Stripped From You: (Stripped Duet #1) Page 16

  “Same here.” I try to be nice. I haven’t been out of prison one day, and I’m already reminded — by my best friend of all people — that my life is fucked.

  We walk one block to Mac’s apartment, and my new home for the time being. It’s basically a glorified closet with a tiny bedroom and one bathroom. But it does have hardwood floors and a decent-sized kitchen.

  Mac proceeds to crack open the bottle of Tanqueray and make me a drink. Gin and orange juice. You can’t get more street than that. Perfect for where I just came from.

  He makes his own Ketel and OJ, and we settle on the small couch in the “living room”. He does have a sweet flat screen, I’ll give him that.

  “To getting you laid.” He clinks my glass.

  I roll my eyes. “To showering alone.”

  “That’s a good one too. Unless it’s with a smoking hot chick. Then I advise you not to pass.”

  I chuckle. But I don’t think I’ll be sharing a shower with anyone anytime soon.

  “Do you want ice for your hand?”

  “No.” I place my glass over my knuckles. “Got it covered.”

  “Prison made you jacked and resourceful.”

  “I guess.” I snort.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re out and here with me. Time to look forward and not back. Unless Alana is behind you.”

  He takes a big swig, and my insides pulsate with pain.

  I am going to get so fucking shit-faced tonight.

  Nothing to Look Forward To, Nothing to Look Back At

  I haven’t stopped drinking since my first night out.

  It’s been one month. I am alone, I am depressed, I am shitfaced at four o’clock in the afternoon, and I just don’t fucking care.

  I have no idea what to do with myself.

  The couch has become my new best friend. I’m sitting in the “living room” with the TV off, wrapped in a blanket, snapping bottle caps across the room. Like literally taking them between my thumb and middle finger and snapping so they fly against the wall.

  I hear the lock click. Mac is home early from his day job. Some stockbroker thing he’s got going with his uncle. I hear him huff, but I don’t turn to look at him. I’m just going to sink deeper into my hole. My black lair of depression. I hear him shuffle around the apartment, take a shower, and get dressed. There isn’t much you can’t hear in here. Then there are heavy footsteps until he’s standing right in front of me.

  “What. The. Fuck. Man.”

  “What?” I look up at him vacantly.

  “Are you just going to sit on this fucking couch for the rest of your life?”

  “I don’t hear the couch complaining.”

  “Maybe not, but you’re going to start hearing me complain. You have been out a month, and you haven’t done jack shit.”

  “What’s there to do?” I ask bitterly.

  “Take a shower for one. You stink. Clean up this fucking mess. Go outside for a walk. Something.”

  I just shrug petulantly.

  “Look.” He fiddles with the cuff on his button-up shirt. “I’m going out for an early dinner with Ashley. Then I’m going to promote for a little while, and then we’re meeting back here. I don’t want her to find the VIP of New York’s biggest pity party sitting on my couch. I don’t want her smelling him either.”

  “What do you care what she sees or smells? You couldn’t care less what women think.”

  “Maybe this one is different.”

  “Oh really? That’s a first.”

  “Look, Ryan, I’m trying to be patient. But I’ve seriously had enough. I told you to come live with me so you could start fresh. Find a job, meet someone. Not follow in your mother’s footsteps.”

  I glare up at him. “Fuck you,” I spit. “I’m nothing like her.”

  “Oh yeah? Have you looked at yourself lately? You’re the mirror fucking image.”

  “Fuck off.” My responses are not very novel this evening.

  “You fuck off,” he barks. “If you don’t fix yourself, you’re gone.”

  “You’re tossing me out? What kind of fucking friend does that?” I bark.

  “The best kind. Now pull your shit together!” He thunders out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him.

  Fuck my life. I punch the pillow.

  I wake up to something being flung in my face. I pull the shiny material away from my cheek.

  “Wakey, wakey,” Mac chirps.

  “What the fuck man? What time is it?” I groan.

  “A little after midnight.”

