Saving Emily: A Fighter's Curvy Prize

by Nora Haley

  Saving Emily

  A Fighter’s Curvy Prize

  by Nora Haley

  Saving Emily. First edition

  Copyright © 2019 by Nora Haley

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously.

  For an author's note regarding sensitive topics, potential triggers or squicks see this post on my Goodreads account: http://bit.ly/norahaley-cw

  Contents

  Chapter One: Emily

  Chapter Two: Jon

  Chapter Three: Emily

  Chapter Four: Jon

  Chapter Five: Emily

  Chapter Six: Jon

  Chapter Seven: Emily

  Chapter Eight: Jon

  Chapter Nine: Emily

  Chapter Ten: Jon

  Chapter Eleven: Emily

  Chapter Twelve: Jon

  Chapter Thirteen: Emily

  Chapter Fourteen: Jon

  Chapter Fifteen: Emily

  Chapter Sixteen: Emily

  Epilogue: Jon

  About the Author

  More Books by Nora Haley

  Chapter One

  Emily

  The noise level drops abruptly when I enter the staircase leading up to the VIP area. Soon the pumping beat of the dance floor is hardly more than ambient noise. I love working at the club, but it’s great to get a break from the loud music for a change.

  When I reach the top of the stairs the security guards step aside to let me through. They’re tall, buff guys, imposing with their suits and earpieces and broad shoulders. I don’t doubt for a second it would be impossible to get past them if they didn't want you to. And I have to admit for a moment, I am a little bit worried myself. What if Evan was only kidding when he said I was going to work upstairs tonight?

  But then one of them, Cole, smiles at me and says: “Hey, Em, nice to see you up here.”

  His colleague Alejandro nods at me in greeting, and I feel ridiculously relieved.

  The Epic is one of the hottest clubs in the city. Its door is known to be tough. It’s hard to get in and it’s even harder to gain access to the VIP lounge. This goes for both guests and employees. I felt like winning the lottery when I came to work today and found out I had been upgraded to waiting tables upstairs because Karen had called in sick. It’s what I’ve been hoping for ever since I started working here a good six months ago. I still can't believe I made it.

  The other girls claim the tips are phenomenal upstairs. Every other night some coked-out dude will empty his wallet into a lucky waitress’ lap, they say, as if he’s in a strip club. Only, the guys who come here don’t carry one-dollar bills in their wallets. And I could do with a couple of fifties or even hundreds extra.

  So tonight is the night I'm going to find out if the fairy tales are true.

  Nervously, I tuck a stray strand of my long brown hair behind my ear. “I was told I gotta check in with Gina.”

  “Straight on through to the bar,” Cole says, pointing ahead to an illuminated island in the middle of the large, dimly lit room. Looming between the low black leather couches and shiny tables, hundreds of liquor bottles shimmer in a soft golden glow. Behind it, the light show of the club flickers like a thunderstorm trapped in a snow globe. Thick glass keeps the music out, reducing the glittering nightlife on the floor below to a glamorous backdrop.

  I try not to gape at people too much when I make my way over to the bar. The clientele downstairs is already stylish and well-off, but the guests up here are a different caliber. Everyone looks famous or important or at the very least gorgeous. The men wear tailored suits and handmade shoes, the women stunningly small dresses and staggering high-heels. The women are also extraordinarily beautiful. All of them.

  Without thinking, I grab the hem of my short black dress and pull it down a bit over my chunky thighs. It’s a little too tight so it keeps riding up. It’s a half-intentional look. We waitresses are meant to look sexy, it’s the dress-code: Little black dresses and high heels are our uniform. I should be used to it by now but it still makes me feel like I’m pretending to be something I’m not.

  Gina, my boss for the evening, greets me with a raised eyebrow.

  “So you’re Emily?” she says and I nod. A cool blonde in her late forties, Gina is no less intimidating than Cole and Alejandro, although in a different way perhaps. I can tell at once I’m not what she expected, even if she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she points me towards a group of tables that will be my primary responsibility.

  “Our customers expect first-class service,” Gina tells me. “Fulfilling their wishes will be your absolute priority at all times, do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Gina narrows her eyes. “Off you go then, Emily. And good luck.”

  I quickly find out why she wished me luck. The lounge is not the land of milk and honey I hoped for. It’s not raining money. Instead of more generous tips, I get patrons that are even more touchy-feely than the ones I usually have to handle. It’s either that or being ignored.

  Actually, most of them treat me as though I’m invisible.

