by M. Never
“I agree.” Unwilling to break away from his delectable lips. “But in my fantasies my knees don’t hurt so much.”
Ryan laughs, his whole body rumbling. He pecks the tip of my nose before hauling me onto the mattress, rubbing each knee tenderly while still sitting on the floor.
“Do you want me to take care of you?” I hint, rubbing my foot against the tent he’s sporting in his boxers.
“I’ll never say no to you touching me,” he groans as I press a little harder.
“Come up here, then.” I pull at his neck and he crawls immediately on top of me.
“I know exactly where I want to come,” he informs lewdly, zeroing in on my mouth. But before we get a chance to start again we’re interrupted by the piercing sound of his phone.
“Fuck.” He shoots the dresser a dirty look, then moves to answer the call.
“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 smirks conspiratorially before looking away. “You’re an asshole, I’ll see you in twenty.”
“Who was that?”
“Divan, he was checking up on me. Thinks he’s my mother for some fucking reason.”
“Who’s Divan, exactly?” I’m confused.
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, sauntering back to the bed.
“Well, that’s what I noticed.” I look him up and down as he stands over me, all hot and bothered and hungry for what I’m about to give him.
“Well, don’t notice too much, okay.” Ryan leans down and kisses me possessively. “Take a shower with me,” he insists, grabbing my ass.
“That might make you late for work,” I tease.
“Fuck ’em.” Ryan yanks me off the bed and hoists me over his shoulder, making me squeal. “They can survive without me for a little while.” He traipses straight into the bathroom and turns on the shower. While the water warms up, he slides me down his body, making sure I feel every inch and bulge and curve of him. He digs his fingers into my pale blonde hair, pushing it away from my face and stares down at me infatuatedly. The look makes my heart prickle and tingle and swell. This day has been amazing, and I know I’m in complete fucking trouble. And I just don’t care. It’s the kind of trouble I want. The kind I’ve been missing my whole life.
“Promise me you’ll never walk away from me again.” Ryan drops an affectionate kiss on my lips.
“I can’t promise anything except to try,” I tell him as the steam quickly fills up the room.
“It’s better than casual, I guess,” he jokes, and I let out a huge laugh. That’s what I told him when he first met. I didn’t want to get involved even though my feelings for him were a surging force I couldn’t control. It seems not much has changed in five years, because I feel the revolver of my emotions firing directly at him. Again.
I step into the shower with Ryan watching me. He slips off his boxers hot on my heels. I turn under the spray and look up at him. “I just want you to know, I’m going to make you very late for work.” I grab his erection tightly then give it a long, slow jerk. He moans, dropping his face next to mine, bracing himself with one hand on the shower wall behind me. It’s so fucking sexy watching the water beat down on his shoulders and listening to the guttural sounds escaping from his mouth as I touch him.
“Do what you want with me, I’m yours,” he declares.
After a very long shower and even longer towel drying episode, Ryan and I finally make it out of the bathroom. We’re now dressed, and unfortunately walking to Culture. The club is a few blocks from his apartment and conveniently on the way to the train. It’s a warm, spring evening and there are more people on the street than one would expect for a Thursday night. As we make our way up to the front door, a line is already forming outside. I recognize Lorenzo checking IDs. He looks like a bad-ass Big Pun weighing in at three hundred pounds, sporting a thick, black goatee. We aren’t twenty yards from Culture’s entrance when the shouting and catcalling starts. Half the women know Ryan by name. Well, Ryan’s other name. “Jack! Jack!” There are whistles and screams. You’d think he’s a freaking rock star or something by the way they’re reacting. “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 presses 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 fidget.
“Look, this isn’t who I am, it’s just what I do,” he insists, trying 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 shoots me a dissatisfied expression.
“Saturday,” he negotiates.
“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. Around everything. All of this.
“Morning,” he stipulates.
I roll my eyes and hold out on my answer.
“Alana.” He pressures me.
“Fine.” I smirk.
“You have a good game face, counselor.”
“I know.” I smile triumphantly.
“I like that expression much better.” Ryan leans in and kisses me, and it’s that slow, scorching kiss that makes me want to rip his clothes off right here on the street.
