Strip Me Bare

by Marissa Carmel

  I rummage around Ryan’s kitchen looking for coffee. I finally find some Keurig cups on a top shelf. Black Magic, thank God.

  I pop in a pod and listen as the coffee quickly brews. As I reach up into the cabinet for another cup I hear Ryan calling my name. His footsteps are heavy against the wood floor as he walks down the hallway.

  “Jesus, Alana,” he runs his hands down his face when he finds me in the kitchen.

  I turn and look at him over my shoulder. “Think I left?” I giggle. He comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, wearing only a pair of grey boxer briefs.

  “For a second, yeah,” then he kisses my exposed neck. My hair is pulled up into a bun on top of my head.

  “You look hot in my t-shirt.”

  “Thanks, I didn’t think you’d mind if I borrowed one.”

  “You could live in it for all I care,” he hugs me, still holding me from behind, and then steals a sip of my coffee.

  “Did you sleep okay?” It’s about the only thing I can think to ask while his body is pressed up against mine; I can feel every inch of him. Like, every, inch.

  “Last night was the best sleep I’ve had in five years,” he says, and I hide a smile. Is this really happening?

  “What do you want to do today?” he asks. I pause, staring straight ahead at the white-tiled backsplash. Hmmm, that answer can have so many possibilities. Taking a deep breath of resignation, I turn around and look at him. He’s about six inches taller than I am. His hair is a mess on top of his head, and there’s just a hint of stubble growing on his chin. His features are more mature now. But he’s still just as hot as he was five years ago, maybe even more so.

  I think about last night and the decision I made. If I want Ryan in my life, I’m going to have to let him in, no matter how terrifying that is. No pain no gain, right?

  “I thought we could spend the day getting to know each other,” my eyes gleam.

  Ryan’s jaw drops, immediately catching my drift.

  “I’m cool with that,” his smile is so big I can’t help but laugh. Without wasting any time, he starts to run his hands slowly up my hips, as if re-familiarizing himself with my curves; his touch is every bit sexual as it is sensual, and I have a feeling this is going to be one hell of a day. My t-shirt catches over his forearms, riding up as his hands travel over my torso, over my breasts and around to my back. He doesn’t kiss me though. He just stares. My whole body springs to life; every nerve, every cell, every muscle. That’s Ryan’s effect, pure vitality. I place my hands on his chest, looking down at the little scar on his left peck. I touch it and he smiles.

  “My little piece of you,” he says.

  It’s the scar my cigarette left the first night we met.

  I kiss it and he groans. Then he grabs my hand and yanks me out of the kitchen. I’m in his room, being pushed onto the bed before I can think. He crawls slowly on top of me, unhurried, predatory. Then he slides my t-shirt over my head, exposing me to him. I lay there as he takes his sweet time exploring my body; stretching every inch into a mile. It’s mind bending that he can make me feel this aroused, this loved, this worshiped with only the tips of his fingers. I don’t know how long he’s at it, but I finally reach the point it feels so good it starts to hurt. Ryan begins kissing me, and not on the lips or cheeks or neck, but right where he left off last night, like he can sense my need for release.

  “Don’t stop me Alana,” he implores, his voice throwing me straight into overdrive. I don’t say no when he pulls my pink, lacy VS’s off. I close my eyes and tilt my head as he goes to work, pushing me, building me, teasing me with pressure; finally breaking me apart like I’m made of glass. I can’t breathe and I see stars as the orgasm rips right through me.

  Holy shit.

  As I slowly come back down to earth I find Ryan lying beside me; his head propped up onto one hand, and he’s smiling. A huge shit-eating grin.

  Cocky bastard.

  “I could do that all day,” he moans in my ear.

  “I could let you,” I laugh.

  “I want to be the only person who does that to you,” he slides his nose up and down my cheek.

  I bite my lip. “One thing at a time,” I tell him.

  “I’ll take whatever I can get,” he kisses me compellingly and digs his hard-on into my hip.

  A noise wakes me. It sounds like an alarm. I pick my head up and see Ryan reaching for his phone. We stayed in bed all day, and it was, amazing? Remarkable? Incredible? None of these words really encompass it.

  No sex, just discovery.

  Ryan shifts, kisses me on the forehead, and then slips out of bed.

  “Where are you going?” I ask groggy.

  “Shower, then work.”

  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; t
he 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.