  On my fourth round trip from the bar, I have to sidestep some dude who almost bumps into me because he didn’t see me coming. The glasses on my tablet shake dangerously and a beer bottle topples over.

  I’m lucky I get no beer on the guy but he’s still furious.

  “Watch it,” he hisses, his face screwed up in anger.

  You can see at first glance he’s one of those rich kids who get handed everything to them without having to lift a finger, from their first sports car to their uni degree to a lucrative position in daddy’s company. Mid-twenties, dirty-blonde hair, too full of himself. A picture-book jerk. It doesn’t help that he eyes me with an expression that makes it quite clear he thinks I don’t belong here.

  “I’m sorry,” I bite out, trying to stick with my friendly service persona. I force a smile. The most apologetic, submissive smile I’m capable of. It’s still not enough.

  “Clumsy cow,” he mumbles as he turns around, facing his friends again.

  Blood rises to my face. What an asshole!

  I try not to get hung up on it too much as I return to the bar for a new tablet and fresh drinks, but it’s hard. Incidents like this drive home a point I would love to forget if I could: I’m a diversity hire for the club.

  Every once in a while a guy prefers a more generous butt to slap and some more luscious curves to ogle, and Preston Wright, the club’s owner, is eager to cater to every preference, even the more exotic ones. And liking fat girls is definitely exotic in these circles. Generally, the preferences of patrons go in the opposite direction: they like their girls waifish, young and delicate, pretty, with long legs and small perky tits and covered in as little fabric as possible.

  When you’re in the business of entertaining the rich and powerful, you have to be good at wish-fulfillment. That’s why Preston likes to keep a bunch of stunningly beautiful women around, whose sole job it is to drink cocktails and flirt with their clients and occasionally go further than that if requested. Preston’s avowed principle is that no patron should ever feel lonely at the Epic.

  I'm not one of those girls, thank God. We waitresses are only eye candy, poster girls more than goods for sale. We’re expected to be open to guests chatting us up. Linger here and there for a short banter. Flirt. I suppose that’s how you make those fairy tale tips everyone’s raving about.

  I can’t say I’m unhappy about the fact I’m only a waitress. Quite the opposite. I’m not exactly keen on flattering some rich dude’s ego whi
le having his hands all over me. Still, given the staffing ratio, I had hoped working the lounge would be more chill than it is. While my colleagues get drawn into conversations, the serving of drinks and clearing of tables almost exclusively falls to me.

  “Hey, Em, can you bring us another one?” Mackenzie calls when I walk past, waving an empty champagne bottle at me. She’s busy cozying up to a middle-aged guy in a four-thousand dollar Armani suit.

  I’m aware Mackenzie would love to find herself a rich husband or at least a wealthy lover and I don’t begrudge her the catch. It’s still a bit rich to place orders with a colleague when you’re on the clock yourself.

  But what am I going to do about it? There’s nothing I can do, really, apart from maybe making a scene and getting myself fired. So I give her a nod to let her know I got it and move on to deliver my current order first.

  The table I’m headed for is technically not my responsibility either. It’s one of Sarah’s, but just like Mackenzie, Sarah is otherwise engaged at the moment.

  Three of the guys sprawling on the couch around the shiny table are regulars, Shawn and his buddies Derek and Russell. They hang out at the club a lot. Shawn’s best friends with my boss, or they’re close business associates, or both. You never know with these guys. It’s sometimes hard to say where business ends and pleasure begins. Especially if your job is to provide others with entertainment.

  I’ve got no clue what Shawn does for a living, but I’m pretty sure like most men here he’s involved in some unsavory business. People usually don’t get filthy rich in a squeaky clean way, but some people dig deeper in the dirt than others, and Shawn gives off that vibe. Drugs, prostitution, extortion – I’d put nothing of those things past him.

  Anyway, he’s important in his own way for some reason, so it’s vital he and his friends have everything they need.

  Looks good so far, I think as I come closer. Shawn’s deep in conversation with his two buddies and the rich boy they brought along is busy sticking his tongue down a girl’s throat while another nibbles at his neck.

  Leaves Number Five.

  The first thing I notice about him is how absolutely brutal he looks. Short-cropped, dark hair, shaved at the sides, a little longer on top. Face like a pit-bull, hard, angular but not unkind. Not ugly either. His nose has been broken a couple times too many, it’s a little squashed. One of his cheekbones is bruised. But that’s not all that sticks out about him. He’s wearing a black hoodie and black jeans with combat boots when everyone else around here is dressed in expensive suits. And he drinks beer instead of cocktails or champagne.