“Sunday,” I whisper breathlessly against his mouth.
“Morning,” he denotes, looking fiercely into my eyes as 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 my uncle’s half, 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. A large, wraparound porch hugs the exterior fitted with an adjoining gazebo. The siding is a warm gray and all the windows are trimmed in a bright white.
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 was home to two emotional recluses.
When I reach the bottom step I slam smack-dab into my father. Whoops. And shit.
He peers 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. Play cool.
“Where are you off to?” he inquires aloofly, yet vigil.<
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“I’m meeting Emily for lunch at the beach club,” I lie.
He nods slowly, calculatingly.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time in the city,” he comments.
“Um, yes.” The hair on the back of my neck actually stands up.
There’s a stretch of silence. I start to perspire.
“I’ve been hanging out with Jill. Getting a taste of Manhattan, you know, city living. I’m learning my way around.” I bat my eyes innocently.
He continues to stare 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 a.m. train into the city and step outside Penn Station around 10:45. Ryan is already waiting for me on one of the steps of Madison Square Garden, looking to die for in a skintight t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His hair is tousled, a sexy mess, but there are bags under his eyes. Why does 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 greets me as he stands, kissing me like it’s been a lifetime since he saw me last.
“Morning. You look like you need some coffee.”
“I do,” he confirms, taking my hand.
“Where are we going?” He yanks me toward the subway.
“SoHo,” he tosses out.
This doesn’t surprise me one bit, seeing as it’s chock-full of hipsters, art galleries, trendy boutiques, and historic architecture. It appeals to his artistic side. And Ryan fits right in with his urban, metrosexual vibe. Which is so different from the surfer boy I used to know. We head to Herald Square Station, two blocks from Madison Square Garden, 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 with a black and white striped awning whose French doors are wide open. 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 place my hand in his, and he entwines our fingers. He tugs, forcing us closer, our upper bodies leaning over the table top. I love it when he touches me.
Anywhere.
Everywhere.
Even the slightest brush.
There’s a little bit of shade from the awning overhead, making it comfortable to sit outside on the warm, summer day.
“How was your weekend?” he asks, playing with my fingers.
“Long. How was yours?”
“Even longer.” He smirks.
“Anything interesting happen?” I fish, second-guessing the question because I know it’s a loaded one.
Ryan just grins. “No, the only interesting day I had this week was Thursday.”
“And what made Thursday so interesting?” I tease.
“I got to travel.” His eyes flash.
“Oh, really? Did you go anyplace interesting?” I knowingly play right into his hands.
Ryan nods devilishly. “Someplace amazing. And I’m not done exploring yet.”
My thighs burn from his insinuation, and I try not to picture the wicked things Ryan can do that go right along with his sinful stare. The waitress drops off our coffees, and I’m not sure if I’m grateful for the distraction, or pissed off from the interruption.
“Where did the name Jack the Stripper come from?” I abruptly ask as Ryan dumps a boatload of sugar into his cup.
Ryan looks up with just his eyes, his facial expression unreadable. “It’s sort of a play on words.”
“Do tell.” I cross my arms interested.
Ryan exhales, making me overly interested to hear this story. “When I started at Culture, I was a bartender, and trust me, that’s all I ever intended to be. One night I was working the Male Revue and a dancer didn’t show up. Desperate for someone to fill in, one of the managers asked if I’d be interested.”
“And you were?”
“No,” he laughs, heating up my insides with the warm, husky sound, “not in the least. It took a lot of persuading. I was in the back room with a bunch of half-naked guys trying to talk me into it. They flashed cash in my face, told me about all the women they’d had, and all the women who’d want me.”
I grimace a little.
“I won’t get graphic.”
“Thanks for sparing me.”
“Anyway, in a panic, I blurted out that I didn’t know jack about stripping. That’s when Divan slapped me on the back and said ‘that’s perfect, we’ll call you Jack the Stripper’, and the rest is history.”
“And that’s the night you got wasted and told Lorenzo all about me?”
