Stripped Love (Guys Next Door Book 1)

by Baylin Crow

  Stripped Love

  Baylin Crow

  Stripped Love by Baylin Crow

  Copyright 2020 Baylin Crow

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, locations and events portrayed in this work are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity is purely coincidental.

  The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording or photocopying without written permission from the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.

  Any images or models shown on covers are for illustration purposes only. The characters depicted and any texts expressed in this story are not reflective of any models shown.

  Cover Design by Cate Ashwood

  Model Mickey Taylor

  Proofread by Jill Wexler

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Series Note

  Prologue

  1. Archer

  2. Archer

  3. Phoenix

  4. Archer

  5. Phoenix

  6. Archer

  7. Phoenix

  8. Archer

  9. Phoenix

  10. Archer

  11. Phoenix

  12. Archer

  13. Phoenix

  14. Archer

  15. Archer

  16. Phoenix

  17. Archer

  18. Phoenix

  19. Archer

  20. Phoenix

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About Baylin

  Ways To Connect With Baylin

  Guys Next Door Series

  Also Available: Fling

  Also Available: Risk

  Also Available: Quarterback Sneak

  Also Available: Broken Play

  Also Available: Recovered Fumble

  Also Available: Scar

  Series Note

  The series is compiled of loosely tied standalone novels, meaning they can be read completely on their own. Other characters from previous and future books will only make brief appearances.

  What you can expect is the next-door theme in every title. From neighbors to roommates, offices side-by-side, hotel rooms that share a wall, and more—the stories will feature couples who are only a door away.

  If you’re a fan of close or forced proximity, let me introduce you to the Guys Next Door.

  Prologue

  Phoenix

  The rich scent of fresh coffee beans brewing hit my nose, and a bell chimed as I stepped through the door to the corner coffee house. Dressed in my uniform, minus the matching green hat I hated, I headed for the counter where my coworker, Stacy, was filling a ceramic cup of coffee.

  I had an hour until my shift started, so with my notebook stuffed under my arm, I took my place at the end of the short line. When it was my turn, she was already putting my usual order together.

  "Mornin', Nix," she greeted with a twang almost as thick as the artist crooning a country love song through the shop's speakers. Stacy, or Stace as I called her, slid open the back of the display case full of baked goods, snagging a strawberry muffin.

  "Slow morning?" I quickly scanned the shop, noting only a few customers spread out among the booths and tables.

  She folded the muffin with a wrapper before stuffing it in a paper bag and wrinkled her freckled nose. "What else is new?"

  "Solid point." My lips quirked in a grin that she matched.

  Her red ponytail was threaded through the hole in the back of her green uniform cap. With a pep in her step, she twirled around, sending the curly strands swishing around her back, and headed to the espresso machine. As she filled my cup, she tilted her chin toward the small stage that took up the far corner of the room. "You playing tonight when you get off?"

  I wished. Propping my elbows on the counter, I shook my head. "Nope. When I get out of here, I lucked out with an extra shift at the record store."

  "Bummer." She returned with the steaming mug and set it on the counter.

  I dug out the money to pay, counting change because my broke ass had to pay my third of rent the day before. Even with two roommates, both songwriters who'd moved to Nashville hoping for a big break like me, rent was barely manageable in the dense city full of struggling artists spanning multiple genres.

  Nodding, I grabbed the bag and mug. "Paul has me slotted to play tomorrow night. I have to tweak a few lines in the song first anyway."

  "Good luck," she said with a wave, a not so subtle demand to make room for a customer who'd just come in behind me.

  Carrying my breakfast, I wove through the tables until I reached the one that sat in front of the stage. Even as the platform sat unused due to the early hour, I drew inspiration from the close proximity, picturing myself sitting behind the mic with my acoustic guitar hooked around my shoulder.

  Oddly, that was the part I forced myself to get through. What I wanted—or rather dreamed of doing was writing those songs. Someone else could sing them. I'd never wanted the fame of becoming a vocalist. But after submitting song after song with only disappointment riding swiftly on their heels, rejection had led me to perform them myself. Anything to get my lyrics heard.

  I dropped the paper bag on the table top and set the mug down before I sat. The wooden chair was uncomfortable, a fact I'd pointed out to Paul, my manager, a number of times.

  Slipping the notebook from under my arm, I turned the pages full of half-written songs until I found my most recent work. I blew on the scalding hot coffee and shut out the mild noise coming from around me as I read through the lyrics in time with the melody playing in my head.

  There were two lines I wasn’t satisfied with, so I snatched the pencil from behind my ear and drew a line through them.

  The words flowed like a moving picture that played through my mind about losing the one you loved—which I had to admit gave me trouble, considering I'd never actually been in love. But I'd always been drawn to rock ballads, and this was the song I couldn't seem to let go, no matter how much I heard the phrase write what you know.

