by M. Never
“Thanks.”
I know that conversation should have been weird, but I told you, I live in a theme park, and having a job like Ryan’s sort of melds with the environment of Vegas. No one judges, he’s just another stage act.
I jet from the building to my car parked on the street. I’m not a fan of this weather. It’s hot, it’s dry, and if I were in New York, I would be wearing knee-high boots instead of strappy sandals. And I’ll openly admit, I really, really miss my boots.
I drive down Las Vegas Boulevard, AKA the Strip, then turn onto Flamingo Avenue and into the parking lot of the Palms Place Hotel. Yes, hotel, but it’s much more residential than commercial. I didn’t originally grasp the concept of what headliner meant, because where we live, the cars we drive, and the meals we eat are all taken care of by the owners of Culture. We don’t pay for a thing, and they definitely didn’t skimp on the accommodations either.
I scurry to the entrance of the tower, the heat pinching my skin, and see Reagan expectantly holding the door open for me. “Miss Remington.”
“Regan, how many times have I told you? Alana, please.” Now I sound like Slim Jim.
He nods. “Alana. Best of luck to Mr. Pierce tonight.”
I roll my eyes playfully. “Ryan.” Then walk quickly through the lobby to the elevators. I hit the button for the penthouse, and am whooshed upwards. Told you they didn’t skimp on the accommodations.
I walk into the spacious suite decked out with modern décor. It has two bedrooms, wall-to-wall windows, a full kitchen, living room, dining room, and a balcony with a glass Jacuzzi tub. Which, needless to say, is awesome.
And used frequently.
Ryan is sitting at the kitchen counter, his leg shaking a mile a minute.
“Hey, what’s up?” I drop my bag next to him.
He pushes an envelope toward me, gnawing nervously on the cuticle of his right index finger. I pause to look at it, it reads: Nevada Bar Association.
“Well,” he urges.
“Well, what? It’s addressed to me, why are you the one jumping out of your skin? You’d think being a lawyer is your dream.”
Ryan hops up. “Alana, your dreams are my dreams. I want this as bad as you do.”
“You know, you can be incredibly sweet sometimes.” I flip the envelope over.
“Not really,” he jokes, “I’m just trying to get into your pants.”
“I don’t think you need pick-up lines for that anymore.” I laugh.
“Maybe not, but I want to keep things fresh.”
“You’re fresh alright,” I quip, as I rip it open and read the contents.
“Well?” Ryan peeks over the paper.
“Well,” I pause for dramatic effect. “You’re looking at Nevada’s newest lawyer.”
“Yes!” Ryan picks me up and swings me around, causing me to scream. After a revolution he drops me back onto my feet and rests his forehead against mine. “I have a surprise for you.”
“Oh, yeah? I love surprises,” I whisper just before he kisses me. And it’s that slow, torrid kiss that makes my knees weak and my scalp tingle and my temperature rise.
He grabs my hand and drags me toward the bedroom. Okay, surprise later, I guess? He opens the door and my jaw drops. I walk into the room awestruck, because there it sits. The bed from the B and B at Culture; all abstract lines and romantic feel.
“Oh, my God.” I glance at Ryan and he’s beaming.
“You said you wanted one.”
“Yes, I did.”
“So, you love it?”
“Yes, I do,” I respire, “and I love you.”
“Good. Because I love you, too.” He walks up behind me, spins me around and pushes me onto the mattress. “And I plan on doing things to you on this bed that will make Ryan Pierce just as infamous as Jack the Stripper.” He crawls on top of me like the sexual prowler he is. Ryan kisses me assertively and possessively, running his hands all over my body, causing my mind to reel. I’ll never get enough of this man, and I hope, deep down, he’ll never get enough of me.
Ryan pecks his way down my cheek and my neck, between my breasts and along my stomach, pulling my shirt up as he reaches my navel. His lips are warm and soft as he sucks on my skin, lighting the desire within me like a match touching kerosene. Then he suddenly slips onto the floor, pulling my body with him, so I land straddling his knees. He props me up against the mattress and looks intensely into my eyes. Too intense, almost profound.
