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 my uncle’s half, 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. A large, wraparound porch hugs the exterior fitted with an adjoining gazebo. The siding is a warm gray and all the windows are trimmed in a bright white.
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 was home to two emotional recluses.
When I reach the bottom step I slam smack-dab into my father. Whoops. And shit.
He peers 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. Play cool.
“Where are you off to?” he inquires aloofly, yet vigil.
“I’m meeting Emily for lunch at the beach club,” I lie.
He nods slowly, calculatingly.
“You’ve been spending a lot of time in the city,” he comments.
“Um, yes.” The hair on the back of my neck actually stands up.
There’s a stretch of silence. I start to perspire.
“I’ve been hanging out with Jill. Getting a taste of Manhattan, you know, city living. I’m learning my way around.” I bat my eyes innocently.
He continues to stare 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 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 a.m. train into the city and step outside Penn Station around 10:45. Ryan is already waiting for me on one of the steps of Madison Square Garden, looking to die for in a skintight t-shirt and faded blue jeans. His hair is tousled, a sexy mess, but there are bags under his eyes. Why does 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 greets me as he stands, kissing me like it’s been a lifetime since he saw me last.
“Morning. You look like you need some coffee.”
“I do,” he confirms, taking my hand.
“Where are we going?” He yanks me toward the subway.
“SoHo,” he tosses out.
This doesn’t surprise me one bit, seeing as it’s chock-full of hipsters, art galleries, trendy boutiques, and historic architecture. It appeals to his artistic side. And Ryan fits right in with his urban, metrosexual vibe. Which is so different from the surfer boy I used to know. We head to Herald Square Station, two blocks from Madison Square Garden, 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 with a black and white striped awning whose French doors are wide open. 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 place my hand in his, and he entwines our fingers. He tugs, forcing us closer, our upper bodies leaning over the table top. 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, playing with my fingers.
“Long. How was yours?”
“Even longer.” He smirks.
“Anything interesting happen?” I fish, second-guessing the question 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.” His eyes flash.
“Oh, really? Did you go anyplace interesting?” I knowingly play right into his hands.
Ryan nods devilishly. “Someplace amazing. 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 sinful 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.
“Where did the name Jack the Stripper come from?” I abruptly ask as Ryan dumps a boatload of sugar into his cup.
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, making me overly interested to hear this story. “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,” he laughs, heating up my insides with the warm, husky sound, “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 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 I didn’t know jack about stripping. That’s when Divan slapped me on the back and said ‘that’s perfect, we’ll call you Jack the Stripper’, and the rest is history.”
“And that’s the night you got wasted and told Lorenzo all about me?”
Ryan looks down at his coffee and fiddles with the spoon. “Yes, the girl I danced for. She looked like you.” He glances back up.
I’m not sure how I feel about that. I know I told Ryan I would try to deal with his occupation, but I’m not sure how well I can handle the details. On the flip side, though, I’m curious as hell. I’m stuck in-between a prying rock and a perturbed hard place.
“I wasn’t out of prison very long when I started working at Culture,” he goes on, and I’m suddenly at the edge of my seat. “Mac hooked me up with the job.”
“Mac?” I flutter my eyelashes, surprised. Mac is, or at least was, Ryan’s best friend. He always reminded me of one of those cute, popular guys in high school who had a quirky side. And he was always wearing one of those stupid t-shirts with the goofy sayings like This Is What Awesome Looks Like.
“Yeah.” Ryan rubs the back of his neck. “He was living in the city by the time I got out and promoting for a few big night clubs.”
“Mac knew where you were?”
“Yes.”
I huff, annoyed. “I went to him looking for you.”
“I know.” He’s apologetic. “I told him, ordered him, actually, not to tell you where I was.”
I’m kicking myself right now. I knew I should have pressed Mac harder, recalling our last conversation. I was convinced he knew something, and I just didn’t listen to my instincts.
“Where’s Mac now?”
“California. He met a girl, got married, and moved out there. Bang, bang, bang. I was crashing on his couch when it all happened.”
“Wow. Just like that?” I snap.
“Just like that,” Ryan confirms.
“You must miss him.”
