Strip Search

by Erin McCarthy

  Strip Search

  Erin McCarthy

  Copyright © 2018 by Erin McCarthy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art by Hang Le

  Connect with Erin:

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  www.erinmccarthy.net

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  About the Author

  Also by Erin McCarthy

  One

  Looking out into the crowd of screaming women, Axl Moore felt like the all-you-can-eat buffet at Sizzler and no one had taken a meal in days.

  Not that he was complaining.

  He wasn’t an attention whore on a regular day but for the second annual Tap That charity event he had to admit it didn’t suck to have women think he was hot. He and his best friends, Rick, Jesse, and Brandon hadn’t even taken the stage yet for their so-called dance routine. AKA hip thrusting and winking.

  “I’m so getting laid tonight,” Jesse said, as they stood just off-stage. He was tossing a hockey puck up and down in his hands.

  Given that Jesse was a pro hockey player, Axl was pretty sure he was getting laid most nights. But it was a requirement in their twenty-year friendship that Axl give Jesse shit. “Not with your dancing skills,” he ribbed him.

  Jesse snorted. “Okay, I can admit that I can’t dance. But you won’t be getting laid with your charm either, asshole. You need to work on your game face.”

  “This isn’t a game.” Axl held handcuffs in his hand, his Beaver Bend police department uniform feeling tighter than usual. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out.

  A text from his mother.

  Maybe you’ll meet a nice girl tonight. Remember to smile!

  That actually made him laugh. He showed the text to his friends. “Jesse, are you in a conspiracy with my mom? Or do you just think like a girl?”

  Brandon laughed. “Dude, I don’t know what’s funnier. That your mother thinks the only thing holding you back is a lack of a smile, or that she thinks a Magic Mike knock-off show with total amateurs in small-town Minnesota is the place to meet a forever girl.”

  “You mean it’s not?” he asked, sarcastically. “Perfectly fine with me because I have no plans for a forever girl.” Marriage was not on his bucket list.

  “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss it,” Rick said. “You never know who is out there in the crowd tonight. Look at me and Sloane.”

  Rick had hooked up with Sloane O’Toole after this event the year before, much to the chagrin of their other buddy Sullivan, who happened to be Sloane’s brother. “You fucked your best friend’s hot older sister. I don’t think I can top that.” Nor did he want to.

  “Hey. We’re still going strong a year later. That could be you next year.” Rick gave him a grin.

  “I wouldn’t bet your auto body shop on it. Because you’ll lose.” Axl was the very definition of content. He liked being alone, even if no one else, and sometimes even he, didn’t understand why. He enjoyed women. He appreciated their soft skin, and their curves, and light, sweet voices. He thought women were amazing creatures that occasionally he got to touch.

  But he knew women had emotional expectations and needs and generally speaking, he would fail to live up to them because he wasn’t Rick, who laughed easily and had been in love with Sloane from the age of fifteen. Or Sullivan, who had loved his wife Kendra since high school, and was still devastated from her death.

  Then there was Jesse fully enjoying being single. If anyone, Brandon might get where Axl was coming from, but at the same time, Brandon was a serious and accomplished flirt, and he was more the “you, me, my place,” kind of guy.

  He scanned the crowd, casually. Amused that it seemed like every woman in Beaver Bend was at the bar, from twenty-one year old Rachel Ryder to Mrs. Dobish, who was ninety if she was a day. In her wheelchair, wearing a hot pink cardigan, she was waving a twenty. Damn.

  Lilly, the choreographer, spoke into a microphone. “Hey, everyone! Give a warm welcome to our Tap That Dancers, back for our second annual Breast Cancer Awareness Event! Let’s hear it for the boys!”

  The crowd roared. The music started. Axl felt nothing more than casual amusement, entertained by the break in his normal day-to-day routine. He stepped onto stage.

  The room was a sea of familiar faces, the hallmark of small-town life. Most women were in jeans and T-shirts or clingy silky shirts and were women he recognized.

  “Introduce yourselves, guys,” Lilly said, holding the mic to each of them in turn. “Tell us something we would never guess about you.”

  “I’m Axl,” he said, twirling the handcuffs on his index finger. “But you can call me Officer Moore.”

  “Oooh, more what?” Lilly asked, giving him a grin.

  “More of everything.”

  The women screamed even louder and he smirked at the idea that somewhere out there in the throng was a forever girl.

  Jesse had the right idea. If ever there was a perfect opportunity to get laid, this was it.

  The door opened and a blonde wearing a dress, her generous curves outlined gloriously in it, slipped into the bar.

  The night just got a whole lot more interesting.

  * * *

  “You have to bring it,” Sadie Spencer barked to Leighton Van Buren on the phone. “I need you to be on, do you understand me? On.”

  Leighton stood outside a bar named Tap That and took a deep breath, nodding. “Bring it. Right. Got it.” Her stomach hurt because she really kind of sucked at bringing it. She could hear her mother yelling, “Sparkle, baby!” as she shoved her onto the stage at beauty pageants. That terror of having no clue at five years old how to sparkle.

