Strip Me Bare

by Marissa Carmel

  Marissa Carmel

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright © Marissa Carmel 2013

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from author Marissa Carmel.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Amber Rendon, Novel Idea Design

  Editing by Matthew Taylor

  Interior design by Ann Snizek, Snow Flowers After Dark

  Published with Snow Flowers After Dark, a division of Snow Flower Enterprises

  ISBN: 9781301280940

  For Lorraine M.

  Sometimes, strength isn't about how loudly you yell. It's about how quietly you scream. ~ MC

  Prologue

  You Don't Know Jack

  Past, Present, or Future

  Delusion or Reality

  Say What Now?

  Breakfast of Champions

  Madness

  Papa Don't Preach

  Say My Name

  Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell Rock

  New Adult

  The Secrets That We Keep

  Yes, I Want You

  The Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away

  The Ties That Bind

  The Start of Your End

  Trapped In Me

  Rules of Engagement

  Waking Up in Vegas

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Thank You

  Playlist

  About the Author

  I don’t know how long I wait; minutes, hours, days maybe for Sean to wake up, and just when I can no longer take the frigid temperature or the heartrending scene in front of me, he stirs. He moans softly as he shifts and moves, like he’s trying to remember how to use his limbs. I just stand there statically, watching him come back to life. Finally, he opens his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He looks around a little disoriented, like he’s not sure where he is, then his eyes fall on me. They’re bloodshot and hollow and they have purple rings around them.

  “Alana?” he croaks, staring at me vacantly, trying to decipher if I’m a mirage or truly flesh and blood.

  “Sean?” I answer. My body goes numb, and it has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. He looks like a blood starved vampire.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks, the question rippling with so many emotions; fear, concern, terror, dread.

  “You need to come with me,” I tell him, not wasting any time with small talk.

  “For what?” He gets to his feet and straightens his sweatshirt, pulls at his baggy pants, then yanks his hood over his head.

  “Don’t play dumb. Ryan’s in jail, they rejected his deal.”

  Sean paces the small room like a caged cat. Back and forth and back and forth, agitated and uptight. “I can’t Alana, I’m sorry.”

  I step towards him cautiously, “Sean, listen to me. Ryan needs you-”

  “No, Alana,” he snaps his head up and I see so much sorrow in his eyes.

  “Sean, don’t abandon him,” I plead earnestly; careful not to spook him, “he’s already given up his future for you, now you’re asking him to give up his life.”

  Sean takes one, slow, tentative step towards the door. “I’m so sorry, Alana,” he says with such intense grief, it strikes my chest like lightening, shattering my heart.

  “Sean-” I say trembling, circling around him.

  “For what it’s worth,” he adds quickly and solemnly, “I never thought you were going to hurt Ryan, you really are the only one who’s ever loved him right.” Sean’s words rattle me straight to the core, because they sound like a goodbye. Then he bolts.

  Damn it.

  I dart after him through the long, narrow kitchen and out the back door where the sun is setting like a dying fireball behind dull, ashy clouds. He’s so goddamn fast, maneuvering effortlessly through the back yard that’s scattered with old tires and junk. He scales the six-foot chain link fence at the back end of the property and I know then that I’ve lost him.

  “Sean!” I shout slapping the fence with my palms, the links jingling and clinking, “Sean, come back!”

  But he quickly disappears out of sight.

  “Shit!” I scream, shaking the fence furiously. Then, hopeless and defeated, I sink down onto the cold ground, and all I want to do is fucking cry.

  Pink plastic penises.

  That’s what’s bouncing around like two alien antennas on top of my cousin Emily’s head. Two, pink, rubbery penises attached to a cheap headband.

  I don’t know how people celebrate bachelorette parties in other parts of the world, but in the North East they dress the bride-to-be in sashes and tiaras, force them to wear pink penis paraphernalia and sacrifice them to male exotic dancers. Emily doesn’t seem to mind though. She’s sipping champagne happily in the back of an Escalade stretch limo as we drive through New York City.

  “Alana,” says Jill, Emily’s maid of honor whose personality is just as fiery as her red hair, “we were taking bets as to whether you were going to come or not.”

  “Why wouldn’t I?” I ask curiously.

  “I don’t know?” she holds her hands up like she’s balancing a pair of scales. “Cutting a year long trip to Europe short or staying and hanging out with all those hotties on the French Riviera?

  “Sun and Speedos get old after a while,” I joke.

  “Well maybe some American Speedos will revive your interest?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Is the straight-laced Alana Remington too prim and proper for a male strip show?” Jill digs.

  “She’s only prim and proper on the outside,” Emily jumps in, defending me.

  Thanks Em, but I can take care of myself.

  “Why would you say that? I’m here aren’t I?” I interject. “I’m just not partial to tiny male underwear. And I think the politically correct term is Male Revue.”

  “Whatever,” Jill laughs at me. “This is the perfect night to let your hair down and get a little action between your legs.”