“Yeah, I do. But he’s happy. So, I’m happy.” He smiles sincerely.
I can’t stop from smirking. That statement is so Ryan . . . Mr. Empathetic.
“So, Mac got you the job . . . ?” I urge him on.
“Mac got me the job.” Ryan sighs. “He was tired of me moping around. I was in a pretty dark place after I got out. I was angry, drinking a lot, unfocused. A mess, really. Then they threw me up on stage and all my demons were right there staring back at me. All long blonde hair and chestnut brown eyes. I almost chickened out, but then I sort of felt like if I bailed on her, I was bailing on you all over again. So, I went for it. And it was, I don’t know. . . . rehabilitative.”
“Are you telling me stripping is therapeutic?” I raise my eyebrows.
“It was.” He slides his hand back across the table to mine. “You’re my therapy now.”
I shake my head at him. Mr. Smooth Talker.
“Is that why you didn’t come find me when you got out? You were in a bad place?”
“That’s part of the reason.” He squeezes my fingers. “I didn’t know how I would handle it if you rejected me.”
The look in Ryan’s eyes change, there’s no longer that light in them, the light that I love so much.
“What was prison like?” I tread carefully.
Ryan’s expression morphs into something dark. Something unrecognizable. I may have just stepped over the line.
“You don’t need to know, Alana.”
“I think it might be good for you to talk about it.” I press before I can stop myself.
“Not with you.” He withdraws, physically and emotionally. His detachment leaving me bare.
“Why not? You just said I was your therapy.”
“Alana, no. I don’t want to go there with you.”
“I want you to.”
“Why?” he snaps.
Because I’m crazy.
“Because if we’re going to be together, I need to know.”
“Are we together?” Ryan immediately fires back.
I stare at him impassively. I said I’d try, but that was no declaration. And after spending the last few days alone—missing Ryan like crazy—I sorted through my feelings. I’m pretty sure the answer to that question will be the same now, as it would be a month from now, and even a year from now. I want to be with Ryan. I want to be together, and do more than just try. I know it’s fast, but it feels like we’ve never been apart, and I don’t want to waste any more time beating around the bush. I know what life is like without him; I’m so ready to find out what life will be like with him.
“If that’s what you want,” I declare, my heart beating louder than a bass drum in my chest.
“You know what I want. You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted.” His eyes are like daggers stabbing into my soul.
I’ve never been good at vocalizing what I’m feeling, so I decide to deploy the show-don’t-tell tactic. I get up from the table and stand over Ryan. He puts his hands on my hips, his grip so tight it feels almost desperate. I lean over and kiss him. It’s a gentle, affirming kiss that seals our fate.
When we part, Ryan hijacks me into a hug, cementing his cheek against my abdomen. I hold him against me firmly—lovingly, supportively, compassionately. Because I know Ryan has been to hell and back. While running my hand through his soft, wavy hair, he looks up at me and I smile. Ryan returns the expression, confident in that whatever he’s about to tell me it won’t affect the way I see him. And that’s exactly the way I want him to feel.
We need to re-establish a new bond. An unbreakable bond. The foundation to be forged right here, right now.
I sit back down at the table, mentally preparing myself for a conversation of epic proportions.
“So . . . ?”
Ryan exhales completely on edge. But we have to do this. We have to talk.
“So . . . prison sucked.” He’s petulant. Clearly disinclined to talk.
“Go on,” I encourage him anyway. He shifts in his chair like he has ants in his pants. I probably shouldn’t, but I find his unease endearing.
“It was confining and degrading, and you fought for your life every damn day,” he verbally vomits.
I frown. “How did you survive it?”
“I made a reputation for myself.”
“How?” I blink.
Ryan’s eyes glaze over with something dark. “I tried to keep to myself at first. But that wasn’t really working so well. Pretty boy in prison.” He shakes his head ominously. “I basically had bitch stamped on my forehead. One day one of the other inmates started messing with me in the chow hall. I tried to ignore him, but he just kept on pushing.” Ryan grinds his teeth and wrings his hands together. “Things escalated pretty quickly, it got physical, and then I don’t know. Something happened, I just snapped.” He twitches. “Sean’s always been the fighter. But, in there, I was a different person. I beat the guy within an inch of his life. It took three guards to pull me off him and when they did, his face was unrecognizable. I remember looking at him like it was through someone else’s eyes, seeing the damage I didn’t know I was capable of.” Ryan’s body tenses all over, the bulging muscles in his arms stretching the fabric of his tight t-shirt. “They dragged me away and threw me in solitary confinement. I spent an entire day covered in the guy’s blood before they let me out for a shower. Then I went back in for a week.”