  She still didn’t know how to sparkle. She wasn’t even sure what it meant, exactly.

  She could organize your spreadsheets.

  Be on time.

  Create an elaborate party theme.

  Corral a pack of barking Chihuahuas.

  All of which she had done, and excelled at, as her boss Sadie’s Creative Director for the hit bridal show, Wedding Crashers.

  “I’m trusting you, Leighton. I really, desperately feel like you need to push yourself. I know you’re nervous, but you can do this. Our recent footage has just been dull and I have the producer on my ass. I need you to whip this bride up and get some outrageous footage before I get to wherever we’re going next week.”

  “Beaver Bend, Minnesota,” Leighton said, her palms starting to sweat as she stood on the sidewalk outside of a classic bar. Like a roadhouse bar. A dive bar. Nothing like what she was used to in Los Angeles. There were no bouncers or doormen or lines to get in the club. Not that she ever went to clubs at home, but she saw them. Here the Tap That sign was fluorescent, glowing in the darkness of a Minnesota summer night. The parking lot was crowded with trucks and motorcycles and what seemed odd to her, minivans. She was expecting a biker gang to burst out at any moment or maybe a Patrick Swayze lookalike to strut out and call her “little lady.”

  “Oh, that’s right, Minnesota. God, why do they send us to these places?” Sadie asked with a groan.

  “Everyone loves a small town, Sadie. It’s
good TV. Most of America is not LA and New York City and people want something relatable. I should go meet up with the bride though. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Fun, Leighton. Give good face, seriously, or we’re going to have to talk about your future at Wedding Crashers.”

  Wait. What? She was going to be fired? Oh, my God. Leighton didn’t even know what she said as she mumbled her way through a goodbye. She could not lose this job. She couldn’t. Like, she really couldn’t. She had signed a non-compete contract so no one else in LA would hire her in the industry. Which was her only skill set, unfortunately.

  On a day-to-day basis she loved this job. Florals and lace and organization made her happy. Her parents were already disappointed in her and if she got fired from the job they had gotten her an interview for, she had no idea what she would do with her life. She was the two things that did not fly in LA—introverted and not a size zero. Not even close. It had been an annoyance her whole life, which was frustrating because she happened to like herself. She was smart, she was thoughtful, she was creative. And she was short and curvy and all one hundred percent natural because she was content with the way she looked.

  Her mother and Sadie might beg to differ, but Leighton felt no need to change who she was.

  Besides, she was good at this damn position. She was. Why did she have to “bring it?” Which she thought was code for being a person who talked a lot at a high volume. That was Sadie’s job. Her responsibility was to do everything else. And side note, she didn’t do the casting for these segments. If the bride wasn’t excited enough, she wasn’t sure how that was her fault, but whatever. There was no use arguing with an egomaniac of a boss.

  Dropping her phone into her clutch, she rubbed her palms down the front of her peach cocktail dress. She was fairly certain she had dressed wrong for this venue. Appropriate dress was always her goal and she might have missed the mark this time. But it was the bride-to-be’s bachelorette party and she had envisioned dinner and cocktails. That’s what the bride had said. Dinner and cocktails.

  More like beer and cock.

  That was the horrified thought that entered Leighton’s mind when she yanked open the heavy wood door and stepped into a crowd of women clapping and cheering for male strippers. She actually heard herself gasp before she quickly pressed her lips together.

  Oh, no. This was not her arena. She was Sunday brunches and botanical gardens. Quiet events, where she could fade into the flowers and pretend she didn’t have social anxiety. Not loud raucous bars with beer and…booty.

  “Holy…” She swallowed hard as she studied the four men on stage in various state of undress, hip thrusting and dancing and winking.

  She was used to buff men in LA. They were everywhere, wearing plunging V-necks and golden tans. But they were polished, high-maintenance, attention seeking. These guys were manly men. Manly, like they legitimately strolled in from their day job and started stripping. They looked real and like they were having a blast, not making a buck.

  One was a hockey player. Another was wearing a suit. The third was in a mechanic’s work uniform and tool belt.

  Then there was the cop.

  Leighton swallowed hard as she took in the sight of him. Black pants, shiny black shoes. No shirt, displaying a muscular chest, with a faint farmer’s tan. A tan from the sun, not the salon. Handcuffs swirling around his finger, mirrored sunglasses covering his eyes. He had black short hair, tidy and trim. But it was his expression that really did her in. He did not look suave or charming or amused.

  He looked like the kind of man who would pick a woman up, throw her against a wall, and make her scream with pleasure.

  How she knew that, she had no idea. She’d never been thrown against a wall in her life.

  Flustered, Leighton fanned herself and tore her gaze away from the strippers. She needed to find the bride and “bring it,” not get a tingle in her vagingle for a total stranger in Beaver Bend. Ironic name, that was. Her beaver would bend over backwards for that cop. There were groups of women of all ages, and a few men. The bartender was shaking his head as he watched the act on stage, like he found the whole thing ridiculous.

