Strip Me Bare

by M. Never

  “What the hell does that mean?” I demand, irate.

  “It means I’m just the interim, the dirty little secret in your past that your future will never know about.”

  That statement just stabbed me right in the heart.

  “You know what?” I throw the covers off me. “Now you sound like Sean and your mother. If you want to believe the pauper never ends up with the princess bullshit, fine. But don’t think I’m going to sit here and put up with you saying hurtful things to me just so you can push me away. I’ll go, freely.” I shoot out of bed and stomp toward the door. “But let me leave you with a little reminder before I go.” I grab the knob. “I distinctly recall you telling me that you were never going to take the fall for Sean again, yet here you are. Going in front of a judge tomorrow, handing him several years of your life for something you didn’t do.”

  “I’m not going to jail.”

  “Not this time, Ryan”

  “Not ever again.”

  “Do you really believe that? Because what’s going to happen the next time Sean uses your name? Or borrows your car? Or shows up on your doorstep looking for a place to live with a Ziploc full of heroin in his pocket? He’ll never change if he knows there are no consequences for his actions. So, you’re right about one thing, I’m not going to stick around to have a future with you like that.”

  I storm out of the room and down the stairs. Goddamn it, why did I ever give up smoking?

  I find myself in the kitchen. A room that’s bright and airy even in the dark. I flick on a small light underneath the cabinets and sit down at the table, dropping my head despondently onto my arms. Ugh. If I thought Jack the Stripper was a challenge to deal with, I was in no way prepared for Ryan Pierce.

  Walking away from him is the last thing I want to do, but how are we ever going to have a future like this? Constantly looking over our shoulders, worrying how Sean might destroy our lives next.

  “Alana?” Ryan’s voice is guarded in the shadows.

  “Yeah?” My voice doesn’t sound much better. I don’t pick my head up as he walks toward me, the wood floor creaking underneath his footsteps.

  “I don’t want to push you away.”

  “And I don’t want you believing all the bullshit your family pumps into your head.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Ryan—” I argue cynically.

  “I try not to,” he fires back rapidly.

  I don’t know what else to say. I’m not in the mood to fight or lecture or preach. I just want to go back to bed with my boyfriend and pretend tomorrow is never going to come.

  “Do you want to leave me, Alana?” Ryan asks anxiously.

  “Do you want me to leave you, Ryan?” I respond softly.

  “No,” he rasps.

  “Then there’s your answer.”

  “I don’t know what to do about Sean and my mom,” he admits self-consciously. “They’re the only family I have, and I’m terrified to lose them.”

  “No one understands what that’s like better than me.” I turn and hug him, pressing my cheek firmly into his abdomen. “But they’re not the only family you have.”

  Ryan clutches onto me. “I’m terrified to lose you, too.”

  I must have paced back and forth a thousand times.

  Ever since Ryan and Emily left for court this morning I haven’t been able to sit still. Since I can’t set foot anywhere near that courthouse, I sent Emily in my place for moral support. If I can’t be there for Ryan, at least he can have the next best thing. I keep telling myself that everything will be fine. The deal is on the table and has already been accepted. All Ryan has to do is stand in front of Judge Reynolds, plead guilty, sign some paperwork, and leave.

  So, what the hell is taking so long?

  The massive front door of my uncle’s home suddenly swings open as Emily enters. She’s wearing a casual pant suit with a long black coat, her dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail.

  She’s accessorized perfectly, but is missing one key thing: Ryan.

  “Hey,” I bum rush her. “Where’s—”

  She puts her hand up, silencing me. The grave expression on her face telling me something went terribly wrong.

  “Em?”

  “Alana.” She’s shaky as she holds back the tears. “Judge Reynolds was rushed to the hospital this morning with appendicitis.”

  “What?” My voice shrinks.

  “All of his cases were redistributed to other judges.”

  The floor suddenly feels like it’s quaking.

  “Em, what are you telling me?”

  “He went in front of your father.”

  All I can do is shake my head fervently as she speaks.

  “He rejected Ryan’s plea. He remanded him and scheduled his sentencing for next week.”

  “No, Em,” I refute. “Everything was worked out!” I’m in complete denial.

  “Shelly tried to push for the deal, but your dad was adamant.”

  “Twenty years, Emily. That’s what he’s going to give him. You know my father.” I become frantic. This can’t be happening—Ryan isn’t supposed to go back to jail.

  “I know.” She tries to hug me, but I just push her away.

  “Don’t.”

  “Alana,” she breathes my name sympathetically, but I’m not having it. My thoughts are in an uproar as I pace around the foyer. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

  “Give me your keys,” I demand.