  I sit up holding the blue material thing in my hand. “What is this?”

  “Your uniform.”

  I hold it up and stretch it out. “Shiny briefs?” I curl my lip.

  “Yup, I got you a job.”

  “As what, an underwear model?”

  “Not exactly. A bartender. At Culture. I’m friends with the owner.”

  “Culture?”

  “It’s a strip club.”

  I look up at Mac, digesting this information. “You’re out of your fucking skull. I’m not working at a strip club.” I toss the Speedo back at him. He catches them with one hand.

  “Yes. You are. Or you’re getting the fuck out of my apartment.”

  “You’re a fucking piece of work.” I grumble.

  Mac stands over me. Almost threateningly. He’s not as tall or as stacked as me, but he has an air of authority. He always has. An unassuming, commanding presence. “You’re goddamn right I am. And you have two options, find Alana or take this job.”

  I spring to my feet. “Why do you keep bringing her up?” I shove him.

  “Because she’s the reason you’re throwing the mother of all pity parties.”

  I start to shake. I think the amount of alcohol in my system plus the lack of food is taking its toll. “I can’t face her.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a piece of shit who abandoned her!”

  “I think if you talk to her and tell her what happened, she’ll forgive you.”

  I shake my head severely. “How is she supposed to forgive me when I can’t forgive myself!” I scream. There’s a sudden upshot inside me. A volcanic explosion of emotions that bulldozes me. I drop down onto the couch and hide my face in my hands. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. But I can’t control it. Hot tears spill down my cheeks and into palms. Fuck.

  I feel Mac’s hand on my shoulder.

  “It will destroy me if she rejects me,” I mutter pathetically, shaking inconsolably. There, that’s the underlying reason I can’t face her. I’m a fucking pussy coward who wouldn’t survive if I lost her a second time.

  “Who says she’ll reject you? She’ll be pissed, but I really believe she’ll forgive you. That girl loves you. I will never forget the look in her eyes when she came looking for you. I swear, it scarred me.”

  I shake my head in my hands. The thought of Alana’s dejected eyes guts me. “I can’t do it. I’m not ready.”

  “Fine then. Make yourself ready. Take this job. Have some fun. Get laid.” He stresses every sentence. “You’ll feel better if you release some frustration.”

  Mac’s be all end all solution: sex.

  I lift my head and wipe my face off. “Fine,” I give in. “I’ll take the job.”

  Mac sighs and slaps my arm. “It’s a start, bro.”

  I look at him desolately. “I hope so.”

  There’s a sudden knock at the door.

  “Ashley,” Mac informs me. I look around the apartment frantically. I didn’t clean a thing. And now that I’m not drunk off my ass, I realize it really is a pigsty.

  “Sorry. Shit.” I get up and start picking up the empty beer bottles as he opens the door. It’s a painful reminder of where I came from and makes me mad. Like, almost violent. I breathe deeply, trying to calm myself. There’s still an eruption of emotion overflowing inside me. I’m depressed and hurting, anxious and bitter, but I think my little outburst alleviated some of the pressure. Maybe
a hot shower and a good night’s sleep will do me some good. Right after I get this place in order.

  Sheesh.

  I spy Ashley and Mac interacting as I clean. They’re cozy with each other. He puts his arm around her and whispers something into her ear. She giggles. She fits perfectly against him. I’ve never seen him be so affectionate toward a woman before. Not like the way he is with her. It’s warm, caring, and sensitive. And I know he has it bad. He’s fucked. Have fun going down that road, my friend. Hope she doesn’t break your heart. I’ll be here to pick up the pieces if she does.

  I take out the trash — stuffed mostly with empty beer bottles — fold the blankets on the couch, scrub the counter, and wash the floor. By the time I’m done, it’s nearly two a.m. Mac and Ashley have gone to bed, and I’m alone with my thoughts.

  I take a shower as quietly as I can, but I know any sound I make won’t interrupt what’s going on behind Mac’s door. I feel a little pang of jealousy. Not because he’s having sex, but because he’s found the one thing I lost. The one thing I’m too afraid to get back. To reclaim.

