Strip Me Bare

by M. Never

Ryan steps back, and all I can do is stare at his beautiful face. The face that’s haunted my dreams, that’s caused so much damn heartache, that I never ever recovered from.

  My head spins as I try to process everything that just happened in the last twenty, nerve-wracking minutes. The boy I gave my heart and soul—and let’s not forget my virginity—to has just reappeared in the most unexpected way. I’ve been railroaded by a Mack truck. And out of all the scenarios I’ve imagined, Jack the Stripper never entered the atmosphere.

  “Alana, say something,” Ryan utters anxiously.

  I visually ingest him, starting from his sneakers, working my way up his legs, past the makeshift cover-up, gliding my eyes over his ripped stomach, his toned chest, his gorgeous face, his bewitching eyes. I know I shouldn’t believe what I’m seeing, but he’s here, right in front of me. He’s really here and . . .”Your penis has tassels,” I snivel.

  For a beat he’s stoically silent, but then he erupts with a huge, belly-rumbling laugh. I wasn’t trying to be funny. Ryan wraps his arms back around me, securing one around my neck, and the other under my left arm. I’m trapped and my traitorous body tingles all over.

  “I never thought I would touch you again,” he murmurs softly, his tone laced with emotion.

  “That makes two of us.” I can’t believe it, but I hold onto him tightly. We cling together in the alleyway for I don’t know how long. An iron curtain concealing the secrets of the past. I want so many things in these short moments, my eagerness erupting like a battle cry inside me. But, by the time I gather the courage to voice my demands, Ryan beats me to the punch.

  “Do you want to go back inside?” he asks, breaking the thick silence. “I’ve had enough of the dumpster stench.” He looks down at me with a ‘pew’ face before sliding his hands along my arms, and intertwining our fingers.

  “Back inside?” I curl my lip. “Ah, no thanks. I think I’ve had my fill of inside when I watched you dry fuck Emily.”

  He opens his mouth as if to protest, but then falls silent. Smart move, I’m a loaded cannon right now and any protests could lead to a full-blown riot.

  “Then where are you going to go?” he questions. “All of your friends are still inside.” That fact isn’t going to sway me.

  “I’ll wait in the limo and probably smoke a carton of cigarettes while I do.” I have an answer for everything. Ryan doesn’t have to worry. I’ve been fending for myself just fine for the last five years. You know, without him. His abrupt reappearance back into my life isn’t going to change anything, most of all my independence.

  Ryan grimaces, and I recognize the face . . . he wants to argue. But he’s resisting. Smart.

  “Then I’ll stay with you.” He takes it upon himself to decide.

  “Don’t you have to go back to work?” I almost throw up in my mouth from the notion.

  “They’ll be fine without me for a little while.” He waves work off.

  “Is that what you thought when you bailed on me?” I strike more viciously than a snake.

  Ryan clenches his jaw. “Alright, I deserve that.”

  “You deserve so much more than that,” I seethe.

  “I’ll take whatever you want to throw at me.” Ryan doesn’t back down. He knows I want to fight, and seems ready and willing to go toe to toe.

  “If I could pick up that dumpster it would be flying at your head,” I attack.

  Ryan hostilely puts both of his hands up against the brick wall behind us, trapping me in. “Do you want to hit me, Alana?” he challenges. “Would that make you feel better? Because I’ll let you. I’ll let you hit me until I’m dead.”

  “I don’t want to hit you, Ryan, I want to understand.” I pound on his bare chest with both fists, the pain of the past careening to the surface.

  “You will. Tomorrow,” he presses.

  “Tomorrows scare me,” I admit grimly, staring straight into his eyes, instantly sorry I shared so much information. He doesn’t deserve a damn thing from me, especially my vulnerability.

  Ryan presses his body against mine and my cheeks catch fire. He’s eerily quiet as he gazes down at me. I resist the urge to reach out and touch him, to plant my hands right on his bare chest and over the small scar my cigarette left all those years ago. But I don’t dare.

  “I have been dead for five years, Alana,” he obscurely confesses.

  “You look pretty alive to me,” I contest.

  Ryan shakes his head, his long, wavy hair falling into his eyes. “I came back to life five minutes ago.”