I run my hand down his face, worried he’s thinking about Sean. “Are you alright?” I ask.
It took Ryan months to cope with Sean’s death. He’s still not over it, and I don’t think he ever will be. The two months after his passing, Ryan would cry in his sleep, muttering Sean’s name. It was heart-wrenching to watch him wake up night after night, broken to pieces. I was so worried I urged him to get some help, to talk to someone about prison and Sean and his issues with his mother. So, he did, and little by little, the nightmares went away. He still has one now and again, but we were told by the therapist that that’s nothing unusual. It’s been a long recovery process, and sometimes I catch him staring out into space and I know his mind is with his brother, somewhere in the past.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been better,” he answers.
“That’s really good to know.” I kiss him tenderly, thankful his response is a positive one.
“You’re pretty amazing, you know that?” he asks with his mouth an inch away from mine.
I wince playfully. “I think you’ve told me a time or two.”
“I would tell you for the rest of your life if you’d let me.”
“You’ll have to ask one very pertinent question first,” I tease.
“Maybe I am,” Ryan becomes serious.
“What?”
Ryan reaches down under the bed and pulls out a small red box, causing my heart to start pulsating like a speed bag.
“Maybe,” he pops open the box, “this time, the pauper doesn’t end up on his ass.” He pulls the ring out and slips it onto my finger, stopping at my knuckle. “Just maybe, he ends up with the princess.”
My hand is shaking as I stare down at the beautiful ring, it’s a sparkling emerald cut diamond on a crisscross pave band.
I look up into Ryan’s eyes. They’re glowing from the pink sunset shining through the windows.
“Not maybe,” I push my hand forward, “definitely.” The ring fits perfectly on my finger. I stifle a sob as I throw my arms around Ryan, but I can’t stop the tears from streaming down my face in an even flow. “You have never been a pauper to me.”
Ryan holds onto me tightly, breathing heavily into my neck, overcome with emotion.
I trap Ryan’s head in my hands and an overwhelming feeling of sanctity grabs hold. “Do you have to leave soon?” I sigh urgently against his mouth.
“No,” Ryan responds to my need, kissing me rapturously, lifting my body as he props himself up onto his knees. I cling to him as he moves us onto the mattress, our lips never breaking. There’s barely enough time to get my pants past my thighs before Ryan is staking his claim on me, pushing into me quick and deep—the hunger trouncing us both.
“Tell me you’re mine.” I strain as the force of his hips causes every single muscle in my stomach to ache. Oh, God.
Ryan freezes, my words taking him by surprise. “I’m yours.” He looks me dead in the eyes. “I have always been yours.” He kisses me, and it’s a long, suffocating, unrelenting embrace that penetrates all the way to my soul. Suddenly, time becomes nothing more than a fog of grasping and clutching and clenching and love as Ryan mesmerizes me like only he can do, playing my body like a symphony. Every touch, every taste, and every smell is magnified as our bodies react, and then combust as hot as a fever.
I clutch onto the comforter, breathless, with Ryan collapsed on top of me, both of us recovering from the high. I feel the ring shifting on my finger, and I can’t stop myself from smiling. Ryan has always been the one. The one who challenges me
, the one who dares me, the one who makes me feel alive.
Ryan rolls over, pulling me with him. I snuggle up against him, resting my head on his chest. “I love our bed.”
“Me, too,” he hums. “It’s a shame I have to get out of it now.”
“Already?” I moan.
“Yes.” He kisses my head. “And if you keep making sounds like that we’ll be living on it, and then where will we be?”
“Poor and sexually satisfied?” I jibe.
“You’re a trap waiting to happen.”
“I could be worse things.”
“Yes, you could, but I really have to go.” He pecks me on the cheek then stands up. I swipe at him, but he’s too fast.
“Are you nervous?” If I can’t touch him, I might as well drink in the cuts of his body as he moves around the room. Good Lord, this man and all his sexiness. Like, liquefy your libido sexy.
“Honestly?” He slips on his shirt. “I’m a little terrified. This is nothing like back home. There’s so much riding on it, and me.”
“You’re going to be fine, you just have to turn it on.”