“An entire week in solitary confinement?”
Ryan nods absently.
“That must have been unbearable.” My heart hurts.
“It was.” His blue eyes are sharper than nails. “But I thought about you. A lot. Every day, actually. For three and a half years. And then every day after I got out.”
“I thought about you, too.” I fly out of my seat and sit on Ryan’s lap. I just need to hold him. My emotions are deteriorating as I think about him locked away. Being punished for a crime he didn’t commit. It makes the lawyer in me go crazy. And the girlfriend in me want to weep.
But that’s not going to happen. If it came down to it, I’d end up smashing something to pieces before I let a tear roll down my cheek.
“So, what happened after that? After the fight?”
“I staked my reputation. I didn’t start it, but I always finished it.”
“Did you fight a lot?”
“Not as much as others, but there was always some jackass who wanted to start. Who thought he was tough.” Ryan shrugs. “I just made damn sure I was tougher.”
“How do you feel now that you’re out?” I touch his cheek.
“I’ve gotten better over the last few months. I’m still resentful, though.”
“Of Sean?”
“Of Sean. My mom. I barely speak to them.” There’s so much sadness in his voice. “But like I said, I can’t change my decision, only regret it.”
“Ryan . . .” I trap his face and kiss him, wishing I could take it all away. Change the past, guarantee the future.
And I really wish I would have known.
I abruptly pull away fearfully. “What happens if Sean does it again?”
Ryan shakes his head strictly. “Never again. I’ll never take the fall for Sean again. And he knows it. I made that very clear when I got out.” His tone is menacing.
“How’d you do that?”
“Prison made me very persuasive,” he insinuates.
“Did you beat up your brother, Ryan?”
“I needed to send him a message.” And he doesn’t sound apologetic about it either.
“And did he receive the message?”
“The tooth I knocked out of his head tells me he did.”
My jaw drops to the ground. “You knocked his tooth out? Really?”
“Yes.” He shifts beneath me restlessly. “Can we talk about something else now?”
“Absolutely. What?” He’s been interrogated enough for one day.
“What evil demons are you hiding from me?”
“Me?” I glance down at him, the restless one now.
“You said you have intimacy issues. And I’m to blame. So tell me how deep it goes.”
I instinctually fall silent, but I know Ryan’s not going to let me barricade my emotions for long.
“Alana, no wall.” He’s strict.
“I know, I know, battering ram.” Damn him. An eye for an eye it seems.
As I hash out my feelings while building up the nerve to talk about all my insecurities, Ryan’s phone rings on the table. Talk about saved by the bell. He reaches over, looks at the screen, then he curses. A blatant “fuck,” that grabs the attention of the couple sitting a table away from us.
Ryan deliberates for a split second before answering the call, curtly.
“Hey, man.”
“Divan?” I mouth.
He shakes his head. “Sean,” Ryan mouths back, and I involuntarily scowl.
“Yeah, in SoHo, where are you? The city? Meet me?” Ryan glances up at me, and I know I’m staring at him intently. “At a corner café on Prince . . . Okay, see you in a few.” He hangs up.
“He’s coming here?” I blurt out.
“Yes.” Ryan works his jaw.
I’m speechless. Despite the time Ryan and I spent together in the past, I never actually met Sean, and at the moment, I don’t want to.
“Look, you can leave if you want.” Ryan offers me an out.
“Why would I do that?” Like leaving was even an option.
“I saw the look on your face. It’s okay. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
“I won’t be uncomfortable.” I lie. Sean is only the one who stole years of Ryan’s youth, ruined his future, and ripped us apart. What could possibly make me uncomfortable?
I realize if I’m going to be with Ryan, which not thirty minutes ago I said I was, I’m going to have to deal with all the baggage that comes along with him.
