Stripping Her Defenses Read online

  Before going to Casey’s, I stop by my condo and change clothes. The down side to my job is the stuffy suits I have to wear: reasonable, past knee-length skirts; reasonable women’s dress pants; and reasonable button up shirts. I might hate them, yet in a sad way, the dress code fits my life—reasonable.

  It’s not long into girl’s night before the difference in our lifestyle’s show.

  “Damn, we’re not even halfway through the first movie, and you’re ready for bed? What the hell? Grandparents stay up later than you,” my best friend wakes me out of my doze.

  “Sorry, some of us keep normal business hours,” I joke back.

  “Yeah, your hours scream forty-two, not twenty-four, as does everything else in your life.”

  “I’m not that bad,” I protest half-heartedly. However, that voice of doubt says “maybe I am.” Maybe my stiff upbringing has rubbed off on me more than I care to admit.

  My parents raised me to be an example. As the oldest of three, I had to be the light to guide my younger sisters, Madyson and Mallory. Everything with my parents was about fitting the mold, keeping up appearances. Their brainwashing worked to some degree. Going away to college did nothing for me in my attempt to escape my overbearing parents, either. No, they live in my head, every rule engraved into my brain matter. Too bad no one warned me there is no cure and no escape once they get those rules engrained into your very being.

  I am a twenty-four-year-old virgin. A college educated, suit wearing, have my shit together prude. Yep, that’s me. I wouldn’t know what to do with a penis if it was given to me gift wrapped in Christmas paper, and topped with a bow.

  Morgan Ann Powell: pathetic, stiff, and borderline pseudo-old lady—that is me. I am, quite possibly, the only woman in her twenties who can count on one hand how many guys she has kissed. I am not cut out for parties, guys, or any wild times, either. My destiny is to be the old lady who lives alone, feeding all the stray cats in the neighborhood.

  “I’m a loser.” Sighing, I look over to my best friend. “Sorry for ruining your night off.”

  “Stop it! You aren’t a loser and nothing is ruined. I was dozing off, too.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not often you get a Friday night off. Spending it on the couch with your socially inept friend isn’t an ideal night.”

  Slapping my thigh, she laughs. “With everything I see at the club, a night in is heaven.”

  Casey is my drop-dead gorgeous best friend. She also happens to be a headlining stripper at a local club, After Midnight. Her perky, full breasts; tiny waist; and hips give her the picture-perfect, hourglass figure. Her long, black hair is streaked in purple and teal, adding to the illusion of the wild woman she portrays on the stage. Her curves fall in all the right places, making her suited perfectly for optimal tips in her chosen profession. “Work with what you have been given,” she always says. And, boy, does she work. Inside, Casey is as calm and happy to stay at home as me, though.

  We had two completely different childhoods. While I grew up with strict parents and an overly structured life, Casey grew up with an ailing grandmother. Her dad is unknown and her mom overdosed when she was six, leaving a young Casey with her grandmother. When Nana died while we were teens, Casey ended up in foster care.

  She was fortunate. None of the horror stories of abuse and neglect happened to her in the many homes she was bounced between. The problem she faced was, at eighteen, she was tossed out. Sink, swim, or when all else fails, strip.

  Casey worked a few of the nasty clubs to begin with. After Midnight won’t take just anyone off the street, and she had no dance experience whatsoever. It was hard to watch her struggle. She was at the lowest of the low to begin with, places where the girls aren’t given choices and anything goes.

  Things changed when she got the job at After Midnight. The club has rules for the girls, and the patrons. She is well protected, paid, and actually enjoys her job. Other than the occasional drunk grabby guy, Casey doesn’t come home with bruises anymore.

  I have offered for her to live with me time and time again, even in college. My parents paid for not only my education, but my apartment and expenses, as well. I begged Casey to come with me, and we would find a way to make it work for her. However, she is stubborn and independent to a fault and refuses any type of handout.

  She wants to make it all on her own, and I applaud her determination. At the end of this semester, I will be there, proudly watching my very best friend receive her degree in sports medicine. She took the long, hard road less traveled and made it happen for herself.

  She is a fierce beauty, a fierce woman, and she has fierce loyalty—everything I am not.