  “Jill!” Emily chastises. “They don’t sleep with you.”

  “I’m sure if you paid them enough they would.”

  “You’re so crude,” Emily says.

  “I’m just real. And I’m pretty sure all they’d have to do is take one look at Alana’s blonde hair, brown eyes and long legs and they’d pay to sleep with her.”

  “Well just don’t let my father find out if that happens,” I say dryly. “I don’t think he’d respond well to me pimping myself out.”

  “I have a feeling you don’t need monetary transactions for sex,” Jill pours herself a glass of champagne as we haul down 5th Avenue.

  I glance at Emily and she gives me a sympathetic look.

  “Where did you tell him we were going tonight anyway?” Emily giggles, her bright blue eyes sparkling, her long dark hair pouring over her shoulders. She’s five foot two and one hundred pounds soaking wet, but she has the persona of a supermodel; beautiful, confident, se
xy, fun.

  “I told him we were having an early dinner, then seeing a Broadway show. I almost choked on my granola when he asked me which one. Most of the time, he barely recognizes I’m alive, but of course the one time I’m not prepared with a cover story, he catches me.” I shift around in the cream leather seat, trying to pull down the clingy hem of my gold pleated tube dress without much success; if I’m not careful I’m going to end up giving everyone a pre-show.

  “So a male strip club would have been a no-go with him, huh?” Jill asks sarcastically.

  “Like I need to answer that.”

  I’ve known Jill most of my life and she’s fully aware of my family situation; my father, the strict, detached man who has stern expectations of his daughter, which includes an impeccable social image. Me, going to a male strip club? No-go is a drastic understatement, and she knows it.

  “My uncle has very firm views about how his daughter should act,” Emily says annoyed. “What she should wear, who she should date, how she should breathe. And he’s colder than damn ice. I swear I don’t know how our fathers share the same DNA.” Both our fathers are prestigious figures in the law community. Mine is a superior court judge in New Jersey while Emily’s is a big shot lawyer in New York City. They both have a reputation to uphold, but my uncle John is very personable and laid back and he and Emily have a great relationship. My father is the exact opposite; stringent, disconnected, career driven. I don’t even think he has emotions. And we have no relationship.”

  “So no little lost strippers following you home then?”

  “Jill.” I roll my eyes.

  “Not unless they have a seven figure paycheck and republicans as parents,” Emily adds wryly.

  Everyone in the limo looks at me and I’m not exactly sure what they’re thinking; it’s probably a toss-up. They either feel incredibly sorry for me or think I’m some tight ass who’s going to ruin the fun. If they take one look at my dress they should know it’s not the latter.

  As we drive through Times Square, the lights on the billboards are flashing and droves of people are walking. The city is always so alive, bustling, moving, churning. I love it here. And I’ll love it even more when I live here. I start law school in three months, and I can’t wait.

  It’s nearly eight o’clock when the limo pulls up to Culture, the only all male ladies club in the world. At least, that’s what the website boasts. Already, the line is around the corner with eager women waiting to get in. All six of us step out of the limo into the New York air. Along with Emily, Jill and I, there’s Beth and Liz the groom’s two sisters and one of Emily’s roommates from college, Jen. The smell of hot dogs and pretzels drift in the breeze from the street vendors as we make our way up the sidewalk. There’s a secondary entrance that has a street sign with several shirtless men that reads ‘Male Revue’, and when I look closer I catch some fine print scribbled on the bottom that says ‘lip smackin’ dick’.

  Oh man, maybe I am too straight laced for this.

  Emily nudges me as we wait in line for the doors to open. “Sorry about Jill,” she whispers.

  “Why are you apologizing? She’s right,” I cross my arms. “I do need some action between my legs. I just have to build up enough nerve to actually let someone in.”

  “That’s not the only place you need to let someone in.”

  I bristle, “Em, I don’t want to dwell on my past. At least not tonight, okay?”

  “Okay,” she concedes, the penises bobbling on her head.

  “Are you going to wear those things all night?” I ask incredulously.

  “No, I’m just going to wait until Jill is drunk enough not to notice I took them off.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t be wearing them for too long then.”

  Emily nods zealously in agreement. I think she likes the shock value of her headband a little too much.

  It’s early May, so the temperature in the city is comfortable. No one needs jackets or scarves or pants, and I think even underwear is optional. As the line behind us grows rapidly the bouncer finally gives the okay to go inside. I’m bouncing in my shoes trying to muster enough nerve to actually walk through the door. I’m a little out of my element here. We file in one behind the other, all walking carefully down the dark stairwell in our designer heels, making our way into the club’s private room.