Which is some serious baggage. Some seriously oversized, exceeds the weight limit, excess fees kind of baggage.
When Ryan and I were together five years ago, family problems didn’t come much into play. Both our families had issues and instead of focusing on those, we focused on each other. It was our great escape, but it wasn’t realistic. I’m sure if we had stayed together, our home troubles would have eventually caught up to us. Which, I guess in a way, they ultimately did.
Ryan shoots me a skeptical look.
“What?” I challenge. “I’m not bailing on you. Not now, not ever. Get used to it.” I smirk.
“Tough chick,” he quips.
“When I have to be.” I drop a quick kiss on his lips then get up and go back to my seat.
If I’m doing this, I’m going to need more coffee.
And possibly an entire bottle of tequila.
Ryan and I make small talk while we wait for Sean. The tension in the air is so thick that even the couple at the next table can sense it. They keep glancing at us like we’re suspected terrorists. I know Ryan is worried about me meeting Sean. He’s not adrift alone, though, because the feeling is mutual.
The waitress pours my third cup of coffee, and thanks to Sean, Ryan has let the evil demons conversation go. For now. Man, this has turned into one hell of a breakfast.
I only drop my gaze for a second as I sip my coffee. When I lift it, I’m stunned as another version of Ryan walks straight toward me. A bad boy, Slim Shady version. My whole body stiffens during his approach.
Sean is tall and lean like Ryan, but his shoulders are a bit broader than his torso. He walks the same, though, with just a hint of swagger. He’s dressed in an oversized white t-shirt and baggy jeans. His right arm, from what I can see of it, is covered with a sleeve of brightly colored tattoos, his sneakers are sparkling white and his black baseball cap has a stiff brim. It’s abundantly clear that Sean has trouble written all over him. I can’t make out how long his hair is under the hat, but I can see his eyes. They’re exactly the same as Ryan’s. Big, bright, and a cobalt blue, the color of opulent sapphires. Except Sean’s have a shiftiness about them, like he’s on the prowl.
“Hey, bro,” Sean clasps Ryan’s hand once he reaches us. Pulling up an empty chair from another table, he takes it upon himself to sit right between us.
He looks me over impassively then turns to Ryan, cocking his head. “One of your groupies?”
Before Ryan can answer, Sean goes on, “She doesn’t look like one of your usuals.”
Usuals?
I stare quizzically at Ryan as he turns fifty shades of red.
“What’s Ryan’s usual?” I ask evenly, the question directed at both of them.
Sean shrugs. “You know, dark hair, light eyes. Neither of which you have.” He sounds almost accusatory.
“Do you know all of Ryan’s girlfriends?”
Sean’s lip twitches. “Ryan doesn’t have girlfriends. He has fuck friends.”
Lovely. As if it isn’t enough that Ryan takes off his clothes for half the women in New York City, I now have a visual of the ones he likes to take home at the end of a shift. My stomach turns.
“Sean,” Ryan warns, but Sean ignores him.
“What’s your name?” Sean continues his niggling.
“Alana,” Ryan interjects sharply, his curt response taking both Sean and me by surprise.
“Alana?” Sean pauses. “Is that some kind of coincidence or something, bro?”
Ryan shakes his head sternly, and Sean’s eyes slowly grow wide as he gauges his brother’s response.
My reputation must precede me.
“Nice to meet you, Sean. I’m Ryan’s girlfriend.” I smile obnoxiously.
Sean dips his head before looking up at me with a cocky grin. “Nice to finally meet you, Alana. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“And I, you.” I never break eye contact with him, concealing the fact my heart is beating a mile a minute.
I measure up the person mostly responsible for our separation. I say mostly because I realize Ryan played a part, too, but it was Sean who lit the fuse.
“So, what are you doing in N-Y-C, Sean?” Ryan asks. “I thought you couldn’t leave the state of New Jersey.”
Sean scoffs, “It’s the city, it doesn’t count.”
“I think your PO might disagree with that,” Ryan contends.
“She’ll never know.” Sean brushes him off.
“Let’s hope not.” Ryan does not appear amused. He’s stiff in his chair, his arms crossed across his chest. I try to steal glances of his flexing biceps, but I know the power of those arms and how much I love it when they’re wrapped possessively around me.
