleans was incredible. That I should celebrate. That she needed to take her mind off her woes. But I’ve been here for two days, and I’ve only seen the river on the drive in and the inside of this hotel bar.
It is a very nice bar with a marble top and fancy lighting that makes everyone look a little bit better. So I’ve got that going for me.
To be honest with myself, I didn’t really want to come to New Orleans, but Ginny knew I was in a bad place after the mess I left behind. Like I said, she couldn’t bear to see me upset, and so she brought me here on vacation. Funny thing is, I’m not used to my clients trying to take care of me, and it started to feel nice. She’s from Louisiana and went on and on about college teams and let it slip her daughter is at university. Things were looking solid.
But then something happened. I didn’t ask why, couldn’t ask why, but Ginny came into the suite (prepaid in cash for the week, of course) to pick up her weekend bag, stuffing in things from the safe and closet in a hurry. Just by the frown lines on her forehead, I could tell something was wrong.
“I’m so sorry, but I have to go. My husband—” She massaged the bridge of her nose and slumped onto the living room couch. I brushed her hair over her neck and rubbed the anxious knot there. She melted right away. Her tension slipped into my fingers as they dug gently into her shoulder muscles.
“You don’t have to explain,” I said. But part of me wanted an explanation. I had no right to ask for it. Rule #4: She can call things off at any time. I made the rules, after all. “I’ll be here when you get back.” But part of me wants to go somewhere. Anywhere. I’ve never felt as alone as I do right now.
“I’ll be back in a week,” Ginny said. “The room is paid for and I left my card for incidentals. I ordered up some champagne.” She pressed the red stain of her lips on my cheek, and walked out that door.
I shouldn’t be upset. Ginny is a client, and I’m what I’ve always been: a well-dressed escort at an upscale bar.
Alone, a little voice chides me in the back of my head. That voice sounds surprisingly like my boy Fallon. Just because Fallon got himself wifed up, he’s been trying to get all of us to settle down.
Dust settles and I am not dust.
Here, in the Hotel Sucré’s bar, Angelique is all the company I need. Plus, she makes killer drinks, and I love her stories about performing in Vegas. She’s cool people, even if she seems to see right through me in a way others don’t.
“If you’d rather spend the night in, then why in God’s green earth have you been sulking all night?” Angelique asks.
I clear my throat and sit back. “I’m not sulking. I’m brooding. There’s a difference.”
“And an ass is just a horse with shorter legs,” she says, and narrows her rich brown eyes at me. “A good-looking guy like you? Don’t you have a girlfriend?”
I evade the question. “You think I’m good-looking?”
She sets her rag on the marble top. “You know you’re good-looking. A boyfriend? A wife?”
“No on all accounts. You know how it is.”
“I haven’t found the right girl, either, Aiden,” she says.
“Well, I haven’t found her because I’m not looking,” I say, and drink the watered-down remnants in my glass and crunch on some ice. When I was in junior high, my cousin Suzie said that she’d read in a magazine that chewing on ice was a sign of sexual frustration. I tilt the glass back too far, and ice comes tumbling around my f
ace. Man, I’m in rare form.
Angelique hands me a stack of napkins. “Now you’re cut off unless you start drinking some water.”
So I do as my alcohol therapist tells me and drink some fancy bottled mineral water that advertises a mountain range in the Alps. I shoulder off my suit jacket and drape it over my chair to save my seat because I’ve had to go to the bathroom for hours. I just didn’t want to get up and lose precious real estate.
Plus, I can’t shake the feeling that I have to be here in this moment at this time. I’m superstitious but not as superstitious as my mom was or the way Tía Ceci and grandmother Socorro still are. They believed in the Almighty’s divine intervention. My tía Ceci knows what I do for a living, but no one else does. They believe you catch people’s bad energies, and I know they’d say that what I do puts me around a lot of that. I know if my grandma Socorro felt this same feeling I have right now—that I shouldn’t move or go out or even back to my room, though my bladder is about to burst—she’d tell me that something is happening and to wait for it.
But I can’t wait for it, and maybe that’s my biggest problem.
As I make my way through the bustling lobby, I try to tuck those thoughts away. I concentrate on the party of bachelorettes that are having pre-night-out drinks in the lounge. The bride looks decadent in a white minidress that’s painted on. Her bridesmaids are in color-coordinated black and gold dresses that complement the different shades of brown and black of their smooth skin.
