Stripped Page 7

  The time with the black eye from a jealous fiancé who did not like how his woman screamed when she dry-humped Aiden, and the time someone’s seventy-year-old mother walked in, and the time a customer sent us as a joke to his best friend’s corporate banking office.

  Public humiliation has never bothered me. That’s the great thing about being shameless. I literally give no fucks about what people think of me. I thought I did.

  When I catch sight of Robyn at the corner of my eye, leaving as if her life depends on it, something dark and regretful crawls under my skin and nestles there. A sick, twisted part of me wants to call out and turn the spotlight on her. Make everyone watch her the way they watch me. I suppose she doesn’t want all of her swanky friends to know she has anything to do with a guy like me. Trashy. Trashy. Trashy.

  “Fal,” my buddy says beside me, nudging my elbow.

  I miss a step and wait for the next beat to rejoin the routine. Only the boys notice. The women snapping open their tiny glittery purses don’t give a fuck that I missed a step. That my whole vibe is killed. That my mind is trailing the ghost of a girl who just ran away from me. I grab the collar of my white shirt and rip it in half like a sheet of paper.

  High-pitched, thrilled screams fill the room. Most of the waiters in the room stare at the tiny food on their serving platters. But one asshole is snapping pictures on his phone. I’ll get him later.

  Right now, the song changes. A slow R&B favorite with a hard bass and harder treble. In this routine, four girls get handcuffed. I can’t help but think of what Robyn would’ve done if she’d stayed, if she let me pick her instead of this girl. This girl, she’s pretty with brown eyes and a face turned fire-engine red as I take her hands and trace them from my pecs down my abs. She tries to ball her hand into a fist, but I keep it pressed to my skin as she lets out a cute squeal. Her legs bounce with excitement.

  Ricky gives the cue when he takes off his sunglasses. Handcuff time.

  I reach into my waistband for red furry handcuffs. I get down on my knees and hold one open.

  “Can I?” I whisper in her ear. Because her voice is caught in her throat, she nods three times rapidly.

  With the red handcuffs around her wrists, she stops squealing and sits back in her chair. There’s always the moment when the embarrassed thrill goes away and is replaced by sheer pleasure.

  And in the end, that’s the whole point of this. To make them feel good. So good, they let go of their inhibitions, the stress that strangles their shoulders, the insecurity and uncertainty that’s so easy to cling to.

  Here, we freestyle. Each one of us taking our girls around different parts of the room. Jimmy likes to press them against the wall. Ricky likes to pick them up and flip them around, which is why his back is so shot to begin with. I lift my girl up. Have her straddle me. Her handcuffed hands around my neck so we’re face-to-face. Then I lower her to the ground. Her fingers dig through the hair at the nape of my neck. Her body tenses with the sudden movement and she crosses her legs around my waist, afraid she’ll fall.

  But I never let them fall.

  ROBYN

  The moment I step outside, I regret it.

  He saw me.

  I take my jacket from the coat check in the foyer, the screams of every woman in the living room erupting when the song changes. My curiosity pricks at me, like dozens of little needles. I fight the urge to turn around and head right for the door. I’ll have to explain to Lily later why I bounced early.

  When I shut the door, the cold spring air whips my hair around. I throw on my jacket and head to the train, bracing myself for the long journey home. My heels are sharp clicks on the sidewalk, but I think my heart overpowers every other sound around me. The sirens in the distance, the drunken hollers from tourists and locals alike, the rumble of the train as it comes into the station, and the ding of the doors when they close. My heart is so much louder.

  Of all the bachelorette parties in all the world, Fallon had to be a stripper at mine. Well, my best friend’s.

  I kissed him.

  I wanted him.

  And as I watch the sky darken over New York from the middle of the bridge, I realize—I insulted him.

  I hit my head on the wall behind me so hard, other people on the car turn to look at me. Can they see my shame? Because I should be ashamed. I’m a terrible person. Not because I kissed a stripper, but because of what I said to him. Trashy stripper.

