Stripped From You: (Stripped Duet #1) Page 3

  I check my watch again — 6:05. One more race left, then the track closes. I serve a few more drafts to straggling customers as Mac throws down my winnings.

  “Two twenty. Not bad.”

  “Not at all.” I go to scoop up the twenties, and that’s when I see her walking straight toward us. She’s wearing a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses, and her long blonde hair is blowing in the wind. Watching her approach, I feel like a dog wagging its tongue.

  “Looks like it really is your lucky day,” Mac comments.

  “My lucky life,” I respond under my breath.

  “Hi,” Alana breathes shyly when she finally reaches us. “Remember me? The drunk girl you put in a cab last night?”

  Remember you? I’ll never, ever forget you.

  “Yeah, Laura? Right?” I kid.

  She chews her bottom lip like she’s annoyed. “Close enough. Here, I brought you this.”

  She drops a blue gift bag on the bar. “I figure I owed you.”

  “For me?” I peek in the bag, shuffle around the tissue paper, and pull out a shirt. A really, really, nice, expensive, white linen sports shirt. Holy cow.

  “Lacoste isn’t the first brand I usually gravitate to, but this seemed like your style,” she remarks all business.

  “Ah, thank you,” I stutter as I hold probably the most expensive piece of clothing I’ll ever own in my hand. “You really didn’t have to.”

  “Well, I did. Now we’re square.” One side of her mouth twists up, then she turns around and walks away toward the grandstand. I glance at Mac confused, and he just shrugs.

  “Watch the bar,” I impress Mac and go after her, her tight ass shimmying ahead of me. “Hey wait.” I grab her arm. “What’s the hurry? Stay and have a drink.”

  “I can’t drink.”

  “A soda then.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Did I do something to upset you?”

  She crosses her arms. “No, it’s just clear what last night was.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A mistake.”

  “I don’t think so,” I retort immediately. I’ve been counting the seconds until I saw her again.

  “Oh really, then what’s my name, Ryan?”

  “Your name?” I repeat, then I realize. “That was just a joke back there. I thought you had a better sense of humor.”

  “My sense of humor is just fine. You were being serious.” She starts walking away again.

  “Alana—” I call after her. “Your name is Alana. I didn’t forget. I could never forget.”

  She spins around in her little white shorts and wedge heels that make her legs look fantastic. “Look, please don’t leave. There’s one race left, and then I’m off.”

  She stands there glaring at me. At least I think she’s glaring. Her sunglasses completely conceal her eyes.

  “Please?” I tilt my head down and whip out my most charming smile.

  After a pause, she huffs, “Fine.” A ghost of a grin playing on her lips.

  I step back behind the bar as Alana sits down next to Mac.

  “I don’t think we were formally introduced last night.” Mac puts out his hand.

  “Alana."

  “Mac,” he responds a little too cozy for my liking. I clear my throat as I serve a draft to a customer. Mac smiles shamelessly at me and pulls his stool a little closer to Alana. Dickhead.

  “Do you know anything about horse racing, Alana?” Mac queries as he looks over the numbers in the last race. His tone is way too friendly.

  “No,” she acknowledges, “I’ve actually never even been here before. That’s why I was late. I walked in the opposite direction of the picnic area.”

  “Never?” I question.

  “Nope. I guess I’m sheltered.” She laughs. The hum tickles every organ in my body.

  “Pick three numbers,” I urge as I serve her a Coke with a lime.

  Alana looks down into the cup and smiles. I really wish I could see her eyes. “Any three?”

  “Yup.” I throw down another program in front of her and open it to the right page. “Which names do you like?”

  “Number seven is scratched,” Mac advises with the pen cap in his mouth.

  “Scratched?” Alana repeats, and I’ve determined that I love hearing the sound of her voice. It’s soothing.

  “It means the horse has been pulled out of the race for some reason.”

  “Oh, okay.” She looks down at the paper studying the names while I study her. “I like these three.”

  I pick up the program and glance at the names she’s circled; Always a Party, Stryker, and Ryan’s Redeemer.

  “Nice picks,” I smirk as I stare down at the last name, then I grab some cash out of my tip cup and hand it to her. “Go with Mac. He’ll show you how to bet.”

  “Is it complicated?”

  “Not really, but if you’ve never bet before, you won’t know the right lingo and the tellers tend to get annoyed at the newbies.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want that.”

  “Trust me, no one wants that,” Mac affirms as he looks at Alana’s picks and frowns.

  “Is something wrong?” she asks naively.

  “No, it’s just these are all long shots. It’s a tough bet.”

  “The challenge is what makes it worthwhile,” she responds as she slips off the stool, glancing back at me as she follows Mac to the betting booth.

  As I watch her walk away, I suddenly get the feeling she’s going to be the biggest challenge of my life.

  I never take my eyes off her as Mac gives her a quick tutorial in horse betting. When they return, Alana is holding a little white ticket in her hand.

  “I get the name now,” she muses.

  “Name?”

  “The Exacta Box. It’s a type of bet, and the bar is a little wooden box.”