  The room is dark but not cold; there are black leather couches and coffee tables spread out in front of a small stage that’s maybe a foot off the ground. Very intimate, very close and very personal. We all sit down on an L-shaped sofa to the right of the stage, and a few moments later someone is popping open a bottle of champagne and handing out plastic cups with pink bubbly liquid in it. I’m suddenly all nerves as the realization of what’s about to happen kicks in. I gulp the champagne; I don’t think I am going to like this one bit. I glance around anxiously at all the excited women in the room. A few have sashes or tiaras that say bachelorette or birthday girl. Emily fits right in with her headband. She seems relaxed; I think I’d be hyperventilating knowing some guy is going be grinding all over me in a few minutes.

  I take another sip of champagne.

  I watch the bartenders as they mix drinks behind the bar, hear the muted conversations of the girls around me and feel the temperature rise as the room fills to capacity.

  What the hell am I doing? Just before I get up to go get some air, a smooth male voice washes over the crowd. “Ladies, ladies, ladies,” the MC announces. Shit. He’s short, with caramel colored skin and big green eyes; very handsome and very charismatic. He introduces himself as Hugo, walking back and forth across the stage like he owns it. He tells a few dirty jokes to warm up the crowd, some of the women firing back fueling his raunchy lip service. “Okay my fine females, this is what’s going to happen,” he says with a tantalizing edge to his tone. “There will be a group performance and then private dances, and then one on one time, where,” he smiles wickedly, “you get to mingle with all the fellas.”

  I really think I need a cigarette.

  Hugo tosses the mic to someone on the side of the stage then disappears behind a door to the left that’s barely noticeable. It’s been painted black to blend in with the wall. The DJ pumps a hard core club mix of Rihanna’s Rude Boy, while smoke blows over us from different corners of the room, it’s cold and smells bitter. Then that little back door swings open and four men with no shirts, ripped bodies, and black tuxedo pants file out, bumping to the music. The room goes absolutely berserk. Women start screaming, bouncing up and down and waiving dollar bills over their heads as the four guys bump and grind and hump around the stage in a sexed up routine. They’re hot, there’s no denying it, but I can’t help but wonder how anyone can do this? Don’t they feel like a slab of raw meat?

  When the Chippendales’ demonstration is done, the dancers disappear into the camouflaged door, leaving the crowd hot and bothered and apparently ready for more. The lady sitting in front of us is actually panting. Really?

  I glance at Emily as Hugo reappears. It looks like she’s really getting into this, which I’m silently thankful for. Emily’s not a prude by any means, but I think even this could definitely push her limits. It’s certainly pushing mine, and I’m just watching.

  Hugo calls the first bachelorette onto the stage. Lila, I think her name is. She’s a cute young girl, almost innocent looking. She’s wearing a tiara and a pink sash that says bachelorette. Her fake blond hair is loose with curls and she has on a white button up shirt and jeans. Not very club couture, but whatever. Her entire party is called up on stage with her, and Hugo instructs them to decorate her body with dollar bills. The group sticks money where ever they can, in her pants pockets, between the buttons of her shirt, in her collar and under her sash; she looks like a walking ATM by the time they’re done. Then Lila sits down on a folding chair on stage. The DJ hits the music again, a fast version of Sean Paul’s Temperature pumps through the speakers as a guy dressed in a cop’s uniform explodes onto the stage, all
high energy and sexual, popping his body as he jumps right in front of Lila. He looks legit in his navy blue uniform, aviator sunglasses and officers cap. Sergeant Striptease wastes no time working it; he gets right in Lila’s face, bumping his junk to the rhythm of the music.

  I can’t believe I’m watching this, I think as I down more champagne.

  He rips his shirt off displaying his defined chest and six pack abs, then he straddles Lila with his face towards the crowd, taking her hands he runs them down his front, over his pecs, stomach and hips. His skin glistens under the stage lights.

  I’m not really sure what’s more shocking, the stage show or the reaction it’s getting. Women are bouncing exuberantly on the leather seats, shrieking and clapping almost like a bomb went off.

  Sergeant Striptease then stands Lila up and rubs himself all over her; moving up and down against her body, grabbing the dollar bills out of her shirt with his teeth. Lila laughs nervously as she holds on to him by his very nice shoulders. Very, nice shoulders. Then he does something that takes everyone, especially Lila, by surprise. He grabs her waist and flips her upside down, her crotch ending up right in his face. He slashes his tongue between her legs, causing most of the women in the room to scream.

  Like, bloodcurdling screams.

  I’m not even capable of an auditory response; my vocal cords have shorted out and my jaw has dropped to the floor.

  Raunch-y.

  Then he puts her down and whispers in her ear, she nods back at him with a smile; her eyes wide and alight. He sits her back down in the chair and proceeds to take off the rest of his clothes, which is actually just a quick tug of his pants. All he has on underneath is a black g-string with, holy shit, tassels covering his penis. Where do you even find a get up like that? He does one more bump and grind on Lila, practically naked, and then the show is over.

  Emily looks over at me. Her eyebrows lifted high - like she can’t believe what she just witnessed.