  Finally, Leighton spotted Winnie Schwartz, the bride who had won a spot on Wedding Crashers. The way the show worked was Sadie’s team came in, did a whirlwind makeover of the wedding that the bride and groom had planned, then blew on back out. Leighton usually arrived a week in advance to secure a new venue and arrange for floral, catering, etc, while Sadie flew in the day before the actual wedding. Leighton didn’t do any filming. It was all presented as if every creative idea and venue hot spot was Sadie’s idea, not Leighton’s. But because this particular couple did not have a gut-wrenching backstory to film, Sadie wanted Leighton to manufacture some outrageous moments. A crew was meeting her here in twenty minutes to get some clips of the bride with her friends at her bachelorette party. They would film three or four hours so they had plenty of shots and moments to draw from to get about sixty seconds of footage. Surely Leighton could force herself to be witty or adorable or probing and pushy or something in that timeframe to force a reaction.

  She found herself desperately wishing her mother were here. Barbie Van Buren knew how to make drama happen.

  Winnie, having met with her that afternoon, recognized Leighton and stood up. She enthusiastically waved her over.

  Yep, Leighton had chosen the wrong outfit. Winnie was in tight jeans and an equally form-hugging T-shirt that read “Cheers, Bitches.” There was a veil on her head and a large dildo on a string of beads around her neck. She was going to have to lose the penis before filming. Leighton hated to be a cockblock but they were a so-called family show.

  Winnie reached out and enveloped her in a hug when she got to the table. Having come from a family who avoided physical affection like an IRS audit, Leighton was always startled when people she barely knew invaded her personal space. But in the interest of bringing it, she hugged Winnie back. They had clicked when they’d met that afternoon. Winnie had zero social awkwardness and Leighton envied that. She had also thought Winnie seemed genuinely in love with her fiancé and happy with her career as a dog groomer. It must be nice to have everything you’d ever wanted. Or at least confidence in what you said.

  Leighton had never had that. She’d developed a stutter by age three and her mother’s insistence that beauty pageants would fix the problem had done nothing but erode her already shaky confidence. The stutter had eventually gone away, the anxiety had not. Even as she hugged Winnie back and asked her if she were having fun, she was wishing they could sit down. Standing in the middle of a crowd of seated people made her far too much the center of attention. All she could think was that everyone was looking at her and were probably annoyed that she was blocking their view.

  “Sit, sit!” Winnie said, grabbing an empty chair from the next table and pulling it next to her.

  It was jutting out into the aisle and blocking the server’s path, but at least Leighton could sink down into obscurity. Loud social events just wrung her nerves.

  That blissful relief lasted all of one minute before an attractive and fit brunette bounded onto the stage with a mic and shouted, “Let’s hear it for our bachelorette party! Congrats to Winnie Schwartz on her upcoming nuptials to Todd Lawrence!”

  Winnie gave an ear-splitting shriek of excitement.

  The Wedding Crashers cameraman, Jackson, appeared at Leighton’s side, hunched down so he could talk to her. “It’s going to be hard to set anything up in here,” he yelled, cupping his hand to her ear. “We don’t have any room for lighting or a mic it’s so crowded. Do you think we can clear some of these people out?”

  Leighton studied the enthusiastic women drinking and having fun. “Uh, no. I’m not throwing these people out of a Friday night hot spot.” She envisioned being punched in the face by an irate Minnesotan. “Just get a few shots of Winnie and then we can interview her in the parking lot.”

  “Come on up here, Winnie,” the woma
n up front with the mic said. “The Tap That Dancers want to congratulate you.”

  Winnie leapt up with a dexterity that made Leighton’s eyes widen. It was like she’d won ten million dollars.

  “Come on, girls!” she said to her bridesmaids.

  Four women around the table stood up with varying degrees of enthusiasm, but they were all good-natured.

  “You, too, Leighton!” Winnie grabbed her arm.

  “Oh, no…” She shook her head in horror. “It’s your wedding, I couldn’t. No, no.”

  “I insist!” Winnie tugged harder.

  Leighton shot a look of panic at Jackson, who had known her for two years.

  He grinned. “Go for it.”

  “Traitor.” She had thought he would save her. But he looked amused by the prospect. “I can’t do this, Jackson.”

  “Of course you can.” He gave her a double thumbs up. “Have some fun for a change.”

  Fun. Why couldn’t people ever appreciate that her idea of fun did not involve booty grinding? Her fun was a book, a cup of tea, and smelling the roses. Literally. Not dancing on a platform.

  But before she could figure out a strategy to hide behind one of the muscled men and give a few tepid dance moves, Winnie shoved her up on stage and she collided with the hockey player. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” she murmured, feeling her cheeks burn.

  “No problem.” He tried to move past her and they both went the same way and bumped into each other again. He laughed.

  Leighton was horrified. She jumped backward and landed against a wall. Only that wall had arms that reached out and steadied her. Anxiety causing her throat to constrict, she whirled around and found herself face-to-face with the stern and super sexy cop. She had to raise her chin to look into his eyes and what she saw there made her want to die. He wasn’t laughing. She opened her mouth to apologize but nothing came out.