  I collapse on the couch and pick up the little shiny blue shorts off the floor. I inspect them. They’re stretchy and sort of soft.

  What the fuck am I getting myself into?

  Is It Hot In Herre?

  I walk east toward Culture.

  It’s just a few blocks shy from the middle of Times Square. This area is busy at all hours of the day and night. It’s early February, so it’s still brisk and cold. I haven’t bought any new clothes or even reconnected my cell phone. I do have some money left over from when I sold my car. I gave half to Sean and my mother, and the other half went into an account I could access while in prison. I have always been good at balancing my finances. I know how to save and when to spend. The little money I do have won’t last me long, especially living in the city. I need this job, bad.

  I walk up to a plain brick building with metal doors and one big, fat, roly-poly, Hispanic guy sucking on a cigarette. He would almost be intimidating if I didn’t find the look of him so amusing. He’s dressed in all black with a thick goatee and derby hat that looks miniature on his round head.

  “Move along. The doors don’t open till eight,” he rumbles.

  “I’m here to see Daniel,” I tell him as the wind whips around us.

  He eyes me suspiciously, like he’s assessing me. Then he pulls out a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Boss, someone’s here to see you. Looks like fresh meat.”

  He puts his finger to his ear like he’s listening to something. “What’s your name?”

  “Ryan.”

  He stares. “Got a last name or is it just Ryan?”

  I cock my eyebrow. “Pierce.” I swear, club staff can be arrogant pricks sometimes.

  “Ryan Pierce,” he repeats into the handset.

  “Someone send you?” he asks randomly.

  “Yeah, Mac Johnson.”

  “Mac Johnson.”

  A second later, Mr. Roly-Poly is opening the door for me. “Must have a golden ticket. Go on in. Take a left once you go through the curtains. There’s a set of stairs in the back. Go all the way up and follow the hallway to the door on the end. Daniel is in his office.”

  I walk through the empty club. It looks pretty much like all the other clubs I’ve seen. Except this one is scattered with stripper poles and has ring thingies hanging from the ceiling. What the fuck are those for?

  I follow the bouncer’s instructions explicitly.

  I climb the stairs, find the door, and knock.

  “Come in,” a man intones, so I enter. I walk into the small room to find a guy in a straw cowboy hat and loud printed button-up sitting behind a wooden desk. He looks up at me and smirks. “Ryan, I presume?”

  “That would be me.”

  “Take a seat.”

  I sit in the chair directly across from Daniel’s desk.

  “Mac told me you need a job,” he begins.

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Mmm hmmm,” he muses, like he’s trying to undress me with his eyes. It’s highly uncomfortable.

  “Well. Stand up then and let me see the goods.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is a strip club, kid. You work half nude. I can’t just hire anybody. I have to inspect the merchandise.”

  Three and a half years in jail, and I never felt this degraded. It’s like I’m a cow on an auctioning block.

  Daniel stares expectantly. “You gonna show me or not?”

  I take a deep breath, then stand up slowly. This is humiliating.

  “How much do you want to see?” I ask.

  “Just take your shirt off.” He waves his pen at me while he checks something on his phone. I shrug off my jacket, well, Mac’s jacket, then grab a fistful of shirt and drag it over my head. Daniel does a double take as I stand there wearing no top and loose-fitting jeans.

  He gulps. His blue eyes twinkling with something I can’t name. “You work out.”

  I don’t reply. I’d rather not tell him where I acquired my tight chest and ripped abs.

  “Sit down. You’re hired. On a trial basis. I have to make sure you can at least mix a drink. Although,” he ogles me, “with a body like that, if bartending doesn’t work out, I’m sure we can find something else for you to do.”

  Lovely.

  I slip my shirt back on, and Daniel actually pouts. I wonder if he plays for the other team. He certainly acts like he does.