  I want to deny it, I don’t want to admit it, but so did I. I took my first real breath of fresh air in five years.

  How is it possible he can still infiltrate my emotions so easily after all this time?

  “I really need a cigarette.” I’m desperate for some separation. We’re too close. It’s too dangerous. Too tempting. I’m not prepared for any of this.

  Ryan doesn’t move immediately, he just lingers over me a few moments more as if reluctant to let me go. My stomach is in knots as another wave of nausea threatens.

  He pushes off the wall just in time and steps back, disinclined to remove his piercing, blue eyes away from mine. He then grabs my hand abruptly, causing me to startle. He’s always been confident, but now, today, he’s almost domineering. So different from the guy I once knew, and yet, so much the same.

  As he walks me back to Culture, I find myself in some bizarre, alternate reality, feeling Ryan’s skin against mine—his eagerness to touch me, his forthright attitude, his up-front mannerisms. I’m in a daze. In an alternate reality where no time has passed between us at all.

  The line is even longer at the main entrance now, and when Ryan and I reach the black velvet ropes, women begin to scream. At first I’m not sure why. I consider a possible terror attack is happening before I realize they’re screaming at a mostly naked Ryan. We might as well be standing in front of a construction site with all the catcalls going on. Ryan just does a little wave then turns his back on them. He shoots me an uncomfortable grin, and all I can do is just stare. What the fuck is happening?

  “Shit, my purse is inside.” I realize, on the verge of a hissy fit. No desperately needed nicotine readily available. It’s New York, maybe I can track down something stronger? Heroine, perhaps?

  “No problem.” Ryan whistles to someone behind him. “Hey, Lorenzo! You got a smoke for my girl?”

  His girl? Sayyyy what?

  A moment later a big, roly-poly, Hispanic guy with a goatee and black fedora walks over from the main entrance. He looks like he can regulate some shit.

  “Sure, bro.” He pulls a pack of Parliament Lights from his pocket. The man grabs one from the pack and goes to hand it to me, but Ryan snatches it up first. Ryan takes Lorenzo’s lighter and burns the cigarette, taking a long pull before finally handing it over to me. His blue eyes shining with what as he looks at me? Amusement? Arrogance? Elation? Please.

  “Thanks.” I grab the cigarette and quickly inhale, the nicotine like oxygen to my lungs.

  “So, your girl, huh?” Lorenzo asks as he lights up, too.

  “Ah, no, old acquaintance,” I set him straight strictly, pinning Ryan with a cold stare.

  “This is Alana,” Ryan informs Lorenzo as he takes the cigarette smoothly from my hand. Apparently, we’re sharing.

  “Alana?” Lorenzo regards me, surprised. Very surprised. Weirdly surprised. “I’ve heard so much about you.” He slides his shifty eyes over to Ryan.

  “You have?” My astonishment is blatant as I take the cigarette back from Ryan. I pull hard, blowing out a thick stream of smoke from my mouth. Salvation.

  Lorenzo nods, putting a hand up to his ear, as if listening to something. “Yo, bro, they’re looking for you inside. Someone’s requesting you,” his voice rumbles.

  I become instantly sick to my stomach.

  “I gotta get back.” Lorenzo clasps Ryan’s hand. “It was nice to finally meet you, Alana.”

  “Yeah, same
here,” I mutter, a bit confused. Finally? “Thanks for the smoke.”

  Lorenzo nods again. “Anytime for Ryan’s girl.”

  “I’m not Ryan’s girl,” I nearly rip his head off.

  “Whatever you say,” he responds with a wry smile before he walks away.

  “How does he know about me?” I ask Ryan as soon as Lorenzo is out of earshot.

  Ryan rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “The first night, I, uh, danced, I got piss drunk afterwards and sort of . . .” He glances away quickly. “Sort of unloaded on Lorenzo about you. About us.”

  My jaw drops.

  “And when was that? The first time you danced?”

  Ryan shrugs. “About a year ago.”

  “And what exactly did you tell Lorenzo?”

  I can’t wait to fucking hear this.

  Ryan opens his mouth to talk when Lorenzo’s deep timber interrupts him, “Bro, they want you inside, like yesterday.”

