Strip Me Bare

by Marissa Carmel

  Oh shit.

  “Alana, I know I don’t have a ring, and this probably isn’t the most ideal place.”

  “Ryan-“

  “But I love you, undyingly and-”

  “Ryan please stop,” I grab his hands tightly, silencing him; his expression becoming crestfallen. “Ryan-” I panic seeing the dejection on his face. I drop down in front of him, his beautiful blue eyes large, confused and close to heartbroken. “There’s something I need to tell you,” my voice is shaky and so are my hands.

  “Alana?”

  I look down, trying to string the right words together, “They found Sean.” I look up at him gravely.

  “Found him?” And now Ryan is trembling.

  “He was already gone,” I say in a tiny voice, “there was nothing they could do.” My vision gets blurry as the tears well in my eyes uncontrollably.

  “No,” Ryan shakes his head vehemently, rejecting what I’m trying to tell him.

  “I’m sorry,” my voice is barely a whisper.

  “No!” he shouts, and then the dam breaks; tears unleashing in devastating sobs.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry.” I yank him into a hug. “I’m so sorry,” I murmur over and over, the two of us on our knees, me supporting Ryan’s full weight as he weeps into my shoulder; his pain a rainstorm flooding the room.

  I just want to take it all away, but I don’t know how, or what else I can do, so I just give him me; all of me. All of my strength, all of my love, all of my support. Hoping it’s enough.

  Ryan cries until my knees go numb and my shirt is drenched with tears. When the last drop of salty fluid falls, he slumps back wearily onto the ground.

  He drops his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees and breathes like there’s not enough oxygen in the room. I sit next to him so we are face to face, hip to hip; any closer and I would be sitting on his lap. He sniffles and sighs, trying desperately to compose himself. I wipe away some residual tears and wait until he’s ready to talk.

  “Are you okay?” I ask delicately.

  “No,” he answers truthfully, “but I will be.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” he looks up at me with tear-soaked eyes and a wrung out soul. “I have you.”

  “Yes, you do. And you’re not the only one who knows where the pieces go.”

  “Good, because I’m going to need someone to help me with this puzzle,” he blows out some hot air and drops his head again. “Maybe it’s better this way,” he expels mournfully.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because now we’re both free.”

  “Oh, Ryan,” I choke, grief-stricken from their tragic end. “I’m sorry it feels that way.”

  “I’m not,” he puts his head on my shoulder and I place my hand on his cheek consolingly. “He was never going to get better.”

  It’s the Saturday after Ryan’s court appearance and we’re burying Sean. It’s a cold, cloudy, January day, the air is prickly and the ground is soggy from the relentless snow fall. It’s ideal weather for the solemn event happening before us. There aren’t many people here; Ryan, his mother, a few of Sean’s friends, my father, my uncle John and Emily. We couldn’t find Ryan’s dad. I know Sean’s funeral has nothing to do with me, but my father coming means everything. It’s a gesture; an indication he’s supporting my relationship, which is encouraging for both me, and Ryan.

  "May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.” Mrs. Pierce sobs inconsolably into Ryan’s chest as we each lay a rose atop Sean’s coffin. I tilt my head up, letting the snow touch my cheeks while the tears stream down my face, then I look at Ryan. I’m heartbroken over his loss, but so much more grateful for his gain. Sean told me he was afraid Ryan would end up like him, and for one split second, in the darkest hour, I believed him. But not anymore, and never again.

  “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” the priest decrees, making the sign of the cross over the casket that’s about to be lowered into the ground.

  “Amen,” is the collective response.

  It’s been ten months since we laid Sean to rest, six months since I graduated from law school, four months since I took the Bar, and three months since Ryan and I moved to Las Vegas.

  And tonight, it’s the grand opening of Culture: Las Vegas Strip, the Strip’s premiere Male Revue and women’s fantasy nightclub.

  It’s a 20,000 square foot facility, designed and decorated by world famous nightclub engineers (who knew there was such a thing?); set up like an amphitheatre, with a semicircular floor plan so no matter where you stand, you can always see the stage. There are several tiers with large bars along the walls; some tiers are strictly for dancing while others have tables and couches for a loungeier feel. This more casual part is very much like the Culture in New York, where half-naked men mingle with the crowd in their signature shiny blue shorts. But unlike in New York, the stage is the main attraction. It has floor seating, which is reserved in advance, usually by bachelorette or birthday parties, or really anyone who just wants to party. There are three shows a night each one lasting an hour and a half with Ryan headlining. Tonight is completely sold out, and has been for weeks.

