Strip Me Bare (9 page)

I bolt upright, “Work? But it’s
Thursday.”

“Yeah? I work Thursday, Friday and Saturday
nights.”

My heart sinks into my ribcage as reality
sets in; I have to share him with other women. I cringe as I think
about last week, watching him bump and grind all over Emily. And
now he’s going to go do that to some other girl tonight. I feel
sick. After the day we had, how am I supposed to let him out the
front door?

“Alana, are you okay?” Ryan asks. “You look
pale.”

I gaze up at him. He’s standing by the
hallway, a towel draped over his shoulder, looking all hot and sexy
and deliciously edible.

Oh God, oh God, what do I tell him? Not to
go? That I’m too insecure with his career choice? That the thought
of his hands on another woman makes me want to break something?

I throw the covers off and hop out of bed; I
grab my clothes and dress hastily. Maybe if I get out of here fast
enough we won’t have to talk about this.

“Alana?” Ryan is suddenly grabbing my arm,
“Don’t leave.”

“What am I supposed to do Ryan, hang around
here by myself while you’re out humping other women?”

I’ll go nuts.

“I thought we talked about this?”

“We glazed over the subject, we did not talk
about it.”

“I don’t want you to go,” he says
forcefully.

“I can’t stay here forever Ryan, I need to go
home eventually.”

“Alana, they don’t mean anything to me,” he
says tensely. “It’s just a job.”

“So you’ve told me,” I bite.

“Alana-”

“Don’t, Ryan.”

“Alana, I don’t have anything else. I need
this job.”

“And what about me?”

“I need you too. Just give me a little time.”
He scrambles, “I’m trying to save some money so I can start my own
business. You know, being a convicted felon my future’s fucked. No
company worth shit will ever hire me. And I don’t want to end up on
my ass somewhere with nothing to show for my life.”

Shit. How do you argue with that?

“What kind of business?” I ask uneasily.

He goes over to his dresser, opens a drawer,
pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me. My breath catches
when I look at it. “Is…Is this supposed to be us?”

Ryan nods. Now, I can’t pretend to know
anything about graphic design, but the picture I’m staring at is
two people who look like avatars from a video game. They’re sitting
on the beach, a handsome boy with light eyes holding a girl with
long blonde hair. They’re watching the sunset on a blue and white
hemp blanket, just like we used to do.

It’s almost surreal.

“You made this?” I look up at him.

“It was my final project. I got my associate
degree in prison. Graphic design.”

I immediately recall an echo of a
conversation from our past. Even though Ryan was three years older
than me, he didn’t have a college degree or really know which
direction his life was headed. He was so artistically talented
though, always doodling on napkins or sketching something in the
sand. So I suggested he do something with graphic design. And right
now, I’m unexpectedly holding my advice in my hand.

I can’t believe the detail; the color of the
sand is almost perfect. The sunset looks like watercolor over the
ocean; he even captured the fluidity of the waves.

“It’s amazing.”

“I want to start my own company. There’s a
huge market out there for freelance artists. Book covers, web
design, all kinds of shit. I think it could be lucrative.”

I run my hands through my hair and sigh
resigned. This is so fucking difficult.

“I also want something else,” Ryan pulls me
into his arms, but I’m reluctant to go. “I want the wife and kids,
the white picket fence, and all that American dream bullshit. And I
want it with you.”

I wilt in his arms, “Me?”

“Mmm hmm. I’ve always wanted it with you. I
want to be the father I never had and the husband my mother was
cheated out of. So if I have to take off my fucking clothes to make
the money I need, I’ll do it. And I pray you want me enough to
suffer through it. Because I promise I’ll make it up to you for the
rest of my life.”

“Ryan,” I heave a sigh.

“Please, Alana, just try,” he presses.

I’m wracked with indecision. “Do you have any
idea what my life is going to be like the next three years? I’m
going to law school, Ryan
.
It’s a full time commitment,” I
tell him, because I want him to understand that he’s not going to
have much of me once school starts.

“What does that have to do with
anything?”