  “What?” Emily replies flabbergasted.

  “Give -me -your -car -keys, I need to go somewhere.” I hold out my hand sternly.

  “Where?” She puts the keys to her BMW in my palm.

  I take them hastily, but I don’t answer. I head for the door without even grabbing a coat—Emily calling my name.

  I pull into the parking lot of the Americana diner, tires screeching to a halt. Without losing momentum I storm out of the car and into the cold, December air, praying to God Ryan’s mother is working. As soon as I walk inside I see her standing behind the counter in her pink shirt and black apron. I put on the most composed mask I muster and stalk quickly up to her. I don’t want to make a scene, but if she doesn’t tell me exactly where Sean is, I’ll turn this place into a Bon Jovi concert at Madison Square Garden. I may not be able to cry, but I sure as fuck can scream.

  I don’t give her the chance to say hi, hello, or good morning, assuming she’d even be that hospitable.

  “Where’s Sean?” I demand in a low voice.

  She hesitates, gazing at me with distrustful eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying. Tell me.”

  “I haven’t seen him in over a week.”

  “That doesn’t mean you don’t know where I can find him.”

  She huffs and looks away, a worn expression on her face.

  “Ryan is sitting in a jail cell for the second time because of Sean, and it’s clear you’re not going to do a damn thing about it. So, I am. Now, please, just tell me where he is,” I press forcefully.

  She sighs painfully, and I know she’s torn between giving up one son to save the other. “It’s no place for a sweet girl like you.”

  I lean over the counter enraged, my blonde hair falling forward. “If you don’t give me the fucking address, I’ll show you just how sweet I can be,” I boil.

  She glares at me, stunned. Moments pass like decades as I hold her over the fire. Finally, reluctantly, she pulls out the pad from her apron. She scribbles something down, then rips off the paper and hands it to me.

  “I hope you’re prepared for what you find,” she extends contemptuously.

  I snatch the piece of paper, turn around, and leave without even so much as a thank you.

  I PUNCH THE address into the GPS and begin to drive, the ETA is twenty-one minutes. I’ve never been to the bad side of Asbury, but I have a sinking feeling I’m driving straight into the heart of darkness.

  I travel into Asbury
Park following the robotic voice’s commands. The buildings are all spray painted and worn, the sidewalks covered with debris and the shady looking characters hanging out on the street corners are eyeing up the white girl driving the Bimmer. If Emily’s car gets jacked, she’ll decapitate me. I double-check to make sure the doors are locked as I pull down a little side road with dilapidated houses, chain-link fences, and barking dogs. The GPS tells me I have arrived at my destination, a two-story house with dirty siding, and a few boarded-up windows. Just looking at it turns my insides arctic.

  I park across the street and cut the engine, but I don’t get out of the car right away. I need to mentally prepare myself for what’s inside. I’ve never known a full-fledged drug addict. I’ve known people who do drugs, but this, here, is on a whole nother level.

  I can’t stop myself from picturing Ryan, sitting alone in a concrete jail cell with his entire future on the line. While Sean roams around free—insolent and blameless.

  It’s eating me alive.

  I eventually get out of the car, wishing I was armed with a fully-loaded semi as I walk up to the decaying house, climb the front steps, and then knock on the door. Timidly at first, then a little harder. I wait, and then knock again, the dried paint crumbling under my knuckles. Finally, the door cracks open, and I catch a glimpse of a man with a thick beard and grungy clothes.

  “What?” he croaks.

  “I’m looking for Sean Pierce,” I announce with a shaky voice.

  “Who?”

  “Sean Pierce,” I enunciate.

  The strung-out guy eyes me over. “You looking to score?”

  My heartbeat ceases to exist.

  “Yeah, a friend told me where I could find him.”

  There are so many pretenses in that sentence.

  The door swings open, and I hesitate for a split-second before I walk in. I’m so jittery I must have convinced him I needed a fix.

  The inside of the house is disgusting. Garbage is littered all over the floor, dingy people are lying on dirty blankets and filthy pillows, and it smells like burnt hair. As I walk cautiously through the living room, everyone gawks at me with vacant eyes—phantom beings who look like the life has been wrung right out of them. I wrap my arms around myself as I follow grungy beard guy through the house. He stops in a doorway adjacent to the kitchen. “He’s all yours.” He motions with his hand then shuffles away.

  This whole experience seems surreal; a ghostly dream stemming from a deep-dark reality.

