by M. Never
Strip Me Bare
Copyright © M. Never 2017
All rights reserved.
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 M. Never.
Cover art by:
Sara Eirew
Model:
Gus Caleb Smyrnios
Editing by:
Candy Royer and Jenny Carlsrud Sims
Proofread by:
Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC
Virginia Tesi Carey and Teri Fantauzzi
Interior design & Formatting by:
Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting
Sometimes, strength isn’t
about how loudly you yell.
It’s about how quietly you scream.
~ MN
Contents
STRIP ME BARE
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 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
Shawshank Redemption
Rules of Engagement
May We All Find Peace
Waking Up in Vegas
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by M. Never
Alana
I DON’T KNOW how long I wait—minutes, hours, days, maybe—for Sean to wake up, and just when I think I can no longer take the frigid temperature or the heartrending scene in front of me, he stirs. Moaning softly, he shifts on the mattress as if trying to remember how to use his limbs. I just stand there statically, watching him come back to life. Finally, he flutters his eyelids open 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, with dark purple rings painted around them.
“Alana?” he croaks, staring at me vacantly, trying to decipher if I’m a mirage or truly flesh and blood.
“Sean?” I echo. 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 bites, the question rippling with so many emotions–fear, concern, terror, dread.
“You need to come with me,” I demand, not wasting a minute with small talk.
“For what?” He drags himself to his feet, 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 begins to pace 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 toward him cautiously. “Sean, listen to me. Ryan needs you—”
“No, Alana.” He snaps his head up, and I see so much confliction in his sunken 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 toward the door. “I’m so sorry, Alana.” His voice strains with such intense grief, it strikes my chest like a bolt of lightning, shattering my heart.
“Sean . . .” I tremble fearfully, 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 backyard 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.
Hopeless and defeated, I sink down onto the cold hard 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 Northeast 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,” Jill, Emily’s maid of honor, calls my name. Her personality is 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 slingshot back.
“I don’t know?” She muses, holding up her hands like she’s balancing a pair of scales. “Cut short a year-long trip to Europe, or stay and hang out with all those hotties on the French Riviera?”
“Sun and Speedos get old after awhile.” I sigh.
“Well, maybe some American Speedos will revive your interest?” Jill prods.
“Doubtful.” I scrunch my nose.
“Is the straight-laced Alana Remington too prim and proper for a male strip show?” Jill just won’t let up.
“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 argue. “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.” Jill takes a hefty sip of champagne. Someone clearly has high hopes for tonight.
“You’re so crude,” Emily admonishes.
“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-ass legs, and they’d pay to sleep with her.”
“Well, just don’t let my father find out if that happens,” I interject 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 helps herself to another 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 and long, dark hair pouring over her shoulders. She’s five foot two and a hundred pounds soaking wet, but she has th
e persona of a world-renowned supermodel—beautiful, confident, sexy, fun. She leaves a mark wherever she goes.
“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, my father barely knows 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 in the limo a pre-show.
“So, a male strip club would have been a no-go with him, huh?” Jill asks, sarcasm clear as a bell in her tone. She’s never really liked me. I think it’s because she sees me as competition for Emily’s attention, but I’ve never been able to confirm that.
“Like I need to answer that.” I grimace. I’ve known Jill most of my life. She’s fully aware of my family situation. My father is a strict, detached man who has stern expectations of his daughter, and demands 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 makes no qualms about hiding her annoyance. “What she should wear, whom she should date, how she should breathe. He’s colder than a damn piece of ice. I swear, I don’t know how our fathers share the same DNA.”
Both of our fathers are prestigious figures in the law community. Mine is a superior court judge in the state of New Jersey, while Emily’s is a big shot defense attorney in New York City. They both have a reputation to uphold, but my Uncle John is very personable and laid-back. He and Emily have a great relationship. My father is the exact opposite—stringent, disconnected, and completely 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 continues to niggle.
“Jill.” I roll my eyes, wishing I could slap her. That would be so inappropriate though, and I don’t want to put a damper on Emily’s night. I’ll bite my tongue. I’m used to it. Hell, I’m an expert at it. I have a doctorate in keeping my trap shut.
“Not unless they have a seven-figure paycheck and Republicans as parents,” Emily adds wryly.
Everyone in the limo looks pointedly 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 all 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 flash and droves of people litter the streets. 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 fucking 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 warm, New York air. Along with Emily, Jill, and me, there’s Beth and Liz, the groom’s two sisters, and one of Emily’s roommates from college, Jen.
