Strip Me Bare (11 page)

Ryan and I make small talk while we wait for
Sean. The tension in the air is so thick that even the couple at
the next table can sense it. They keep glancing at us like we’re
suspected terrorists. I know Ryan is just as worried as I am about
meeting Sean. The waitress pours my third cup of coffee and, thanks
to Sean, Ryan has let the evil demons conversation go. For now.
Man, this has turned into one hell of a breakfast.

I look down as I take a sip of coffee, and
when I look back up I see a version of Ryan walking towards me. A
badass, Slim Shady version. My whole body stiffens as he
approaches. Sean is tall and lean like Ryan, but his shoulders are
a bit broader then his torso. He walks the same, with a hint of a
swagger. He’s dressed in an oversized white t-shirt and baggy
jeans. His right arm, from what I can see of it, is covered with
bright tattoos and if I had to put money on it, I’d say it’s a full
sleeve. He has on clean white sneakers and a black hat with a stiff
brim. I can’t see how long his hair is, but I can see his eyes.
They’re exactly the same as Ryan’s; cobalt blue, the color of
opulent sapphires. Except his have a shiftiness about them that
immediately puts me on edge.

“Hey bro,” Sean says as he clasps Ryan’s
hand. He pulls up an empty chair from another table and sits
between us.

He looks me over and then turns to Ryan,
cocking his head, “One of your groupies?”

Before Ryan can answer Sean goes on, “She
doesn’t look like one of your usuals.”

Usuals?

I stare quietly at Ryan. He’s turning fifty
shades of red.

“What’s Ryan’s usual?” I ask Sean evenly.

He shrugs, “You know, dark hair, light eyes.
Neither of which you have.”

“Do you know all of Ryan’s girlfriends?” I
ask coolly.

Sean’s lips twist up into a wicked smile,
“Ryan doesn’t have girlfriends. He has fuck friends.”

Ouch. As if it isn’t enough that Ryan takes
off his clothes for half the women in New York City, I now have a
visual of the ones he likes to take home.

“What’s your name?” Sean asks like my
presence is entertaining.

“Alana,” Ryan bites, catching us both by
surprise.

Sean pauses as if connecting the dots. Then
he glances quickly to me and then back to Ryan, “Is that some kind
of coincidence or something, bro?”

Ryan shakes his head sternly. Sean’s eyes
grow a little wider as he gauges his brother’s response.

He must know all about me.

“Nice to meet you Sean,” I say sardonically.
“I’m Ryan’s girlfriend.”

Sean dips his head and then looks up at me
with a cocky grin. “Nice to finally meet you, Alana. I’ve heard
so
much about you.”

“And I you,” I respond audaciously, never
breaking eye contact with him.

I measure up the person mostly responsible
for our separation. I say mostly because Ryan played a part too,
but it was Sean who lit the fuse.

“So what are you doing in NYC Sean?” Ryan
asks. “I thought you couldn’t leave the state of New Jersey.”

Sean scoffs, “It’s the city, it doesn’t
count.”

“I think your PO might disagree with that,”
Ryan contends.

“She’ll never know.”

“Let’s hope not.”

The waitress comes over, interrupting their
taut chitchat. Sean orders a coffee. Black with a double shot of
espresso. Damn, and I thought I liked it strong.

I gauge him as he looks at Ryan. His voice
sounds relaxed, but his body language tells a different story. His
fingers never stop twitching and neither does his leg. It’s like
there’s a rhythm only he can hear.

“So,” Ryan presses after Sean gets his
caffeine.

“So what?” Sean sounds implicated. “I went to
the clinic this morning and decided it was a nice day. So I hopped
on the train to come hit up my little brother.”

Clinic?

“Hit him up for what exactly?” Ryan crosses
his arms. I look at Sean. He has another tattoo on the side of his
neck - the number 1254 - and I can’t help but wonder what it
means.

“That hurts bro,” Sean pounds his chest
faking injured feelings. “I thought we could hang out, but I see
you already have plans,” he says, and I can’t tell if his words are
genuine or sarcastic. He’s kind of hard to read. I do know one
thing about him though; he’s on one hell of an ego trip.

“You’re right, I do have plans, and I’m going
to be busy for a while,” Ryan smirks at me, then shoots Sean an
irritated look.

Sean’s eyes narrow, “I gotcha brother.”

“I hope you do.”

The table suddenly gets quiet. I look between
Ryan and Sean. They have the exact same face, but entirely opposite
personalities.

Sean downs his coffee and is about to stand
up when Ryan comes out with “How’s mom?”

Sean stops and looks over at Ryan. He makes
deliberate eye contact then says, “She misses you.”

Ryan just nods and looks away.

“Tell her I miss her too,” he says, without
turning back to Sean.

It’s clear their mother is a sensitive
subject.
I can’t imagine why.
Sean fucks up and she begs
Ryan to pay the price? I’d have some hostility too.

Sean gets up, but instead of just turning
away from me, he leans down putting his cheek right next to mine.
My heart seizes as he whispers in my ear, “Take care of my brother,
he needs someone to love him right.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” I
respond evenly, my eyes sliding over to meet his.

“As far as I know, you’re the only one who
ever has.” He holds my stare for a split second.

I’m totally taken back. I don’t know this
person at all, yet he has no problem being fearlessly direct with
me. My attention follows Sean as he moves away from me. He clasps
Ryan’s hand and pauses. “
I
miss you too,” he says firmly,
and then walks off without another word.

