Free Strip Me Bare by Marissa Carmel

“Jack! Jack!” There are whistles and screams.
You’d think he’s a freaking rock star or something. “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 asks 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 respond uncomfortably.
    “Look, this isn’t who I am, it’s just what I
do,” he tries 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 gives me a dissatisfied stare.
    “Saturday,” he tries to negotiate.
    “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.
    “Morning,” he stipulates.
    I roll my eyes and hold out on my answer.
    “Alana,” his voice is pressing.
    “Fine,” I smirk.
    “You have a good game face counselor.”
    I know , I think to myself with a
smile.
    “I like that expression much better,” he
leans in and kisses me, and it’s that slow, scorching kiss that
makes me want to rip his clothes off right on the street.
    “Sunday,” I whisper breathily against his
mouth.
    “Morning,” he denotes, looking fiercely into
my eyes, then 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 out my uncle
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; large wraparound porch with an adjoining gazebo and light
gray siding with white window trim. 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’s home to two emotional recluses.
    When I get to the bottom floor I slam
smack-dab into my father.
    He looks 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.
    “Where are you off to?”
    “I’m meeting Emily for lunch at the beach
club.” I lie.
    He nods.
    “You’ve been spending a lot of time in the
city,” he states.
    “Um, yes.”
    There’s a stretch of silence. I think I’m
starting to sweat.
    “I’ve been hanging out with Jill. It’s giving
me a taste of Manhattan, you know, city living. I’m learning my way
around.”
    He stares 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