Ryan looks down at his coffee and fiddles with the spoon. “Yes, the girl I danced for. She looked like you.” He glances back up.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. I know I told Ryan I would try to deal with his occupation, but I’m not sure how well I can handle the details. On the flip side, though, I’m curious as hell. I’m stuck in-between a prying rock and a perturbed hard place.
“I wasn’t out of prison very long when I started working at Culture,” he goes on, and I’m suddenly at the edge of my seat. “Mac hooked me up with the job.”
“Mac?” I flutter my eyelashes, surprised. Mac is, or at least was, Ryan’s best friend. He always reminded me of one of those cute, popular guys in high school who had a quirky side. And he was always wearing one of those stupid t-shirts with the goofy sayings like This Is What Awesome Looks Like.
“Yeah.” Ryan rubs the back of his neck. “He was living in the city by the time I got out and promoting for a few big night clubs.”
“Mac knew where you were?”
“Yes.”
I huff, annoyed. “I went to him looking for you.”
“I know.” He’s apologetic. “I told him, ordered him, actually, not to tell you where I was.”
I’m kicking myself right now. I knew I should have pressed Mac harder, recalling our last conversation. I was convinced he knew something, and I just didn’t listen to my instincts.
“Where’s Mac now?”
“California. He met a girl, got married, and moved out there. Bang, bang, bang. I was crashing on his couch when it all happened.”
“Wow. Just like that?” I snap.
“Just like that,” Ryan confirms.
“You must miss him.”
“Yeah, I do. But he’s happy. So, I’m happy.” He smiles sincerely.
I can’t stop from smirking. That statement is so Ryan . . . Mr. Empathetic.
“So, Mac got you the job . . . ?” I urge him on.
“Mac got me the job.” Ryan sighs. “He was tired of me moping around. I was in a pretty dark place after I got out. I was angry, drinking a lot, unfocused. A mess, really. Then they threw me up on stage and all my demons were right there staring back at me. All long blonde hair and chestnut brown eyes. I almost chickened out, but then I sort of felt like if I bailed on her, I was bailing on you all over again. So, I went for it. And it was, I don’t know. . . . rehabilitative.”
“Are you telling me stripping is therapeutic?” I raise my eyebrows.
; “It was.” He slides his hand back across the table to mine. “You’re my therapy now.”
I shake my head at him. Mr. Smooth Talker.
“Is that why you didn’t come find me when you got out? You were in a bad place?”
“That’s part of the reason.” He squeezes my fingers. “I didn’t know how I would handle it if you rejected me.”
The look in Ryan’s eyes change, there’s no longer that light in them, the light that I love so much.
“What was prison like?” I tread carefully.
Ryan’s expression morphs into something dark. Something unrecognizable. I may have just stepped over the line.
“You don’t need to know, Alana.”
“I think it might be good for you to talk about it.” I press before I can stop myself.
“Not with you.” He withdraws, physically and emotionally. His detachment leaving me bare.
“Why not? You just said I was your therapy.”
“Alana, no. I don’t want to go there with you.”
“I want you to.”
“Why?” he snaps.
Because I’m crazy.
“Because if we’re going to be together, I need to know.”
“Are we together?” Ryan immediately fires back.
I stare at him impassively. I said I’d try, but that was no declaration. And after spending the last few days alone—missing Ryan like crazy—I sorted through my feelings. I’m pretty sure the answer to that question will be the same now, as it would be a month from now, and even a year from now. I want to be with Ryan. I want to be together, and do more than just try. I know it’s fast, but it feels like we’ve never been apart, and I don’t want to waste any more time beating around the bush. I know what life is like without him; I’m so ready to find out what life will be like with him.
“If that’s what you want,” I declare, my heart beating louder than a bass drum in my chest.
“You know what I want. You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted.” His eyes are like daggers stabbing into my soul.
I’ve never been good at vocalizing what I’m feeling, so I decide to deploy the show-don’t-tell tactic. I get up from the table and stand over Ryan. He puts his hands on my hips, his grip so tight it feels almost desperate. I lean over and kiss him. It’s a gentle, affirming kiss that seals our fate.