  “Shit.” Ryan glares at the entrance to Culture.

  “I thought they’d be fine without you for a little while?” I dig passive aggressively.

  “Throwing dumpsters, Alana?” Ryan shakes his head with a smirk as he tightens the tiny towel around his waist. “Tomorrow, promise you’ll meet me tomorrow?” He digs his heels in, leaving me with basically no choice. “I’ll explain everything.” Ryan places his hands on my hips possessively and draws me close to him. “Please,” he whispers earnestly.

  My knees just about buckle. Five years. I haven’t heard a peep from this man in five years, and yet he still feels as right now as he did then.

  I want to burn another hole in his chest for that. And one more for leaving me. And another for hurting me. So many I could connect the damn dots. I close my eyes trying to suppress the nasty thought, even though he deserves it, that and so much worse.

  “I’ll meet you,” I concede, putting my hand on his shoulder, his skin soft under my touch.

  “Good.” He plants a firm kiss right on the corner of my mouth causing my whole body to flare.

  “Is your number still the same?” he asks as he pulls away far too soon.

  “Ah, yes,” I answer a little lightheaded.

  “Okay, I’ll text you with a time and place.” He laces his fingers with mine and the connection zaps me like static electricity.

  It’s way too easy. Too effortless. Too much time has passed to just slip comfortably into the present.

  “I won’t hold my breath,” I promise.

  Ryan releases me, and I suddenly feel like I’ve lost him all over again.

  “Look, Alana, you can throw all the dumpsters you want,” he gets in my face, “but hear me. Now that I’ve got you back, I’m not letting go of you again.” His eyes flash, and they are deadly serious.

  “Why did you let me go the first time?” I explode.

  “Tomorrow.” He’s cool and collected, but also tight-lipped. Fucking frustrating. I want answers and I want them right now. To hell with tomorrow.

  “Now, Ryan.” We face off, both on a runaway train headed straight for a brick wall.

  “I can’t now. Tomorrow.” He holds his ground. “When it can be just us and I can explain everything. In detail.”

  I want to rip my hair out strand by strand. I don’t know if I can wait till tomorrow.

  “Ugh, fine.” I give in. Sucker. “Can you send Emily out when you go back in?” I ask tersely. I’ve had enough of all this. Of Ryan, of Culture. Of screaming women, and our exhumed past. Heroin is sounding better and better.

  Ryan nods silently, those dark blue eyes heedful.

  We both continue to stand there, staring each other down.

  Suddenly, the door swings open, cutting off our pissing contest. “Ryan,” a deep, velvety voice calls. I startle. It’s The Dominator. “Yo, there are ladies downstairs waiting for you, man.”

  Rocks form in my stomach. Boulders the size of a Suburban are weighing me down.

  “Go.” I turn my back to him. I can’t look. I can’t bear to see him go through that entryway. I try not to picture him grinding on all those women. Try not to picture him humping Emily up and down the stage.

  I tell myself I shouldn’t be jealous.

  I have no right.

  I have no claim.

  He’s not mine.

  Not anymore.

  “Alana!” Emily calls just before I climb into the limo. “Are you okay?”

  I examine the multiple meanings of okay: passable—acceptable or tolerable but not exceptional; allowable—acceptable to somebody or permissible; and physically well—in good health or condition. If you can’t tell, I’m a bit of a dictionary geek.

  I look her dead in the eyes. “No.”

  “Shit.” She pulls me into a bear hug. Emily knows all about mine and Ryan’s sordid past. Every gut-wrenching detail. She’s about the only one who does. She was there the night we met, she heard all about our relationship issues, and she’s the one I leaned on when he left me in the dust.

  Emily hands me my purse. “You probably need a cigarette.”

  “I probably need a shrink.” I pull one out of the pack and light it with a shaky hand before I pinch Emily’s arm.

  “Ouch!” She jumps. “What the fuck did you do that for?”

  “Just making sure I’m not dreaming.” I exhale a cloud of grey smoke.

  “I assure you, you’re not.” She rubs her upper arm. “And aren’t I the one who’s supposed to pinch you for that?”

  “Why would I inflict bodily harm on myself when I have you?”

  Duh.

  “Bitch.” She yanks my hair.