  The look on his face. The way his mood did a 180 and he left my apartment like I’d spit in his drink. That’s why he left. Because of my big, stupid, judgmental mouth.

  I make a noise of disgust, scaring the passengers around me. I see myself reflected in the window in front of me. Long black hair parted at the center. Despite having gone to Sephora to do my makeup, my dark circles refuse to go away and are accentuated in the unflattering yellow light of the subway. The black dress that hugs my every curve is wrinkled and the AC makes me shiver. I left my sweater at Sophia’s and I’m tempted to leave it there because I never want to go back.

  I get off at the 30th Avenue station and walk down the deadly crooked steps that lead to the street. Crispy halal meat and the faint scent of beer greet me at the corner. I stop by a vendor and get a steak shish kebab, then hit up my next stop. Stress eating seems like the only thing I’ve got going for me, so that’s what I’m going to do. I swing by the market and grab some oranges, then the liquor store for some Prosecco, and finally, the drugstore and get a bag of discounted Easter chocolates.

  The tiny weird food Sophia catered has basically already evaporated from my body (#RobynScienceFact). I carry everything back up to my apartment for a typical Saturday night. Every step I take is heavier than the next because I don’t have to close my eyes to picture Fallon. He’s already at the forefront of my mind. So much so that when I pass his floor going up, I linger at his door. I can hear the tiny bark from Yaz, and that sends me running back up to my floor.

  You’re right under me.

  Can I kiss you?

  Trashy stripper.

  I’ve got to go.

  Why am I obsessing over this? I don’t even know him. I can just add him to the list of ex-boyfriends who hate me after breaking up with them for various reasons, some unforgivable and some simply not my thing. Lily said that when there wasn’t something wrong with someone, I wouldn’t be happy until I found it, even if I made the flaw up. Let’s see, I broke up with Jake for chewing with his mouth open, Henry for racist jokes when he got wasted, Kyle for wanting to have ten kids in the future, Lorenzo for trying to shove it in the wrong hole without my permission, Jared when I discovered be didn’t brush his teeth, Bert for wanting me to dress up as Jabba the Hut, Marty for listening to jazz literally day and night, Nikolai for being prettier than me and because I was somehow convinced he was secretly a privateer, Trevor for being rude to waiters, and Chris for just being an asshole.

  Fallon. Fallon was never my boyfriend, but I can’t help but wonder what might’ve been if I hadn’t made a snap judgment. Would I have kept it to myself if I had known who he was? Would I still have judged him in private?

  I bite the last piece of meat with my teeth and slide it down the stick. Then I eat the bread, even though it’s dry, and crumple up the foil into a tight little ball. I move on to my Prosecco. I cut the oranges in half and squeeze out the juice into a wineglass. I’m not going to pretend and use a champagne flute.

  Who gets drunk by themselves on a Saturday night? This girl.

  I make my giant mimosa and open the box of chocolates. I eat the ones I hate the most first, the ones filled with marzipan and cherries.

  I check my phone and I have four texts from Lily, one from my mother, one from Principal Lukas. I ignore the texts and search for Fallon online. He doesn’t have a Facebook or Twitter account, but I find him on Instagram because he tagged a photo at the café across the street. ZFFallon.

  “Hm.” I take another big gulp and move on to the second tier of chocolates
, the crunchy ones that are covered in piped caramel. I’m glad it isn’t something douchey like Gymguyxxx. And then I wonder, What do the Z and F stand for?

  I scroll through his photos. There’s one a few weeks ago of the New York skyline. The caption reads “I
  I refill my mimosa, scrolling with my thumb the whole time. Pictures of the beach. A gorgeous girl wrapped around his neck. He looks at her with reverence, and I feel a pang of jealousy. Who is she? What happened between them? It’s the only one she’s in. Why hasn’t he deleted it? The rest are photos of South Beach. The audience of women on different nights. Snapshots of what must be the nights they have shows. Then, farther still, a different city every few months.

  When I get to the end, it’s a selfie of himself. He isn’t as muscular as he is now, but the promise is there. His incredible blue-green eyes are sharper from some filter. His hair is longer, not as coifed and shaped and a little more blond at the top. He’s young and smiling and there’s a happiness in his eyes that startled me the first time we met. A spark.