  I walk through the entryway and nearly puke from what I find. Sean is passed out on a soiled mattress. His face is sucked out, and his body is thin. He looks almost dead. I inch slowly into the ice-cold room and stand over him. I don’t understand it. Addiction. The pull or the control, the want or the need. I don’t understand how this beautiful boy can be lying there so far gone and still look as innocent as a child. Staring at Sean, I think about what he said at Culture, how he’s afraid Ryan will end up like him. An addict? Or just hopeless and alone. Seeing him now, I’m sure I’d die before I let Ryan, or anyone else I loved, end up like this.

  I also realize Sean’s not insolent or blameless, he’s trapped. And it whisks a welter of emotions inside me.

  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.

  I drive back to my uncle’s house in a daze. All I keep seeing are Sean’s dull, distressed eyes. They may be the same shape and color as Ryan’s, but they’re nowhere near alike. Sean’s eyes are haunted, dim and void of any light.

  I pull into the driveway, a red and purple stone path that leads up to the massive brick house. I park Emily’s car next to my uncle’s black Mercedes SUV and stare straight ahead.

  I step out of the car and into the frosty, January evening. It smells like snow and the temperature is so low it’s cutting right through my clothes.

  I walk sluggishly to the front door, but stop when I get to the stairs. I sink like a stone, dropping my head into my hands, shivering in the cold. That’s when the snowflakes begin to fall . . . big, wet crystals that shower heavily out of the sky. I look up, allowing them to hit my face, flooding my eyes with the tears I can’t cry. I try to force the emotions out, but the swell just won’t come. Soon, my clothes are wet, and my hair is covered in sparkling flakes, but I just can’t bring myself to move.

  “Alana?” My uncle’s voice beckons from behind me. I turn around, cold and wet with snow dotting my face. “What are you doing out here, honey?”

  “Trying to cry.”

  “What? Why?” He grabs two jackets and comes outside to sit next to me. He throws a big, puffy coat around me, before snuggling up beside me, the snow pelting down harder and harder.

  “Because I can’t. I haven’t cried since that Christmas Mom died. And all I want is to feel better, but I can’t cry.” I wipe some crystals away from my cheek with my sleeve.

  My uncle extends a contrite expression. “Alana, do you know why you can’t cry?”

  I shake my head.

  “Because you’re too strong.”

  “I’m not strong,” I dispute. “I couldn’t even help Ryan.”
r />   “That’s not true,” he argues.

  “Yes, it is.” I sniff.

  “You’re helping him by being there for him.”

  “It’s not enough. The only way I could truly help him is if I could have convinced Sean to help him.”

  “You found Sean?” My uncle perks up.

  “Sort of.” I pull out the now-damp piece of paper from my pocket with the address on it. “He ran when I confronted him.”

  My uncle takes the piece of paper and glances down at the address. “Alana, this is one of the worst neighborhoods in Asbury.” He frowns.

  “I’m a total bad-ass,” I slur dejectedly.

  “Dumb-ass, maybe,” he grunts. “But it does establish one thing.”

  “What’s that?” I question.

  “Truth. Whether you believe it or not, you’re strong.”

  I gaze up at my uncle with chattering teeth and woeful eyes. “Uncle John.” I’m dire. “I’m really tired of being strong.”

  “I know, honey.” He wraps me in one of his strong arms, and I sag against his broad chest. “But I’m going to help.”

  “How?” I whimper.

  “I’ll put in a call to the sheriff’s department. I’ll tell them I got a tip on Sean’s whereabouts. I’ll drop Judge Reynolds’ name, too. They’ll sniff him out.”

  “You think?” I raise my head, hopefully.

  “I know.” He grins.

  “What if they don’t find him by next Thursday?” I bite my bottom lip.

  My uncle shrugs. “What all good lawyers do. We’ll appeal.”

  I SIT ON a metal folding chair in the corner of the jail’s visitors’ area. I’m dressed in a turtleneck, puffy vest, and jeans, with my hair tucked under a pink Yankees cap. I keep my head down and one knee pulled into my chest as I wait impatiently.

  The room is small, and filled with all sorts. The diversity is staggering—there’s everyone from mothers with their children, to tattooed biker chicks, to groups of guys who look like they belong in a frat house.

  And me, the rebel princess.

  The correction officer announces the visitor door is open, and he’s no-nonsense about it. He’s young, with light-blond hair, and a youthful face. Everyone in the room gravitates to the left, bottlenecking into a single file to get through the metal doorway. I’m the last one in line, shuffling behind the crowd, my stress level spiking with every step. I enter a large room with huge glass windows, ugly yellow cement walls, and little seat dividers, each with a small stool and a hanging telephone receiver. It reminds me of a kennel. Most of the seats are taken, but I find an empty one in the middle of the room and sit down. There’s a low hum of conversation as we wait for the—I’m really going to use this term—inmates.