Strip Me Bare
Authors: Marissa Carmel
Tags: #new adult romance, #stripper stories, #fictional relationships, #na contemporary romance
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Copyright © Marissa Carmel 2013
Names, characters and incidents depicted in
this book are products of the author's imagination, or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of
this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or
mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file
sharing, and email, without prior written permission from author
Marissa Carmel.
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Amber Rendon, Novel Idea
Design
Editing by Matthew Taylor
Interior design by Ann Snizek, Snow Flowers
After Dark
Published with Snow Flowers After Dark, a
division of Snow Flower Enterprises
ISBN: 9781301280940
Sometimes, strength isn't about how loudly
you yell. It's about how quietly you scream. ~ MC
Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell, Jingle Bell
Rock
The Lord Giveth and the Lord Taketh Away
I don’t know how long
I wait; minutes, hours, days maybe for Sean to wake up, and just
when I can no longer take the frigid temperature or the
heartrending scene in front of me, he stirs. He moans softly as he
shifts and moves, like he’s trying to remember how to use his
limbs. I just stand there statically, watching him come back to
life. Finally, he opens his eyes and takes in a deep breath. He
looks around a little disoriented, like he’s not sure where he is,
then his eyes fall on me. They’re bloodshot and hollow and they
have purple rings around them.
“Alana?” he croaks, staring at me vacantly,
trying to decipher if I’m a mirage or truly flesh and blood.
“Sean?” I answer. My body goes numb, and it
has nothing to do with the temperature in the room. He looks like a
blood starved vampire.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks,
the question rippling with so many emotions; fear, concern, terror,
dread.
“You need to come with me,” I tell him, not
wasting any time with small talk.
“For what?” He gets to his feet and
straightens his sweatshirt, pulls at his baggy pants, then yanks
his hood over his head.
“Don’t play dumb. Ryan’s in jail, they
rejected his deal.”
Sean paces the small room like a caged cat.
Back and forth and back and forth, agitated and uptight. “I can’t
Alana, I’m sorry.”
I step towards him cautiously, “Sean, listen
to me. Ryan needs you-”
“No, Alana,” he snaps his head up and I see
so much sorrow in his eyes.
“Sean, don’t abandon him,” I plead earnestly;
careful not to spook him, “he’s already given up his future for
you, now you’re asking him to give up his life.”
Sean takes one, slow, tentative step towards
the door. “I’m so sorry, Alana,” he says with such intense grief,
it strikes my chest like lightening, shattering my heart.
“Sean-” I say trembling, circling around
him.
“For what it’s worth,” he adds quickly and
solemnly, “I never thought you were going to hurt Ryan, you really
are the only one who’s ever loved him right.” Sean’s words rattle
me straight to the core, because they sound like a goodbye. Then he
bolts.
Damn it.
I dart after him through the long, narrow
kitchen and out the back door where the sun is setting like a dying
fireball behind dull, ashy clouds. He’s so goddamn fast,
maneuvering effortlessly through the back yard that’s scattered
with old tires and junk. He scales the six-foot chain link fence at
the back end of the property and I know then that I’ve lost
him.
“
Sean!”
I shout slapping the fence
with my palms, the links jingling and clinking, “Sean, come
back!”
But he quickly disappears out of sight.
“Shit!” I scream, shaking the fence
furiously. Then, hopeless and defeated, I sink down onto the cold
ground, and all I want to do is fucking cry.
Pink plastic
penises.
That’s what’s bouncing around like two alien
antennas on top of my cousin Emily’s head. Two, pink, rubbery
penises attached to a cheap headband.
I don’t know how people celebrate
bachelorette parties in other parts of the world, but in the North
East they dress the bride-to-be in sashes and tiaras, force them to
wear pink penis paraphernalia and sacrifice them to male exotic
dancers. Emily doesn’t seem to mind though. She’s sipping champagne
happily in the back of an Escalade stretch limo as we drive through
New York City.
“Alana,” says Jill, Emily’s maid of honor
whose personality is just as fiery as her red hair, “we were taking
bets as to whether you were going to come or not.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” I ask curiously.
“I don’t know?” she holds her hands up like
she’s balancing a pair of scales. “Cutting a year long trip to
Europe short or staying and hanging out with all those hotties on
the French Riviera?
“Sun and Speedos get old after a while,” I
joke.
“Well maybe some American Speedos will revive
your interest?”
“I doubt it.”
“Is the straight-laced Alana Remington too
prim and proper for a male strip show?” Jill digs.
“She’s only prim and proper on the outside,”
Emily jumps in, defending me.
Thanks Em, but I can take care of
myself.
“Why would you say that? I’m here aren’t I?”
I interject. “I’m just not partial to tiny male underwear. And I
think the politically correct term is
Male Revue.
”
“Whatever,” Jill laughs at me. “This is the
perfect night to let your hair down and get a little action between
your legs.”
“Jill!” Emily chastises. “They don’t sleep
with you.”
“I’m sure if you paid them enough they
would.”
“You’re so crude,” Emily says.
“I’m just real. And I’m pretty sure all
they’d have to do is take one look at Alana’s blonde hair, brown
eyes and long legs and they’d pay to sleep with her.”
“Well just don’t let my father find out if
that happens,” I say dryly. “I don’t think he’d respond well to me
pimping myself out.”
“I have a feeling you don’t need monetary
transactions for sex,” Jill pours herself a glass of champagne as
we haul down 5th Avenue.
I glance at Emily and she gives me a
sympathetic look.
“Where did you tell him we were going tonight
anyway?” Emily giggles, her bright blue eyes sparkling, her long
dark hair pouring over her shoulders. She’s five foot two and one
hundred pounds soaking wet, but she has the persona of a
supermodel; beautiful, confident, sexy, fun.
“I told him we were having an early dinner,
then seeing a Broadway show. I almost choked on my granola when he
asked me which one. Most of the time, he barely recognizes I’m
alive, but of course the one time I’m not prepared with a cover
story, he catches me.” I shift around in the cream leather seat,
trying to pull down the clingy hem of my gold pleated tube dress
without much success; if I’m not careful I’m going to end up giving
everyone a pre-show.