  I sipped on my coffee before pulling the muffin from the bag, tearing off a piece and stuffing it in my mouth. Intensely focused on the song that was almost complete, I sighed when my phone rang in my pocket. I wiped the crumbs from my fingers not holding the pencil onto the napkin before fishing my phone from my pocket.

  Mom flashed on the screen, odd because she rarely called and when she did, it tended to be in the evenings when she was off work.

  I swiped the answer icon. “Hey, Mom.”

  "Phoenix," she whispered with an unfamiliar weak voice.

  I frowned because, if nothing else, my mom had always been a strong woman, physically and emotionally. Fiercely protected behind an impenetrable wall that shut people out, including me.

  My instincts put me on high alert. "What's wrong?"

  She blew out a shaking breath that rattled through the receiver. "I need you to come home. I'm…not well."

  The drive to Atlanta was long, made worse by the anxiety swirling in my gut. By the time I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home, my stomach churned with nausea from the stress.

  When I stepped into the house, I paused at the sight of my mom sitting on the couch. Her hair hung in greasy waves in place of her usual straightened shiny locks. Her skin was pale and dark circles shadowed her eyes.

  My mother
struggled to her feet, and I swallowed hard as I scanned over her frail body. Over the six months I'd been gone, her health had declined at a rapid pace, and I barely recognized the woman who gave birth to me.

  She worried her lip as a lone tear trickled down her cheek. "I'm so sorry, Phoenix. I should have told you."

  I hadn't known how bad the news would be, or how my dreams would come to a grinding halt. My responsibilities shifted with one devastating conversation. Taking care of my mother and the mound of bills stacked on the kitchen table instantly became my priority.

  That night as I lay in my old bed, struggling to find the words—an outlet for the restless grief haunting me, they wouldn't come. Though we’d never been close, she was still my mom and the only family I had. I’d never suffered real loss before and now would be staring at the inevitable end of her life nearing each day. I’d always loved my mom, as much as she’d let me, and could already feel the regrets closing in on me.

  I slid my notebook in the bedside drawer, not knowing the song I'd worked on only the day before would be the last for a long time.

  1

  Archer

  Two Years Later

  "You ready, Arch?" CJ, one of my two best friends and college roommate, slung a heavy arm over my shoulders, jostling me around. His ice blue eyes lit with excitement beneath a fringe of onyx colored hair.

  Caleb, CJ's identical twin and my other best friend, stood at my other side. Towering over me, the school’s basketball stars sandwiched me as we stepped out of the parking garage where we'd left CJ’s Jeep. The sounds of the city filled the night, and a warm breeze cut through the stifling Deep South’s humidity as we stood beneath the glow of a street lamp.

  I shrugged and stuffed my hands in my jean pockets as I eyed the upscale gay strip club across the street. A bright neon sign that read The Bared Lounge in modern font may have been a welcome beacon to some, but the appeal was lost on me. “I think you guys are more excited about this than I am."

  Caleb pulled a cigarette from behind his ear and dug a lighter out of his pocket. He lit up and then exhaled a cloud of smoke as he grinned. "Excited for you."

  CJ scowled and waved the haze away. “Dude, other people have to breathe over here.”

  The scent of cigarette smoke never bothered me, but the twins were constantly bickering about it.

  Caleb stepped several feet away and smirked. “Better, dude?”

  CJ rolled his eyes and then his gaze turned to me. "We really do just want you to have a good time for your birthday. If you hate it, we'll bail. Okay?"

  I didn’t understand why I couldn’t just stay home and gorge myself on cookies and ice cream cake until I was sick to my stomach and work on my graphic novel. But they’d insisted on taking me out, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. “But what about you guys?”

  We were momentarily blinded by headlights turning toward the garage, and I lifted my hand to shield my eyes. Once I could see again, I lowered my hand and blinked the dark spots away.

  “What about us?” CJ asked.

  "How is this fun for you?" I tucked a dark auburn curl behind my ear and frowned. "Neither of you are gay."

  CJ cocked a dark brow. "So?"

  "So?" I repeated flatly and glanced between the two of them. "You do realize the entertainment is men with an aversion to clothing, right?"

  "Of course we do." Caleb said as he tossed his cigarette on the sidewalk and crushed it beneath his black motorcycle boot. Smirking, he ruffled my unruly curls, gripped my shoulders and gave me a push to get my feet moving toward the club. "We'll enjoy the show, have a few drinks…see how the night goes." He waggled his dark brows when I glanced back at him. "You only live once. Now, let's get this show on the road.”

  They stepped up to flank my sides as we crossed the street. Both a head taller than me, I hurried to keep up with their long strides so I didn't get left behind. The closer we drew to the building the more energy charged the air, and a slow deep bass thumped through the thick double doors.

