Without You (a Stripped novella)

By Brooklyn Skye

Dear reader, the sexual content in this novella is more explicit than STRIPPED and is recommended for 17+.

She was broken when I met her, shattered from the death of her sister and running from love. Not to sound like an egotistical douche or anything, but I fixed her. Put her back together, filled in the cracks, and made her whole. A true fairytale in her eyes.

But now real life is getting in the way: school, jobs, and the unexpected opportunity to travel the world under a legendary photographer. This internship will open doors not even my father’s influence could. It’s something I’ve been waiting all my life for. But so is Quinn, and accepting this internship will mean leaving her.

And breaking her all over again.

**a novella to Amazon's best-selling New Adult novel STRIPPED**

**can be read as a standalone**

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brooklyn Skye
• Release date: Oct 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301463671

Brooklyn Skye

Brooklyn Skye grew up in a small town where she quickly realized writing was an escape from small town life. Really, she’s just your average awkward girl who’s obsessed with words. Her Best-Selling New Adult debut, STRIPPED, is out NOW! Represented by Bree Ogden of D4EO Literary Agency.

Book preview

WITHOUT YOU

a novella to Amazon’s best-selling New Adult novel STRIPPED

by

Brooklyn Skye

* * * *

WITHOUT YOU

Copyright © 2013 by Brooklyn Skye

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by Lisa Poff

Cover photo by Lisa Poff Photography

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

For each and every one of you who requested more Torrin,

this story would not exist without you…

April 20th

Only those who avoid love can avoid grief.

I don’t know, maybe Quinn was on to something by staying miles away from the one thing that can make her feel like she’s actually dying. Like her heart’s being ripped from her chest. Hollowing her out, emptying her veins until nothing but a fragile shell is left behind.

I rest my forehead against the locker, my hot breath mingling with cold metal. Water drips down my back, the ghost of a touch like one of Quinn’s fingertips. The whisper of her breath I may never feel again.

The heel of my palm slams numbly into the locker, echoing an angry blow throughout the small, stuffy room. No one’s around so I do it again. And again. I don’t know who to hate more; I don’t know who to blame for this ugliness inside me.

My hand balls into a fist, ready to strike again when, suddenly, Quinn’s tiny hands grab my wrists. I flinch at her touch, the way her soft fingers squeeze and restrain against the last bit of will that courses through my body. She looks up at me, eyes and lips flat and unsmiling.

Torrin, she whispers, stepping closer. Her bare leg brushes mine and if it were anyone else, I’d fight. Push away. Leave.

But not with her.

Never her.

Please don’t say anything, I say. More words linger under my breath, jagged and raw.

I love you.

You are my everything.

Don’t walk away.

I look into her eyes, try to memorize them without the glisten of tears and etch of lines crawling out from the corners…blurring through my own tears. She blinks, and a tiny teardrop slides onto her cheek.

Torrin, she says, louder and with more strength. Taking a deep breath she squares her shoulders, letting her arms fall to her sides and looks me dead-on. Cold and hard just like the first time I met her. You can’t stay.

April 7th

Two weeks earlier…

Stop rowing like a bunch of girls, and get your asses in gear!

A drop of sweat trickles down the side of my face and I push harder, digging the oars deep into the water. The boat propels farther into the bay and even though I can’t see Coach squatting in the dinghy beside us, I know by the sharp tone of his voice he’s pissed. At my lack of focus. Again.

I cringe at the blow, the unsaid That means you, Kingsley hanging in the salty air. Oars glide into the water, and the team in front of me groans. After a few clean strokes to recover from my poor catch, Andrew peeks over his shoulder, his sweaty face shimmering like he was just dipped in glitter.

Someone didn’t get laid last night.

I glance at my watch. Already eight tenths slower than the last pass and we’re not even to the bridge, yet. With a shrug, I force a smile to hide the tight knot in my stomach. And that’s different from every other night of your existence, how?

Pssht, he whisper-hisses to keep Coach from hearing. My virgin ass is going to thank me when I’m the only dude who emerges from this STD-infested college clean as a newborn baby. His chin jerks toward the dinghy. I meant Coach Cranky over there.