The smell of hotdogs and pretzels drift in the breeze from the street vendors as we make our way up the sidewalk. There’s a secondary entrance adorned with a street sign with several shirtless men that reads ‘Male Revue’, and when I look closer at it I catch some fine print scribbled on the bottom that reads ‘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?” I hiss.
“Okay,” she concedes, the penises bobbling on her head. Dear Lord.
“Are you going to wear those things all night?” I roll my eyes.
“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.” I smirk. Jill is a freaking lush.
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 a jacket or scarf or long pants, and I think even underwear is optional, depending on your personality.
As the line behind us grows rapidly, the bouncer finally gives the okay to go inside. I bounce in my sky-high stilettos, trying to muster enough nerve to actually walk through the door. I’m a little out of my element here. Hell, a lot out of my element. We file in one behind the other, all walking carefully down the dark stairwell in our designer heels as we make our way into the club’s private room.
The space is dark but not cold. Black tufted leather couches and round, glass coffee tables are spread out in front of a small stage that sits 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 down the champagne. I prematurely decide that I don’t think I’m going to like this one bit. I glance around anxiously at all the excited women in the room. A few of them have sashes or a tiara that reads ‘bachelorette’ or ‘birthday girl.’ Emily fits right in with her penis paraphernalia headband. She seems totally relaxed. I think I’d be hyperventilating if I knew some guy was going to be grinding all over me in a few minutes.
I take another large sip of champagne as I watch the bartenders mix drinks behind the bar, listen to the muted conversations of the girls around me, and feel the temperature rise rapidly as the room fills to capacity.
What the fuck am I doing?
Just before I can get up to get some air, a smooth male voice washes over the crowd. “Ladies, ladies, ladies,” the emcee announces. Shit. The man is short, with caramel-colored skin and big green eyes. He’s also very handsome, and comes off as very charismatic. He introduces himself as Hugo, walking back and forth across the stage like he owns the damn thing.
Hugo tells a few dirty jokes to warm up the crowd. All the woman laugh, some even going so far as to fire comments back, fueling his raunchy lip service. “Okay, my fine females, this is what’s going to happen,” he discloses 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.” He lets the last part of his sentence linger, teasing the shit out of the room of eager women. I really think I need a fucking cigarette and a line of shots before this shit goes down.
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, which is cold and smells like sour chemicals. Then, with no warning, that little black door swings open and four men with no shirts, ripped bodies, and black tuxedo pants file out one by one bumping their hips to the music. The room goes absolutely berserk. Women start screaming, bouncing up and down, and waving dollar bills over their heads as the four guys bump and grind and hump around the stage in a sexed-up routine. They’re all hot, I’ll admit, but I can’t help but wonder how anyone can do this. Don’t they feel like a slab of raw meat?
I down more champagne as Emily claps and laughs, rolling right a
long with the high energy of the show.
When the Chippendales’ demonstration is done, the dancers disappear through 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. She’s really getting into this, which could be dangerous. Emily likes to have fun. Too much fun sometimes. And if it wasn’t for her, that word wouldn’t even exist in my world. She’s gotten us in more trouble than I like to recount. But despite her shenanigans, the experience was always worth it. Growing up, she added a balance to my life I was in desperate need of. She taught me how to blow off steam, and search for an outlet when dealing with my overbearing father. I don’t know where I’d be without her. If I had to guess, probably a stressed-out mess.
Hugo calls the first bachelorette onto the stage. Lila, I think he said her name was. She’s a cute, young girl, who’s
almost innocent looking. She’s wearing a sparkly tiara and a pink sash that broadcasts ‘bachelorette’. Her fake blonde hair is loose with curls, and she’s wearing a conservative, white, button-up shirt with light blue jeans. Not very club couture, but whatever. Her entire party is called up on stage, and is instructed by Hugo to decorate her body with dollar bills. The group sticks money wherever 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 with her. Then Lila is urged to sit down on a lone folding chair on stage. I actually hold my breath.
The DJ hits the music again, and 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 persona, popping his body as he jumps right in front of Lila. He looks legit in his navy blue uniform, aviator sunglasses, and officer’s cap. Sergeant Striptease wastes no time working it, getting right in Lila’s face, bumping his junk to the rhythm of the music.
I can’t believe I’m watching this, I think to myself, wide-eyed, as I down more and more champagne.