“Turn what on?”
“Don’t play dumb, Ryan, you know.”
“Really, I don’t.”
I shoot him a pessimistic look. “You’re a sexual hypnotist, and you know it.”
“Sexual hypnotist?” He raises his eyebrows. “I like that, I may need to consider changing my stage name.”
“As if Jack the Stripper isn’t bad enough.”
Ryan drops down onto the bed. “You don’t like Jack?”
“It’s not Jack.” I look away. “Sometimes it’s hard knowing I’m not the only woman in your life,” I confess.
“But you are the only woman in my life,” Ryan contends, lifting my chin lightly with one finger. “You’re the only woman I want to kiss.” He brushes his lips softly against mine. “You’re the only woman I want to be inside of.” He slips his hand between my thighs. “And you’re the only woman I want to give my last name.”
I think I just melted into a puddle.
“Well, when you put it like that,” I swoon, “you can change your stage name to whatever you want.”
Ryan lets out a little laugh. “I think I’ll just stick with Jack.”
I stand outside the front doors of Culture: Las Vegas Strip, missing Lorenzo. It’s different here, there’s no velvet rope or bouncer checking IDs. There’s a box office with a bright sign overhead that reads Jack the Stripper in screaming pink neon.
“Did you ever think you’d see his name in lights?” Emily nudges me.
“Never. This is bizarre.”
A month after Ryan and I moved to Vegas, Emily and Alex followed. I don’t know how she did it, but she talked him into it. Alex works for his family’s shipping company, and he can conduct business from anywhere really, so the move was no big deal. Except for the fact they left their family and friends to come and hang out with a professional stripper and his lawyer girlfriend—oops, I mean fiancée.
“Alana, what is that on your hand?”
“Huh? What?” I play dumb.
Emily grabs my wrist. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Well, what do you think it is?”
“Alana!” Emily’s voice pitches. “You’re getting married!”
“Squeal louder, Emily, I don’t think my father heard you in New Jersey.”
“Oh, my God, your father.”
“He’s blessed our relationship. Everything will be fine. Ryan and I will just elope to avoid the spectacle.”
The Honorable Judge Remington’s daughter marrying a male stripper? The humiliation. I wish I’d had a camera to capture my father’s expression when I told him Ryan and I were moving to Las Vegas, and why. What a conversation that was. But I made a pact with myself. No more lying or sneaking around. This is my life and I’m going to live it my way, with the person I want, doing what I love. And for now, he seems to be okay with that.
I’m not going to sit here and pretend that my father and I have this wonderful new relationship now, because we don’t. But it’s definitely different from the way it was before. We communicate more, mostly through texts and emails, since that seems to be the way he feels most comfortable talking to me. Which is fine. It’s interaction. I’ll take it. And over the last few months I’ve learned a lot about my father. That underneath that stringent, stoic exterior is a man who’s generous and eccentric and completely complex.
He said my mother was the only person who ever loved him. But I don’t think that’s true. My father has plenty of people who love him. I think she was the only one who understood him. And I really want to understand him, too.
“Elope?” Emily puts her hands on her hips. “That might be fun. We do live in the perfect city for it.” She taps her lips with her index finger deviously.
“I hear the Little White Wedding Chapel is nice.” I grab her hand and pull her to the door.
“And I know the perfect place for your bachelorette party.” She cackles.
Lord help me.
I take a deep breath as I pass through the corridor, remembering the last time I went to a Male Revue and the metamorphosis that transpired. Hopefully tonight won’t be so life altering, just some good fun.
We get inside and I’m amazed at how different this Culture is compared to New York’s. There’s no one hanging from the ceiling or dancing on elevated stripper poles. There is, however, a huge stage and a host of hot, half-naked men walking around.
Emily and I make our way down a few levels; there are three large staircases, one in the middle and one on each side of the semicircular room, and find a spot with a close enough view. The club is packed to capacity and the tables and chairs in front of the stage are already filled with eager and excited women. We order a drink at the bar with the music pumping and people mingling all around us.
“Are you nervous?” Emily nudges me.
“Yes, this is a big deal.” I fidget.
