“I’ve been hanging out with Jill. It’s givingme a taste of Manhattan, you know, city living. I’m learning my wayaround.”
He stares down at me coolly. I don’t know ifhe’s buying my bullshit. But I really fucking hope he is.
“Make sure you keep your priorities inorder.” It’s not a statement, it’s a demand. A borderline threat.That simple sentence tells me everything I need to know. You fuckup, you’re out. My father is the one person who has the power totake everything away from me. And he makes damn sure I don’t forgetit.
“I will Daddy,” I respond sweetly;obediently.
His brown eyes measure me. The color almostmakes them look warm, but his persona swallows up any emotion theytry 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 onlyone who could penetrate his stoic exterior. And I truly believeshe’s the only person he ever loved.
Even over me.
I catch the 9:07 AM train into the city andstep outside Penn Station around 10:45. Ryan is waiting for me onone of the steps of Madison Square Garden. He has on a skin tightt-shirt and faded blue jeans. His hair is tousled, and there arebags under his eyes. Why did he insist on me coming into the cityin the morning when it’s clear he needs to sleep well into theafternoon?
“Morning beautiful,” he stands up and kissesme like it’s been a lifetime since he saw me last.
“Morning. You look like you need somecoffee.”
“I do,” he smiles and takes my hand, yankingme towards the subway.
“Where are we going?”
“SoHo.”
This doesn’t surprise me one bit, seeing it’schock full of hipsters and art galleries, trendy boutiques andhistoric architecture; it appeals to his artistic side. And Ryanfits right in with his urban, metrosexual vibe. We head to HeraldSquare Station, two blocks from MSG and take the N train. It takesabout ten minutes to get there. We hop off at the Prince Streetstop and grab a table outside a trendy little restaurant whoseFrench doors are completely open, giving the illusion of eatingalfresco even if you’re inside. We both order coffee and abreakfast platter to share. Ryan still looks tired, but hedisguises it with a contented stare. We sit across from each otherrelaxed, watching the tourists, watching the waitress, watchingeach other. Ryan leans forward and puts his hand out on the table,palm side up. It’s his sweet gesture. I put my hand in his and heentwines our fingers; both of us leaning forward over the tabletop.I love it when he touches me. Anywhere.
Everywhere.
Even the slightest brush.
There’s a little bit of shade from the awningoverhead, making it comfortable to sit outside on the warm summerday.
“How was your weekend?” he asks.
“Long. How was yours?”
“Even longer,” he smirks.
“Anything interesting happen?” I ask, and Isort of want to take the question back because I know it’s a loadedone.
Ryan just grins, “No, the only interestingday I had this week was Thursday.”
“And what made Thursday so interesting?” Itease.
“I got to travel.”
“Oh really? Did you go anyplaceinteresting?”
Ryan nods devilishly, “And I’m not doneexploring yet.”
My thighs burn from his insinuation, and Itry not to picture the wicked things Ryan can do that go rightalong with his stare. The waitress drops off our coffees and I’mnot sure if I’m grateful for the distraction, or pissed off fromthe interruption.
I watch Ryan dump some sugar into his cup andthen some cream.
“Where did the name Jack the Stripper comefrom?” I ask curiously as he stirs.
Ryan looks up with just his eyes, his facialexpression unreadable, “It’s sort of a play on words.”