“I just want you to realize, having any kind
of relationship with me is going to be a challenge.”

Ryan scoffs, “You think I can’t handle you
being in law school? That I won’t compete for your time?”

“I just want you to be prepared. It has to be
my sole focus.”

Ryan smiles. A wryly, arrogant smile. Like
he’s telling me to bring it on. “Alana, I lost you for five years,
you really think I’m going to let a little thing like law school
get in my way? I’ll fight infinity if I have to, to keep you by my
side.”

“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

“I am sure of myself. I know what I want. And
if you can deal with my challenges, I sure as hell can deal with
yours. So, can we try?”

Try? I stare at Ryan blankly. Can we try?

“Maybe,” I cave; unsure about the
outcome.

Ryan breathes a sigh of relief, “I can live
with maybe, for now.” He leans in to kiss me, but we’re interrupted
when his phone rings.

He shoots a dirty look at the dresser, then
moves to answer the phone.

“Hey man,” he says as he picks up his watch
and checks the time. “Yeah I’m on my way. I won’t be late, stop
hassling me,” Ryan glances over at me. “Yes. Yes,” he smiles then
looks away, “you’re an asshole, I’ll see you in twenty.”

“Who was that?” I ask, and for some reason I
feel like I was part of that conversation.

“Divan, he was checking up on me. Thinks he’s
my mother for some unknown reason.”

“Who’s Divan exactly?”

Ryan smiles with a cagey expression, “You
probably know him as the Dominator.”

Holly’s petrified eyes flash in front of me.
Then I remember when he came to get Ryan while we were on the
street.

“The one with the nice smile.”

“Nice smile? Not many women describe him that
way,” Ryan laughs.

“Well that’s what I noticed.”

“Well, don’t notice too much, okay.” Ryan
kisses me possessively then slaps my ass right before disappearing
into the bathroom. “And be here when I get out,” he orders through
the door.

Baby, I don’t think I could go anywhere even
if I tried.

I walk with Ryan to Culture, it’s a few
blocks from his apartment and on the way to the train. It’s a warm
spring evening and there are more people on the street then one
would expect for a Thursday night. As we make our way up to the
club, I can see the line already forming outside. I recognize
Lorenzo checking IDs. He looks like a bad-ass Big Pun weighing in
at three hundred pounds and sporting a thick black goatee. We
aren’t twenty yards from Culture’s entrance when the shouting and
cat calling starts. Half the women know Ryan’s name. Well, Ryan’s
other
name. “Jack! Jack!” There are whistles and screams.
You’d think he’s a freaking rock star or something. “Jack the
Stripper! Take it off!”

Really?

I look at Ryan with wide eyes. He just
shrugs. He’s not embarrassed or uncomfortable, and on some level I
know he likes the attention.

Ego.

“Alana,” Ryan murmurs into my ear as I look
at the line of hungry women. “You’re squeezing the shit out of my
hand.”

“Huh?” I glance over at him and let go.
“Sorry.” I think I’m going into shock.

“Hey,” he pulls me behind Lorenzo where the
girls can’t see us. “Are you okay?” he asks as my back brushes
against the brick wall.

“This is all just a little overwhelming for
me. I need to get used to it.” I’m looking everywhere but at
him.

“Please try,” he urges with a slight edge to
his voice, spurring me to bring my eyes to his.

“I am,” I respond uncomfortably.

“Look, this isn’t who I am, it’s just what I
do,” he tries to sway me.

“It’s okay Ryan, I’m okay. Just go to work
and we can talk later.”

“When am I going to see you again?” He slants
his body into mine, his scent overtaking me. It’s a mixture of
sweet and spicy and Ryan.

“Sunday?” I mutter.

He gives me a dissatisfied stare.

“Saturday,” he tries to negotiate.

“Sunday,” I hold firm. Even though three days
away from him feels like an eternity; I need the time to wrap my
head around things.

“Morning,” he stipulates.

I roll my eyes and hold out on my answer.

“Alana,” his voice is pressing.