  He hands me a clipboard. “Fill this out, and I’ll call one of the other guys up to show you the ropes.”

  “Sounds good.” I guess. Am I really going to do this?

  I start filling out the mundane information. Name, address, past work experience. But when I get to one pertinent question, I suddenly have second thoughts about this whole job idea. Have you ever been convicted of a felony? I put the pen down.

  “On second thought” — I stand up and place the clipboard on his desk — “I don’t think this is going to work out.” I snatch up my jacket and head for the door. Fast.

  “Hold it,” Daniel’s voice rings out sternly, and I freeze. “Sit back down.” He surprisingly sounds like a man you don’t want to mess with. I glare at him over my shoulder before I backtrack my steps and sit down crossly.

  He looks at me squarely, removing his hat. His hair is thinning, and he has crow’s feet around his eyes. But he can’t be more than forty. “Mac told me about your situation. He said you took the rap for your brother. And if Mac says that’s the truth, I believe him. So...” He pushes the clipboard toward me. “If you want to answer no to a particular question, no one will be the wiser.”

  I stare at Daniel silently. Is this guy fucking for real?

  “I want you, kid. I won’t lie.” I think he means it in more ways than one. “You’ll be a good addition to this club.”

  The moment of truth. I need a job. I need the money. Do I really need my dignity? Maybe not right this second. Plus, I’m only bartending. It’s not like I’m working a stripper pole or anything.

  I take the clipboard and finish filling out the application.

  “Good.” Daniel takes it and puts it aside when I’m done. “Now we go over the rules. There aren’t many, but they are cardinal. First. We have a saying. Wrap it before you tap it.”

  “What?” My eyes widen.

  “Don’t look at me like I just slapped you, kid. I’ll reiterate. This is a strip club. There will be women throwing themselves at you left and right. And sometimes you’ll give in to temptation. I have a feeling you’re going to get tempted way more than others. It’s a natural, chemical reaction that happens just the way God intended. But that doesn’t mean you go around spreading STDs or knocking women up. There is protection coming out of every crevice of this club. Use it. Capisce?”

  “Seriously? Every crevice?”

  “Fuck yeah. Trust me when I tell you, you don’t want some Jersey juice head coming after you for giving him and his wife VD.�
��

  “Did that actually happen?”

  “Yes. That, and much worse. Why do you think I keep a sumo wrestler at the door?”

  “Point taken.”

  And, just for the record, I would very much like to avoid contracting any type of STD.

  “Good. Now, second, you treat every woman like your best friend’s sister you want to fuck. You be polite, you be respectful, but you still flirt shamelessly unless they order you otherwise.”

  “Do they usually order otherwise?” Now I’m just being a smartass.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, did Mac give you the uniform?”

  I cringe and pull the blue wad out of my jacket pocket.

  “Perfect.” Daniel picks up the phone and dials a number. “Lorenzo, find Divan and send him up. New guy needs a tour.”

  Holy. Shit.

  Divan is a tall, good-looking, jacked black guy.

  He’s also very mild-mannered, as far as I can tell. He’s shown me around the main room of the club, the VIP area, and the changing room. I get a locker to stash my stuff in, which is convenient, since I have to remove every stitch of clothing I have on. Once I change into my “uniform” I meet him in the hallway. I feel ridiculous, exposed, and chilly.

  “Looks good.” He hits me on the arm. “Your first night is always the toughest, then you get used to it. How much do you press? Those biceps look solid.”

  “Last time I checked, one eighty.” I adjust my junk. It feels like my dick is choking. “Are these things supposed to be so tight?”

  “Yeah, and you’ll be thankful for the snugness later.” He laughs.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you’re going to pop an erection sooner or later, and those babies are going to keep it in check.” He snaps my waistband.

  Oh, for the love of all things holy.

  “Wonderful.”

  “Don’t knock it before you try it. Working here is the most fun you’ll have. Daniel is cool as shit, the money is good, and there are endless pieces of ass. Once you get over the stereotype, you’ll love it.”