  I sigh, take another sip of mimosa, and go to my laundry bag. I still haven’t put the clean clothes away but I rip off the pink slip attached. I find his number there and start typing. Then I delete. Then I type. Delete. Type.

  How do I say, “I’m a jerk. I’m sorry”? I guess that’s the simplest apology. But what if he doesn’t want to hear from me?

  I should take the silence over the last couple of days, since he left my apartment, as a sign that if he wanted to talk to me, he would’ve.

  Or, I’m the one who needs to reach out because I’m the one who made the mistake. This is one of the things I’d ask Lily about. But it’s her wedding time and I’ve already been selfish enough.

  Speaking of Lily. Her texts read:

  What happened to you?

  Are you still here?

  You missed Sophia getting a two-man lap dance.

  Are you okay?

  Two-man lap dance. I wonder if one of those men was Fallon.

  And that right there is the snap judgment. I shake my head. There is no way I’d be able to treat him right. Not when my first reaction is to be bothered that he touches other women for a living.

  I type back: The shrimp-and-fish dip murdered me and I was not about to go in Sophia’s porcelain toilet.

  I wait for Lily to respond, but I think she knows I’m lying. After a while I plug my phone in to charge and lie back on my couch. I replay every second with Fallon, each time wincing when I get to the moment he split. Why am I so shaken by him?

  Then, there’s a heavy pounding from downstairs and a chorus of salacious hollering. I wonder if Fallon brought a girl home. I don’t move, and listen intently. Oh my god. There’s tons of girls. I wonder if I know any of them.

  “Let it go, Robyn,” I order myself.

  I refill my mimosa and take off my clothes to jump in the shower. The perks of being alone are that I don’t have to feel bad about being messy. My apartment is a reflection of my life.

  “It’s over,” I say out loud. Then realize, “Actually, it never even started.”

  But when I shampoo my hair, I think of Fallon. When I rinse, I think of Fallon. When I lather my skin with soap, I think of Fallon. My nipples get hard, and I turn up the cold water because I start to feel a flutter between my thighs. Fallon. His pristine blue eyes. The soft waves of his light brown hair. The way he walked into the room tonight with that shirt hugging every single muscle.

  I turn off the water and slip into my favorite fluffy robe to dry. I look into the mirror. Clean and slightly flushed. With lust or embarrassment. Both, actually.

  I go to my window that faces the street to pull the curtain shut. As a reflex, my hand goes to my chest, like it’ll stop my heart from beating out of my skin, because it’s Fallon standing at the curb, looking up at me.

  I shut the curtain and slip into my sandals.

  I grab my keys and polish off what’s left of my mimosa on the counter, then I shut the door behind me and race down the steps.

  I don’t know what I’m going to say to him, but I can start by asking him to turn down his racket.

  FALLON

  Everyone is satisfied.

  The client, the bride-to-be, the bachelorettes, the dozen friends of the bride and groom. Jimmy’s in charge of collecting the money, and stuffing the tips into a blue bank deposit bag with a tiny lock on it. The bag is nearly bursting at the seams, and I remember why it was worth doing these house calls in swanky New York neighborhoods. The boys are all teeming with adrenaline, and the party is over, but the vibe is still lit and there’s the scent of debauchery in the air. So it goes without saying that something has to go wrong.

  I can feel it in my bones. A sixth sense for fights the way a ship’s captain might sniff out a storm. Or maybe I’m the one who’s looking for a fight. Something to release the anxiety and anguish locked up in my core. This anvil weighing me down. I need something to let it go.

  A few of the women slow down on their way to the bathroom down the hall. They pause at the slightly ajar door and look in on us. We’re getting dressed in a guest room the host provided us with. The boys stop slapping one another around and treating the place like a locker room at the sight of them.

  “Hello, ladies,” Greg says, and the girls break into giggles at the sound of his tenor voice.