  Ryan has been rehearsing for the last two months with professional choreographers on intense routines, it was never like that in New York, he just sort of went out there and did his thing. But here, it’s so much bigger and more theatrical. The tables have definitely been turned, now he’s the one gone night and day putting all his effort into making this work.

  I know it’s unorthodox, his profession, but I can’t help but be proud of his recognition and hard work. The show hasn’t even premiered and he’s already being hailed as the next big thing on the strip. And here, it’s not so taboo, it’s sought after. But I will admit, it’s still kind of weird. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in a theme park.

  “Alana? You have something for me?” my new boss jolts me out of my thoughts.

  “Ah, yes,” I hold out the blue folder I have in my hands, “it’s the Pennington Brief you asked for, Mr. Duncan.”

  Yup, that’s me. Working at Duncan and Mires, a medium-sized law firm on the Strip that handles some highly irregular cases. This morning I went to the Las Vegas Police Department with an associate and his client who was called in to look at a lineup, which is nothing out of the ordinary, except that it consisted of Marilyn Monroe impersonators in drag. Like I said, irregular, at least for me.

  James ‘Slim Jim’ Duncan went to law school with my uncle John and was the prospect he mentioned when I announced I was moving to Vegas. Ryan and I came to Nevada in July so I could take the Bar and interview with Jim. I was nervous as hell as I sat across from the overly tan man who wears Hawaiian shirts to the office. He asked me two questions, then shut the notebook sitting in front of him. I knew the interview was over then. What I didn’t expect was for him to give me the job right on the spot. He said that I’d impressed him with just the mere elegance of my speech. Which I find ironic since my internal monologue is littered with slang and curse words. I’m sure being the niece of a respected lawyer and the daughter of an esteemed judge didn’t hurt either. So, I’ve been working here since the end of August, and even though it’s not some high profile New York City law firm, I love it just the same.

  “Thanks and I’ve told you call me Jim, please. Mr. Duncan is a retired old geezer who spends his days playing eighteen holes.” He takes the folder graciously and smiles. “Have you heard anything from the Bar association yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well not to worry, you should find out any day now.” He reads though the brief.

  “I hope so.”

  “Nice job.” Jim closes the folder and looks up at me with warm brown eyes. “Is Ryan all ready for tonight?”

  “Yes, I think so. I was just going to go so I can catch him before he leaves.”

  “Fine. Tell him good luck.”

&nbs
p; “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. Okay, I’ll admit, 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 I’m 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 ask as I drop my bag next to him.

  He pushes an envelope towards 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 say as 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 peaks over the paper.

  “Well,” I smile, “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 towards 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&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 respond, “and I love you.”

  “Good. Because I love you too.” He walks up behind me and spins me around, urging my body 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 says, as he crawls on top of me like the sexual prowler he is. Ryan kisses me assertively, 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 up my shirt as he reaches my navel. His lips are warm and soft as he sucks on my skin, lighting 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 watching 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’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 says 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 says seriously.

  “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 at I stare down at the beautiful ring, it’s a sparkling emerald cut diamond on a criss-cross pave band.

  I look up into Ryan’s eyes; they’re glowing from the pink sunset shining through the windows.

  “Not maybe,” I say, pushing 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, almost as if he’s fighting not to cry.

  I take Ryan’s head in my hands and an overwhelming feeling of sanctity grabs hold. “Do you have to leave soon?” I breathe urgently against his mouth.

  “No,” Ryan responds just as needy, and then he kisses me, 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; the hunger trouncing us both.

  “Tell me you’re mine.” I strain as he circles his hips and thrusts deep inside me. I just want to hear him say it.

  Ryan freezes, my words taking him by surprise. “I’m yours,” he says, looking me dead in the eyes. “I have always been yours.” Then he kisses me and it’s a long, deep, suffocating 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 coming down from the high. I feel the ring shifting on my finger and I can’t help but smile. 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.

  “Are you nervous?” I ask, drinking in the cuts of his body as he moves around the room.

  “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, 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 look into changing my stage name.”

  “As if Jack the Stripper isn’t bad enough.”

  Ryan drops down onto the bed, “You don’t like Jack?” he asks innocently.

  “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.”