Whoa. It
feels like a mushroom cloud
just lifted.

“Clinic?” I ask Ryan.

“Yeah, methadone. He goes every day. It helps
keep him off the H.”

“Heroin?”

Ryan nods with a vacant expression.

“When was the last time you saw your
mother?”

“Not for a few months.”

“What’s a few?”

“Like, eight.”

“Oh, that’s quite a few.”

“I know,” he sulks.

I look at Ryan sympathetically.

I have a sneaking suspicion he has way more
healing to do then he’s letting on.

I stare at the screen
of my iPhone. The words read: Culture midnite.

It’s when Ryan gets off work.

He and I have gotten into this routine. I
spend Sunday through Thursday afternoon in the city with him, and
hang out at home on the weekends while he works. It’s been about a
month and things are getting pretty intense; intense physically,
intense emotionally, intense psychologically.

I’m sipping a mimosa, waiting for Emily on
the terrace of the Ocean Club’s restaurant. It’s a warm June
morning and there’s not a cloud in the sky. The ocean is perfectly
calm and the air smells sweet and salty.

It’s a flawless summer day.

Emily shoves her bag in the chair next to me,
then plops down in another and huffs.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“I can’t wait until this effing wedding is
over. I wish we’d just eloped.”

“Alex being a PIA again?”

Emily grabs my glass and downs my drink.

“You’d think he’s the goddamn bride. He’s
driving me nuts. I don’t like that color, the centerpieces are too
big, my shoes hurt,” she whines, mocking him. “Do you know how many
pairs of shoes I’ve suffered in? Countless, but I never complained.
I swear to God he cries like a little girl sometimes,” she
groans.

I motion to the waitress for two more
drinks.

I wait for Emily to finish her rant. She
huffs and puffs a minute more then she relaxes.

“What’s up with you?” She slips a pair of
sunglasses on, Dolce and Gabbana cat eyes; the ends of her long,
dark hair flipping in the summer breeze.

I shrug, and stare back down at my phone’s
screen.

“Alana, spill. I don’t have patience for the
pitiful little rich girl act this morning.”

“Ouch Em.”

She winces, “I’m sorry. I’m just
stressed.”

“Maybe you and Alex should get away for a few
days, just the two of you. To remember why you’re doing this in the
first place.”

“Well, when did Ally McBeal go all Dear
Abby?”

“Shut up, I’m just trying to help,” I kick
her under the table.

“Ouch! I know!” she laughs. “Maybe we’ll do
that, it sounds like a good plan. Even if we just spend the night
in a cabana,” she cocks an eyebrow behind her dark sunglasses.

I look away.

“Okay, out with it. Trouble with Magic
Mike?”

Oh how Emily loves to joke about that.

“Sort of,” I bite my lip.

Over the last few weeks I have been reminded
over and over that Ryan is a sex god. Like living, breathing,
walking sex. And that would be fine if I had even a fraction of the
experience he’s had. But the reality is, he’s the only guy I’ve
ever been with minus the disaster in college. So that doesn’t
really count.

“What, are you afraid it’s not going to be
good or something?”

“I’m afraid
I’m
not going to be good.
That I’m going to be some pathetic lay compared to the women he’s
been with.”

“Nonsense,” Emily says assertively just as
the waitress drops off our drinks. “Let me tell you something about
men. They like innocence. They like inexperience. It makes them
feel like they own you. But in a good way. A protective, caring,
shielding kind of way. It probably puts Ryan over the moon knowing
he’s the only one you’ve ever been with.”

“Yeah, he doesn’t really know that,” I
mutter. We never did pick up the evil demons conversation
again.

“Keeping secrets in your relationship cuz, I
don’t think Dear Abby would approve.”

I rub my temples, all stressed out.

“Want a little advice?” Emily asks, as she
takes a lazy sip of her orange drink.

“I’m not sure,” I answer tentatively.

“I’ll give it to you anyway and you decide
what to do with it. Don’t be scared. Show Ryan who’s boss, then let
him break you down. Let him know you can be strong and confident
and still be vulnerable in his arms. It’ll drive him fucking
nuts.”

I ponder this.

I guess if I’m going to take advice from
anyone about guys, it’d be from Emily; God knows she’s been with
enough of them.

“What are you doing about BC?” she asks.

I glance up at her, “I started the shot last
week.”

She nods, “Good. And him?”

“What about him?”

“Is he clean? Does he get tested?”

“Oh, yes. The club makes him do it every
three months. You’d think he’s a porn star or something.”

“He’s close enough.”

I glare at her through my mirrored
sunglasses, “You’re as bad as Jill sometimes.”

“I believe she referred to them as hookers,”
Emily retorts.

I clench my jaw and Emily knows she just
royally pissed me off.

“Well, anyway,” she changes the subject
quickly, “I’m glad you’re being responsible.”

“Thanks mom,” I ridicule.

I walk up to the entrance of Culture. Lorenzo
is working the door like usual. He smiles when he sees me. Usually
I wait outside for Ryan, have a cigarette and hang out with Lorenzo
while he checks IDs. It’s sort of become a ritual.

“Hey chicka,” he says with a grin as he
shines a light on someone’s license. He’s dressed in his usual get
up, black button up shirt, black pants and a derby hat. And every
time I see him I hear the lyrics to
Still Not a Player
in my
head.

“Hey Lorenzo,” I step in front of the velvet
rope and look up at him unsurely.