  I shake my head and pull on my shirt, trying not to notice the way one of the women stares at me. Heat radiates from her eyes, like she’s trying to sear the memory of her into my brain before she keeps on walking. Any other time, I’d take more time to flirt with her. But my mind is occupied and it pisses me off so much that I just turn around and tug my T-shirt on.

  Ricky shuts the door.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, dude?” Greg asks me. He pulls on his sweatpants and yanks at the string to tighten them around his hips.

  “Those fucking Giants sweatpants is what’s wrong with me,” I say, using my towel to slap his arm.

  “Leave him alone,” Aiden tells them. “He’s licking his wounds.”

  “Get over it.” Greg shakes his head and puts his jewelry back on. The beaded necklace is in the colors of the Jamaican flag, a black onyx cross that falls right between his breastbones.

  I shoot Aiden a look that says, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.

  “Aww, poor Fallon’s got a new crush?” Rick asks. “Maybe we should add a Taylor Swift number to your routine.”

  They fall over in laughter, incredibly pleased with themselves, making lovesick noises in my general direction.

  “You guys are useless,” I mutter, and hold out my hand for my cut.

  “Chill, my dude,” Jimmy says. Ever since we got back to New York, his Brooklyn accent has severely increased and I’m not sure if he does it on purpose or not. He slaps the stack of bills on my open hand. He doles out the other shares and keeps the rest and the check in the bank bag. Then he secures that in his pack clipped over his chest.

  “There’s plenty of pussy in the sea,” Jimmy says callously.

  “We can’t all be happy with being forty-five-year-old bachelors,” I tell him. “And cats don’t live in the sea.”

  “I’m thirty-nine, ya rat bastard.”

  I hold my hands up, all my bad. “Sure you are.”

  Jimmy has the temper of a flaming jalapeño. “Why you gotta do me like that, Fal?”

  “As much fun as this is,” I say, “I’m beat.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Ricky asks. “I already invited some of the bachelorettes and it’s your turn to host.”

&n
bsp; Fuck. Host. After every home call, we take turns after-partying at our apartments. That way the girls never know where we live since Ricky had a stalker problem a while back, and another girl basically set up camp outside Jimmy’s house in Florida.

  “I’m beat, man.”

  Ricky presses his hand on my forehead. He looks back at the other guys, all dressed with their duffel bags slung over their shoulders. “Hey, guys, I think he’s really sick or something.”

  Aiden rings my neck with his arm and ushers me out the door. “Ignore them. You go home. Walk your dog. Both of them, if you get my drift. We’ll go to my place.”

  I jab him in the gut and he jerks back. Now I don’t want to seem like a dick. Besides, I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts of her. I’ll just keep replaying her literally running away from me tonight.

  “No, you know what?” I say. “We’re doing this. But you guys better refill my booze cabinet.”

  “Oh, is that the technical term?” Aiden says jokingly. “Booze cabinet?”

  “Come on,” I say, “before I change my mind.”

  The group of us stroll out of the room and wave at our host. The bride-to-be, pink-faced and smiling, sets her eyes on me. I recognize her as the woman who dropped Robyn in front of our building earlier in the week. Her eyes squint at me with recognition, but can’t place my face. I swallow the ache that’s lodged in my throat, and keep on going toward the door.

  At the bottom of the landing, the bachelorettes are waiting for the guys. Not a single one of them hides the lust in her stare, the fantasy of taking home a stripper and then telling her friends about it the following day. All, “Oh my god, you won’t believe what I did.” A moment of gossip. Fun. Thrill. Shock. Forgotten.

  Jimmy throws me the backpack with our money to put in the safe in my apartment until I can swing by the bank in the morning.

  One of the girls locks her brown eyes with mine. There’s a devilish quirk on her full red lips, and I can feel her undressing me with her gaze. A few years ago, hell, a few months ago, I’d pick her up and bite the hell out of that lip right here in the middle of the street. I’d pin her against the car with a kiss, staining my mouth red with the taste of her. Her hair catches in the wind and blows around her angelic brown skin. Her breasts are pushed up to their limits, and when she breathes, it’s the only thing the eyes fall to.