  “She’s a quick study, I’ll give her that,” Mac notes as the bell goes off, starting the last race. He stands up, and like always slaps the program against his leg as the horses speed around the track. “Get up! Get up!”

  “This is educational,” Alana comments, finding amusement at Mac’s expense.

  “He gets a little amped up, but he’s a good guy.”

  “He seems like it.” Alana leans against the bar with her hip. “Are you?”

  I bend sideways, my arms crossed, a bar rag hanging over one shoulder. “Yes, and I really hope you’ll give me a chance to show you.” I look into her eyes, but all I can see is my own reflection in her lenses.

  “Holy fuck!” Mac screams startling us. Alana and I both look over at him. “She won! Holy fuck, she won!”

  “What?” I glance over at the monitor, and sure enough, Alana’s three horses came in.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means you just won a thousand bucks!”

  “Not me. It was Ryan’s money,” she contests.

  “You picked the horses,” I argue.

  “Look, share it, split it, burn it for all I care, the point is you won! Talk about beginner’s luck.”

  I’ll be damned.

  Mac and Alana cash out their winnings while I close up the bar.

  “Alana, it was nice to officially meet you.” Mac bows. He’s such a tool. “But work is calling.”

  “You too.” She giggles.

  I clasp his hand. “Later, bro.”

  “Next time,” he speaks over his shoulder as he ambles away, “Alana does all the picks.”

  Then he’s gone.

  “Ready?” I question as I start heading for the parking lot with the shirt she got me draped over my right shoulder.

  “Ready for what?” She follows me. “To show me how good you are?”

  I love this girl.

  “Yup, and I know the perfect place to start.” I take her hand as we walk through the green gates of the track and out to my Jeep.

  “I should have brought a hair tie,” she notes as she climbs into the passenger side.

 
“I can put the windows on if you want.”

  “No, that’s okay. It’s a nice night.” She wrings her long blonde hair around her wrist.

  I throw the car into drive and head north out of the parking lot.

  “So where are we going?”

  “I’m going to make a quick stop, then you’ll see.”

  I pull into a tiny strip mall. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her as I hop out of the Jeep and walk over to the entrance of the liquor store. I grab a six pack of Hard Lemonade, a bag of chips, a few Slim Jims, and some trail mix. Not exactly gourmet, but we can have real food later.

  I place the paper bag in the trunk then hop back into the driver’s seat and take off.

  “What did you get?” Alana asks curiously.

  “You’ll see.”

  “You don’t like to divulge much, huh?”

  “It’s more exciting if it’s a surprise.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we pull up to the entrance of Sandy Hook. A peninsula-shaped state park located on the northern most tip of the Jersey Shore. On the right side is the Atlantic Ocean, on the left side Sandy Hook Bay.

  Alana looks over at me inquisitively. I can tell because her brows furrow just above her sunglasses.

  I drive as far as I can on the main strip of road, before veering right and off-roading over some sand dunes and onto the beach. She gasps when she sees the panoramic view of the New York City skyline. It’s so close it looks like you can almost reach out and touch it.

  “I thought it might be cool to watch the sun set over Manhattan.”

  Alana smiles brightly. I wish she would take off those goddamn sunglasses, because I want more than anything to just see her eyes.

  I park, and we hop out of the Jeep. Alana shakes out her hair while I grab the bag and a blanket out of the tiny trunk. We walk thirty yards, getting closer to the water, and plop down on the slightly warm sand.

  “Okay,” she concedes, “you’re good. There isn’t any place I love more than the city.”

  “Oh yeah?” I reach into the brown bag and pull out two bottles. “So, I know you’re underage” — I pop off one top — “but just how underage are you?”

  “Eighteen.” She goes to grab the lemonade, but I pull the bottle back.

  “You don’t act eighteen.”

  She shrugs. “I had to grow up fast.”

  “Me too.” I hand her the drink then open one for myself. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you have to grow up fast?” I coax.

  Alana looks away from me and takes a sip of the lemonade, reluctant to talk. I remember her words. The challenge is what makes it worthwhile.

  “My father left when I was three, my mother is an alcoholic, and my brother is a drug addict,” I spew. She whips her head toward me. I’m usually not so forward, but I want her to know everything about me, and I want to know everything about her. “That’s why I’m good. This face already has a bad façade.”

  “I don’t understand what that means.”

  “My brother, he’s my twin.”

  “You have a twin?”

  “Yup.” I take a big swig. “And he’s as messed up as it gets.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Me too.” I sigh. “So, why did you have to grow up fast?”

  Alana bites her lip. “My mother died when I was ten. She was sort of the nucleus of the family. My father, he expects things from me, and if I want to survive in my house, I have to deliver.”

  “That sounds stressful.”

  She shrugs again. “Only if I do something out of line.”

  I don’t like the way she says that one bit. “Does he hit you or something?”

  “No,” she snaps. “And that’s an incredibly personal question to ask.”

  “I thought that’s what we were doing. Getting personal.”

  She huffs. “How about we start with the small stuff and work up to personal?”

  I get the impression it’s going to take a while to work up to personal with Alana. “All right then, what small stuff do you want to know?” I smile.

  “I’m not sure. What’s your last name?”

  “Pierce. What’s yours?”