“I know, look at this place, Culture in New York is nothing like this.”
“Seriously.” I take a sip of my drink, engrossed by the environment, when everything goes dark for a split second. A spotlight comes on, illuminating a shirtless guy with loose jeans and an exaggerated faux hawk standing on stage. He introduces himself as Sammy, then juices the crowd with some dirty jokes. He’s actually pretty funny. Next, he addresses the women on the floor about the Do’s and Don’ts of the show, since they’re the ones who are going to get hands-on. There are way too many Dos than Don’ts for my liking.
A few moments later the whistling of “Moves Like Jagger” streams through the speakers and the stage is overtaken by six guys in leather pants and matching vests. Strobe lights flash as they move in a choreographed fashion, infecting everyone in the room—ladies scream and dance as they embrace the men who can most definitely Move Like Jagger.
“Where’s Ryan?” Emily scopes out the stage, noticing the same thing I am. I see Divan and Logan—who Emily can’t look at without blushing—but no Ryan.
“I don’t know.” I shrug, just as a burst of pyrotechnics grabs my attention. The entire stage halts as someone plunges from the ceiling on a line like a teardrop. Then the music explodes with Christina’s voice, and Ryan starts ripping it up. My mouth falls open. Talk about an entrance. I look on stunned . . . he’s just so freakin’ awesome. It’s as if I’m watching a bigger, better, amplified version of Jack the Stripper. The audience is on its feet as he twists and turns and straight-up owns the stage. I stare out with all these emotions running through me as Ryan hypnotizes the room. I’m happy and impressed and a little embarrassed, but above all, I can’t believe how far we’ve come. I roll my engagement ring between my middle and pinky fingers, remembering the summer Ryan and I met—a free-spirited boy and an emotionally unavailable girl. Who could ever have imagined that those two people would end up here?
A princess not in love with a white knight or charming prince, but a guy from the wr
ong side of the tracks. A guy with swarms of women falling at his feet, but who only has eyes for her.
It’s the perfect fairytale ending.
It’s our perfect fairytale ending.
EPILOGUE
Six years later
I STARE AT my name on the door.
Alana Pierce, Junior Partner.
It still makes me smile, the Pierce part and the partner part.
I look at my watch. I have to hustle or I’m going to be late. I scurry out of Remington, Anderson, Smith, and Steele, waving hastily at the receptionists behind the desk. I press the star key for the lobby and am whooshed down to the first floor.
I nod to Stanley, my driver, as I hop into the black town car waiting for me on the street.
“Traffic should be light into Jersey, Mrs. Pierce, it’s still early,” Stanley relays, business as usual.
Yes, Jersey.
“That was the plan.” I smile at him as I pull out my iPad and look over some work. I have an hour to kill.
Stanley pulls the car up out front, nodding politely as he opens the door for me. “See you Monday.”
“Yes, thank you,” I respond graciously.
I hurry up the walkway, stick the key in the lock and turn the knob, opening the door to the sounds of splashing and giggling and one very naked baby running along the upstairs hallway.
I walk up the staircase in my heels and black pant suit and am met by a big grin and high-pitched shriek. “Mommy!”
“Hi, baby.” I pick up my daughter and swing her in the air as I walk into the bathroom. Ryan is sitting on the toilet seat, towel-drying our son. Savannah Ray and Sean Merrick John were born two years ago on a warm, August night, Savannah at 11:58 p.m., Sean at 12:03 a.m.
Not only did Ryan and I get pregnant the first time we tried, his super-sperm fertilized two of my eggs, which resulted in two little people with pale blond hair and cobalt blue eyes—twins with different birthdays.
“Hi.” I lean down and give him a quick kiss on the lips.
“Hey, beautiful,” Ryan responds as Sean squirms in his arms.
Ryan and I spent three years in Las Vegas. We planned to elope, but my father, of all people, insisted otherwise. To our surprise, he gave us a beautiful wedding, but the biggest shock came when he found out I was pregnant and gifted us my childhood home. I still get teary-eyed when I think about it. He was adamant that the house was too big for just him, and it was time for a family to fill it up again. He said my mother would have wanted it that way.