“Fine,” I smirk.

“You have a good game face counselor.”

I know
, I think to myself with a
smile.

“I like that expression much better,” he
leans in and kisses me, and it’s that slow, scorching kiss that
makes me want to rip his clothes off right on the street.

“Sunday,” I whisper breathily against his
mouth.

“Morning,” he denotes, looking fiercely into
my eyes, then he steps aside.

I walk off, away from the club, away from
Ryan, and away from the screaming fan girls who are about to paw
all over my man.

Fucking Christ, how am I ever going to deal
with this?

I know tonight I’m going to dream of Ryan
Pierce.

And have nightmares about Jack the
Stripper.

I skip down the
curved staircase of my childhood home, preoccupied with digging
through my purse. My grandfather built the colonial in the late
1970s and left it to my father and Uncle John in his will. They
debated selling it and splitting the profits, but in the end they
just couldn’t seem to let it go. So my father bought out my uncle
and it became our family home. My parents did some contemporary
upgrades as the home grew older, but the outside is almost exactly
the same; large wraparound porch with an adjoining gazebo and light
gray siding with white window trim. I love this house, and not only
because of the nostalgia. My mother put so much warmth and love
into it, you’d never know it’s home to two emotional recluses.

When I get to the bottom floor I slam
smack-dab into my father.

He looks down at me with that vacant stare,
as if I’m not even really there. “Alana.”

“Daddy.” I look up at him as I pull my bag
tightly to my shoulder.

“Where are you off to?”

“I’m meeting Emily for lunch at the beach
club.” I lie.

He nods.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time in the
city,” he states.

“Um, yes.”

There’s a stretch of silence. I think I’m
starting to sweat.

“I’ve been hanging out with Jill. It’s giving
me a taste of Manhattan, you know, city living. I’m learning my way
around.”

He stares down at me coolly. I don’t know if
he’s buying my bullshit. But I really fucking hope he is.

“Make sure you keep your priorities in
order.” It’s not a statement, it’s a demand. A borderline threat.
That simple sentence tells me everything I need to know. You fuck
up, you’re out. My father is the one person who has the power to
take everything away from me. And he makes damn sure I don’t forget
it.

“I will Daddy,” I respond sweetly;
obediently.

His brown eyes measure me. The color almost
makes them look warm, but his persona swallows up any emotion they
try to convey.

I know why he looks at me like I’m vapor;
because I’m the spitting image of her, my mother. She was the only
one who could penetrate his stoic exterior. And I truly believe
she’s the only person he ever loved.

Even over me.

I catch the 9:07 AM train into the city and
step outside Penn Station around 10:45. Ryan is waiting for me on
one of the steps of Madison Square Garden. He has on a skin tight
t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His hair is tousled, and there are
bags under his eyes. Why did he insist on me coming into the city
in the morning when it’s clear he needs to sleep well into the
afternoon?

“Morning beautiful,” he stands up and kisses
me like it’s been a lifetime since he saw me last.

“Morning. You look like you need some
coffee.”

“I do,” he smiles and takes my hand, yanking
me towards the subway.

“Where are we going?”

“SoHo.”

This doesn’t surprise me one bit, seeing it’s
chock full of hipsters and art galleries, trendy boutiques and
historic architecture; it appeals to his artistic side. And Ryan
fits right in with his urban, metrosexual vibe. We head to Herald
Square Station, two blocks from MSG and take the N train. It takes
about ten minutes to get there. We hop off at the Prince Street
stop and grab a table outside a trendy little restaurant whose
French doors are completely open, giving the illusion of eating
alfresco even if you’re inside. We both order coffee and a
breakfast platter to share. Ryan still looks tired, but he
disguises it with a contented stare. We sit across from each other
relaxed, watching the tourists, watching the waitress, watching
each other. Ryan leans forward and puts his hand out on the table,
palm side up. It’s his sweet gesture. I put my hand in his and he
entwines our fingers; both of us leaning forward over the tabletop.
I love it when he touches me. Anywhere.