  “Remington.”

  “That sounds very dignified.”

  “Only if you’re my father,” she sneers.

  I want to ask her what she means by that, but I’m going to keep the conversation light. Like she wants. “What’s your favorite food?”

  “Be more specific. There are different categories of food.”

  “Categories? Okay, favorite junk food?”

  “Chocolate covered pecan clusters. Yours?”

  “That’s a new one. Kit Kat. My junk food pallet isn’t so refined.”

  She giggles lightly. “It’s not refined, it’s picky.”

  “Whatever.” I smile. “Favorite dinner food?”

  “Shrimp scampi over linguini.”

  “You like seafood?”

  “Love it.”

  “I can only do shrimp cocktail with lots of sauce.”

  “Have you ever tried anything else?”

  “Not really, although I did work in a seafood restaurant one summer and tried clams on the half shell.” I stick my tongue out. Yuck.

  “Okay, so starting with raw clams might not be the best way to introduce yourself to seafood.” She laughs.

  “It smells funny.”

  “You just have to have it prepared right.”

  “Can you cook?” I question.

  “Yes, can you?”

  “Yes. Everything except seafood.”

  “Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that. I wouldn’t mind some homemade shrimp scampi.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if you teach me how to make it.” I lean in closer to her. Our shoulders touch. I’m relieved when she doesn’t shy away.

  The sun has started to set, lighting up the skyscrapers across the bay. They’re all pink and orange and blue. Creating this breathtaking, dazzling glare.

  “This is really beautiful,” Alana marvels, looking out over the water.

  “Amazing.” I stare at her, not noticing the sunset at all.

  She does a double take. “Why are you staring at me like that?” she asks bashfully, and it’s the most adorable thing I have ever seen.

  “Like what?” I reply with a goofy grin.

  “Like that.”

  “I guess I like you.”

  “Oh,” she mutters, and I can tell my answer threw her for a loop. She looks away and takes another swig of her lemonade, the colors of the sunset reflecting off her mirrored sunglasses.

  “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “You didn’t.” She’s totally lying. “I’m just not used to people being so direct with their feelings.”

  “I’m not usually so direct,” I admit. You do weird things to me.

  The sun has finished setting. The only light left is the muted rays behind the clouds in the west. Alana takes off her sunglasses, and I finally get to see her eyes. Those warm reddish-brown eyes that saturate your soul when she looks at you directly.

  “What’s causing the phenomenon?”

  “You, I guess.”

  Alana’s cheeks turn red, but her face is emotionless. “How long have you been bartending?” she inquires, changing the subject.

  “About three years,” I answer, a little frustrated. It feels like she’s shutting me out. “That seafood restaurant, I was a waiter, but there was this older bartender, Beth. She was pretty cool. She would teach me and Mac when it was slow.”

  “You were a waiter too?”

  “I’ve been a lot of things. Gas station attendant, waiter, busboy, janitor, construction worker. You name it, I’ve done it.”

  “Exotic dancer?” She laughs. “You have some pretty smooth moves.”

  “Okay, not that.” Now I’m the one turning red.

  Alana smiles, a real, genuine smile, and it makes me want to
kiss her. The urge is undeniable.

  It’s getting dark. We won’t be able to see two feet in front of us soon. And stupid me, I forgot the flashlight in the trunk. So I lean in, but hesitate as her eyes grow wide. I wait for a sign, any indication that she wants this too. But she just sits there staring at my mouth, frozen. Petrified maybe. We’ve kissed before, and it was amazing. So, what’s stopping her now?

  “I think we should head back,” she says just as the wind kicks up, and I catch her scent in the air. She smells so good, like... bubble bath?

  “If that’s what you want.” I gaze into her eyes, and I can see she’s conflicted. I want to ask her what’s wrong, but I already know she won’t tell me.

  “It’s getting late. And dark.”

  “Are you afraid of the dark?” I whisper, my face an inch away from hers.

  “I am when I’m with you,” she replies.

  I don’t know what to make of that answer, but I push the envelope anyway. I lean in and press my lips firmly against hers. She responds with a contented moan. Her mouth is warm despite the cool air, and as we kiss, heat spreads through my body like honey, coating every inch of me.

  This girl is like a drug. The smallest taste, and I’m hooked.

  I kiss her harder, locking my hand behind her head, my tongue imploring her mouth. She suddenly presses against my shoulder, pushing me away. “It’s really time to go.” She stands up and brushes the sand off her legs.

  Shit, I totally just fucked up.

  I stand as well, grab the blanket, and shake it out. Alana takes it from me and folds it up.

  “Alana.” I grab her arm. It’s almost too dark to see her face, but I can make out the shadows of her expression in the moonlight. “I didn’t mean to push you. Or upset you.”

  “You didn’t, Ryan.”

  “Then why did you stop?”

  She stares up at me silently, holding the blanket against her body as if it’s a shield.

  “You can talk to me. About anything,” I try to persuade her.

  “Ryan, that’s sweet, but I don’t think I’ll be pouring my heart out just yet.” She steps away from me and starts walking toward the car.

  “Why not?” I hurry after her.

  “What do you mean, why not? We just met.”