  In front of the building, a small gathering of well-dressed men waited in a short line to get inside, and a hulking bald man stood by the door in a suit and tie, scanning IDs. Sunglasses covered his eyes, but I could sense his disapproval lingering on me as we stepped up next after the other men had gone through.

  My navy short-sleeved basic tee paired with faded jeans and scuffed white tennis shoes seemed out of place. Even CJ and Caleb were at least dressed in button ups, but I'd refused because I was comfortable in my outfit. Remembering the group before us, I realized my choice of wardrobe made me stick out rather than blend in like I’d hoped. As far as I was aware, there was no dress code so I brushed it off.

  "ID." The blunt word was monotone from the expressionless man guarding the door.

  I dug for my wallet in my back pocket and pulled out my driver's license while Caleb spoke to him about our VIP reservation.

  After we offered our cards, he opened the door and gestured us through.

  The music set a sensual tone with its slow, hypnotic beat that vibrated through the air, and the scent of colognes and sweat filled my nose. The dimly lit room was crowded, and between the song playing, chatter and whistles, it was overwhelmingly loud.

  CJ gripped my elbow. "C'mon, Arch. VIP's this way."

  Keeping me close to him, CJ steered me around the room toward a staircase that led to a second floor balcony with Caleb at my back.

  A purple velvet rope was latched across the staircase, and a bouncer—who could have been a doppelgänger to the one who stood outside—waited next to it with a tablet in his hands.

  "Name?" he asked with a bored tone as he tapped on the screen.

  I stepped forward. "Archer W—"

  CJ squeezed my elbow. "I got us, Arch."

  "Okay." As he spoke to the man, my gaze wandered around the packed club.

  High back chairs were clustered around tables that scattered across the floor space while long slate gray leather benches custom-aligned the walls, hugging the corners and hooking around curves. A bar was stationed on the far left of the room, and every stool was occupied while three bartenders hustled to fill drinks.

  But what grabbed my attention the most was the main stage. Or rather what was happening on that stage. A blue-tinted spotlight haloed a guy, who appeared to be around my age, wearing what was left of a vintage Navy uniform. Nope, there went the rest of it. Down to wearing only a jockstrap, he moved to the music, and my eyes widened as he ran his hands down his oiled bare chest glistening beneath the light. He thrust his hips in dramatic sways which I found oddly amusing. My lips twitched.

  Caleb leaned down with a chuckle. "I don't think that's the reaction he's going for. If you’re done gawking, we can head upstairs now.”

  Bumping his shoulder, I waved my hand. “I’m just waiting on you.”

  He scoffed but led the way without comment.

  The upper floor was similar to the main floor in appearance. But the tables were spread further apart and instead of high back chairs, bucket seats were upholstered in the same slate colored leather.

  We were met by a waiter who appeared to be in his twenties, only wearing a skintight pair of thin black shorts that just barely covered the swell of his ass, and the three of us were shown to a square table pushed close to the railing.

  CJ ushered me into a seat with a direct view of the stage, and I sank into the plush cushion while they each sat across from me.

  “Here you go, gentlemen.” The waiter placed a bottle of top shelf vodka on the table with three short glasses. “I’ll be by to check on you in a bit.”

  After thanking him, I continued to scan the space. Booths with gauzy curtains partitioned each section, giving the illusion of privacy, but in truth, there wasn’t any. From where I sat, I had a good view of an older man being treated to a lap dance from a very enthusiastic young entertainer. People were always saying do what you love, and this guy seemed to really enjoy his job, I mused.

  F
ingers snapped in front of my face, and I jerked back.

  "Earth to Archer." Lips tilted in an amused grin, CJ held one of the glasses of expensive vodka out to me, and I frowned. Still I took it and sipped the nasty drink. I paid for it with a shudder, and he snickered. “We gotta get you liquored up so we can talk you into one of those.” He tilted his chin toward the dancer, who was still very much into the routine. “Then you can eye-fuck your own dancer, instead of perving on that guy’s good time.”

  My nose wrinkled. "I was doing no such thing, Corey Joe."

  And I wasn't. I was merely curious. In fact, while I was definitely gay, I rarely took interest in guys. Never enough to do anything about it anyway. Something they both knew.

  "Oh no, you're in trouble now, Corey Joe. He’s breaking out with the full name," Caleb drawled, attempting and failing to mimic my southern accent—yes, I had one, but it wasn't that bad. Not like most of the folks in the state, probably because though I was born in Georgia, I’d spent a large chunk of my life living with my mom and stepdad in Florida. But the twins had been Georgia transplants from Vermont five years ago, so the accent hadn't taken root at all.

  "Okay, okay. No one's in trouble…yet." CJ snagged my glass and tipped up the bottle, topping it off, before pushing it back across to me. "Peace offering."

  I eyed the glass with disgust. Caleb had no such problems and downed his in one long gulp. CJ followed right behind him, slamming his cup back to the tabletop. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shot me a grin. "Bottoms up, birthday boy."