I bite back a chuckle. "TMI, Glaze. No one here needs to know the virgin state of your ass."

He jerks back his head, raising his voice just enough for the other guys to hear. My ass has never been touched. Let’s just make that very clear.

Beside us Coach’s boat sets off a low wake that laps against ours, the only sound in the vacant harbor aside from Brady’s hog-like snickers in front of Andrew.

Oh it’s clear, I whisper back. So is the fact that you need to shut up and stop dragging.

"I’m dragging? His shoulders tense as he digs harder and deeper than the rest of us, no doubt throwing us off by another tenth. Negative, Kingsley. You can’t blame this on me. I saw your bobble when you spotted her up there. He faces front and continues to run his mouth. Was it the cute purple dress? Ponytail? The way she smiiiled at you?"

Stuff it.

I steal another glimpse at Quinn. On the bench above the dock, sitting with her legs folded and a cotton dress draped over her knees, she’s picking at her nails instead of watching. Maybe she’s thinking about last night, too. Those nails scraping over my skin, her lips exploring every inch of my chest, the sound of my name as she begged me not to stop.

A burst of tingles spreads out from my stomach. I can die a happy man after last night—

Get ready to build, Coach suddenly blurts into the bullhorn, and I snap back to attention. Water sloshes the side of the boat, a cold drop landing on my arm. In front of me, Andrew straightens like the rest of the team—chest up—and we wait for Coach to count down to the push of fast, hard strokes that will bring us to the finish.

On Coach’s call, we sink our oars and grunt through each stroke until we pass the bridge and the voice in the bullhorn spouts, Kingsley, bring’em in. Coach speeds off in his dinghy and we all sit, silently stealing a moment to catch our breath.

A sailboat rounds the jetty, entering the harbor, and after a few minutes, I say, You heard the man. Let’s go in. On my command, the boat angles toward the dock. The ride back is quiet, every member of the team knowing exactly what will go down once our feet hit land. Lectures. Weights. An extra practice in the morning because we didn’t improve our time…

Andrew is forgiving. The other guys? Not so much.

We pull the boat from the water, lifting it high above our heads to carry back to the storage shed when Coach catches my eye. Andrew sees it, too.

Feel like sacrificing your best friend for the lecture, Cap? he says under his breath. Or you gonna go all Stefan Salvatore on us and suffer alone?

I squint at him. Who?

He shakes his head. Just some show my sister made me watch. Never mind.

Take in the team, I tell him, and remind them of this week’s schedule, would you? Gym Wednesday, back here Thursday, then dinner at Coach’s house for his birthday. I’ll let you know if there are any other changes.

The guys bear the weight of the stern as I duck out and head toward Coach, feeling Andrew’s eyes bore into my back. He’s sorry for me, even though he knows better.

From the bench, Quinn is now watching too. I hold up one finger, signaling I’ll be a minute and look away before she can read the creases on my face. It’s not unusual for me to talk to the coach after practice; Quinn knows this. However, the scowl he’s got twisting his sun-worn features isn’t something she’s used to seeing.

Sir? I say as I approach. He tucks a clipboard under his arm and adjusts his cap.

You wanna tell me what’s got my best crew member stuck in la-la land?

Yes, but talking about it makes it true. And I don’t know if I’m ready to admit the truth, yet. I strip off my shirt, swipe it across my forehead. Not a good day, I know—

Try week, Torrin. You’ve been rowing like a goddamn freshman all week.

Over Coach’s shoulder, I see Quinn tilt her head, attempting to listen to Coach’s words. If I tell him the real reason—about the letter that showed up in Monday’s mail delivery—she might hear.

And I can’t handle that yet, either.

I clear my throat. I’ll step it up. I promise.

Coach notices where I’m looking and gestures up the hill. I suggest you figure out your priorities. Girls and gold medals don’t mix. Understand?

I nod.

If you’re not going to give two hundred percent focus like you did in the beginning, maybe you need to reconsider where it is you want to be.

He doesn’t know how right on the nose he is.

I don’t have the time or patience to babysit my top crew, he continues, his stare hardening. I can’t tell if he’s messing with me or