The waitress appears, interrupting their taut chitchat. Sean orders a coffee. Black with a double shot of espresso. Damn, and I thought I liked it strong.
I gauge Sean as he speaks. His voice is smooth and relaxed, but his body language is contradictory to the tone of his voice. His fingers never stop twitching and neither does his leg, like there’s a rhythm only he can hear.
“So . . .” Ryan presses after Sean gets his caffeine.
“So, what?” Sean is seemingly defensive. “I went to the clinic this morning and decided it was a nice day. So, I hopped on the train to come hit up my little brother.” He taps the tabletop with his thumb and forefinger incessantly.
Clinic?
“Hit him up for what exactly?” Ryan tightens his arms. My gaze jumps between them. The stress Ryan is radiating can no doubt be felt for miles.
“That hurts, bro.” Sean pounds his chest, faking injured feelings. He has another tattoo on the side of his neck—the number 1254—and I find myself engrossed, wondering what it means. “I thought we could hang out, but I see you already have plans.” Was that statement genuine? Did he really just want to see his brother? Or does he have ulterior motives? It’s hard to tell. I try to analyze him, but Sean is challenging to read.
“You’re right, I do have plans, and I’m going to be busy for a while.” Ryan smirks at me, then shoots Sean an irritated look. He doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about what Sean wants.
Sean narrows his eyes. “I gotcha, brother.”
“I hope you do.”
The table suddenly gets eerily quiet. I look between Ryan and Sean. My eyes haven’t stopped jumping since the moment Sean sat down. They have the exact same everything—beautiful, blue eyes, handsome face, sexy mouth—yet entirely opposite personalities. Sean is like the darkness of the sky and Ryan the light of sun.
Sean downs his coffee in record time. Ryan’s off-putting attitude sent a message and Sean received it loud and clear. But just as Sean stands to leave, Ryan comes out with . . .”How’s mom?”
Sean freezes mid-movement, his legs still bent. He makes deliberate eye contact with Ryan. It’s so poignant I can actually feel it. “She misses you.”
Ryan just nods, looking away.
“Tell her I miss her, too,” he mumbles.
If it wasn’t obvious, Ryan’s mom is a delicate subject. As delicate as navigating a land mine. He never talked much about her. But I knew they had a strained relationship from the get-go.
And the fact that Sean fucked up, and she begged Ryan to pay the price would leave me with some major hostility, too. So, I understand where his resentment is coming from. It’s painful to watch him suffer.
Once Sean stands to his full height, he casts a dark shadow on the table. I want to reach out and touch Ryan, for no other reason than to just let him know that I’m here. That I’m on his side. That, deep down, I love him. That’s so hard to own up to, even if it’s just to myself. Love is a crippling emotion for me, but Ryan has always been my strength behind it. I want to be his strength, too.
Before he departs, Sean leans down and rests his cheek right next to mine. My heart seizes as he whispers in my ear, “Take care of my brother, he needs someone to love him right.”
The statement pummels me, but I don’t lose my cool.
“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” I respond evenly, my eyes sliding over to meet his.
“As far as I know, you’re the only one who ever has.” He holds my stare for a split second. I can almost hear the time pounding like a gong. I don’t know this person at all, yet he has no problem being fearlessly direct with me. My attention follows Sean as he moves away. He clasps Ryan’s hand for a second time before pausing. “I miss you, too,” he unwaveringly publicizes, then walks off without another word.
Whoa. It feels like a mushroom cloud just lifted. Sean . . . his presence . . . the severity of the past . . . the way it hovers . . . I need a minute to process.
“Clinic?” I finally ask Ryan.
“Yeah, methadone. He goes every day. It helps keep him off the H.”
H? “Heroin?”
Ryan nods with a vacant expression.
“When was the last time you saw your mother?” I cycle through all the subjects that were just presented to me.
“Not for a few months.”
“What’s a few?”
“Like, eight?”
“Oh, that’s quite a few.”
“I know,” he sulks.
I regard Ryan sympathetically.
I’m pretty sure he has way more healing to do than he’s letting on.