  “Ouch!”

  “How does it feel?” She laughs.

  “Definitely not like I’m dreaming.” I rub my scalp.

  We both erupt in laughter. And it feels amazing. Cathartic, almost. For all of a half a second. Before reality slams me on the head with a sledgehammer. “My ex is a stripper.”

  “And a good one, at that.” Emily just has to twist the knife.

  “He always was a good dancer,” I reminisce, the memories of the past dragging me under.

  After Ryan disappeared, Emily tried to convince me that he was just a jerk, that he played me for one thing, and I fell right into his trap. But I never really believed that. I may have been young and inexperienced when it came to guys and relationships, but character was something I could always read, even then. And read it well.

  My father says being able to read a liar makes for the greatest of lawyers, and being able to lie makes you untouchable. Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to the law. Not that I take pride in being a good liar, but being able to read people has proven beneficial, in academics and in life.

  “I swear to God, Alana, I didn’t know it was him until I ripped off his mask, and then when I saw his face all I could think was . . . ’Holy, shit’.”

  “Did he know who you were?” I fish for information.

  “He had no idea, the last time he saw me my hair was bleach blonde and shorter than his. And you can barely see anything under those lights. When he recognized me, he asked if I wanted him to stop. I just told him to finish quick.”

  “He came after me,” I expel, still astonished.

  “I saw. As soon as you ran out of that room, he was right behind you. One of the other strippers, er, guys grabbed him by the arm and shoved shoes and a towel in his hand. Then I told Hugo that I wanted him as our private dancer the rest of the night.”

  “You requested him, why?”

  “Ah, because there was no way I was letting another woman touch him in front of you.” She makes this kneading dough gesture with her hands. Not a pretty visual.

  “Thanks?” I guess.

  “Don’t thank me, tell me what the hell he said!” Emily is dying for details. “Did he pull the whole ‘it wasn’t you it was me’ thing? Or ‘I didn’t think it was going to work out so I thought it was best to just cut my losses’ asshole man excuse thing?” She deepens her voice like a go
ofy guy.

  “Ah, no, actually, he told me . . .” I bubble with laughter because it’s just so unbelievable. “He called me his girl and said, and I quote, now that he got me back he wasn’t letting go of me again.”

  Emily’s mouth falls open. “No shit, well, where the hell has he been for the last five years?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  “That raises a red flag.”

  “No,” I clarify, exhaling more smoke. “He said he wants to talk about it tomorrow. He wants to have coffee.”

  “Coffee?” Emily responds exactly the same way I did. Aghast. “Well, I wouldn’t hold my breath for that phone call.” She’s pessimistic. And why shouldn’t she be? I sure as hell am. I’ll probably never ever see or hear from Ryan Pierce again. Not after tonight. And I’m not exactly sure how I feel about that.

  I bubble with laughter. “I told him the exact same thing.”

  My purse suddenly rings. Emily and I simultaneously freeze.

  “Check it.” She all but shoves me out of my shoes.

  Crap. I pull out my phone and inspect the screen. It’s flashing with an unknown number and a text message:

  Dean & DeLuca Broadway and Prince. Noon. XX

  Holy fucking shit. I look up at Emily, stunned. “I think it’s safe for me to hold my breath.” I turn the phone and show her the message.

  She scrutinizes it with an unsure expression. “So much for not dwelling on your past, huh?”

  Fuck. Me.

  I QUIETLY SIT at the dining room table stabbing my oatmeal to death. I have no appetite. I just keep picturing a pair of cobalt blue eyes. The ones from the past and ones from the present.

  Ryan told me he loved me once. Professed it, actually. He swore he’d protect me. Swore he’d never let go even if the stars were falling out of the sky. But he lied. Because he did let go.

  I repeatedly glance—almost obsessively—at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room. It’s a vain attempt to distract my intrusive thoughts. It’s 9:23 a.m. I need to catch the 10:36 train if I’m going to make it into the city by noon. I know the PATH’s schedule by heart.

  Currently, I’m sitting diagonally across from my father, who’s quietly reading the newspaper like he does every Sunday morning. We barely speak, and when he does address me it’s formal, like I’m a business acquaintance, not his flesh and blood.