Free Strip Me Bare by Marissa Carmel Page A

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 AM train into the city and
step outside Penn Station around 10:45. Ryan is waiting for me on
one of the steps of Madison Square Garden. He has on a skin tight
t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His hair is tousled, and there are
bags under his eyes. Why did 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 stands up and kisses
me like it’s been a lifetime since he saw me last.
    “Morning. You look like you need some
coffee.”
    “I do,” he smiles and takes my hand, yanking
me towards the subway.
    “Where are we going?”
    “SoHo.”
    This doesn’t surprise me one bit, seeing it’s
chock full of hipsters and art galleries, trendy boutiques and
historic architecture; it appeals to his artistic side. And Ryan
fits right in with his urban, metrosexual vibe. We head to Herald
Square Station, two blocks from MSG 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 whose
French doors are completely open, giving the illusion of eating
alfresco even if you’re inside. 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 put my hand in his and he
entwines our fingers; both of us leaning forward over the tabletop.
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.
    “Long. How was yours?”
    “Even longer,” he smirks.
    “Anything interesting happen?” I ask, and I
sort of want to take the question back 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.”
    “Oh really? Did you go anyplace
interesting?”
    Ryan nods devilishly, “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 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.
    I watch Ryan dump some sugar into his cup and
then some cream.
    “Where did the name Jack the Stripper come
from?” I ask curiously as he stirs.
    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, “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, 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 about 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