  They paired him off with one of the escort-girls, Cheryl. To his credit, he doesn’t seem to know what to do with her. I’ve seen her with other guys and she’s not exactly shy when it comes to making contact if you get the drift. So I figure he doesn’t want to hook up with her. That’s a big fat plus in my book, to be honest.

  It’s also not typical at all.

  All in all, it’s as though he accidentally ended up in the wrong establishment. The only thing is: you don’t just happen to stumble into the VIP area of the Epic. You have to be invited.

  Plus, he’s with Shawn, and Shawn’s bad news.

  I should keep my distance. But I can help it. My eyes are drawn to him. I’m fascinated by everything about him, every little detail: the way his thick, strong fingers curl around the neck of his beer bottle; how he rubs the back of his neck absentmindedly; the expression on his face, stoic, blank for the most part; sometimes his eyes flick across the room, vigilant, wary; sometimes he smiles and his whole face lights up.

  That’s what gets to me the most – his smiles. It’s as though his softer side shines through the tough facade. I love that. I’d love to be the reason for such a smile.

  Chapter Two

  Jon

  Dogs that bark don’t bite, or so they say.

  There are a lot of guys at this club who fit that stereotype. They have big mouths. They act tough. They got themselves a bunch of badass tattoos. They even went to the trouble of pumping up their bodies to gorilla size at the gym. But if they had to go up against me in a fight, they wouldn’t stand a chance. I’d give them less than a minute until they’d hit the mat.

  Leaning back against the sleek black leather sofa, I take a swig of my beer and let my gaze wander around. I only spot a handful exceptions, guys who’d pose somewhat of a challenge at least. The two bodyguards watching the entrance to the VIP lounge had some military training. The asshole covered in prison tattoos groping the bottle-blonde porn star type in his lap wouldn’t be an easy mark either. And there’s a guy a few tables away who I’m sure is someone they’re going to pit me against eventually. He’s got fighter written all over him, sporting the same battered look I do – a black eye, split lip, bruised cheekbone, grazed knuckles, a nose that has been broken more times than you can count.

  Can’t claim we fighters are pretty.

  But then, pretty is not what we’re aiming for. No one expects us to either. In our line of work looks are irrelevant. We’re not wrestlers. Our fights aren’t about the show or a character or the story of an old feud. It’s the real deal. Two guys beating the shit out of each other. No rules. You fight until one of you doesn’t get up anymore, and that’s it.

  Those fights aren’t legal of course, but they make everyone involved a lot of money. And money is usually the reason people do stupid things. Money and love. Not that I’ve had many opportunities in the latter department recently.

  If I had a woman to do stupid things for I wouldn’t spend my Saturday evening at a nightclub, nursing a beer and showing off my cuts and bruises to the curious crowd. I’d probably be in bed with her and set a new record of how many times I can make her come in one night. That would be my kind of stupid.

  But who am I kidding? It’s not who I am. I am here, after all, am I not? Fresh from a fight, a bit beat-up, drinking beer. Tells you everything you need to know about me.

  Men like me, we’re a little crazy. We’ve got nothing to lose, but everything to gain – money, fame, not to forget a huge adrenaline kick. Some of us have a death wish, you could say, but that’s just the nature of the business. There’s something about risking life and limb that’s highly addictive.

  I’m still drunk on it, the thrill, the pain, the elation of victory. The evening was a success in pretty much every aspect. I won. Made Shawn, who organizes the fights, and his buddies Derek and Russell a shitload of money. The audience was satisfied with the show. A couple of dirty cops got a large enough cut of the profits to look the other way. And some of the gamblers got a fat payout.

  Eric, one of those happy gamblers, tagged along. It’s not as though he needs the money, he’s fucking loaded, a professional rich son. But he seems to take pleasure in the fact that he didn’t bet on the wrong horse for a change and now gets to bask in the glory of my victory.

  “You should have seen him!” he tells the two beauties snuggling up against him from both sides. “The way Jon here smashed the guy’s face in – fucking awesome! He’s an absolute beast.”

  He grins like a madman, still giddy from the bloodshed, as if it was him who beat that poor bastard senseless tonight. I would bet my share of the winnings he’s never even punched a guy in the face, not once in all his life, much less gotten punched. He knows nothing about how it feels to go down. The sensation of falling, the taste of blood in your mouth. How it is to wake up with a cracked rib or a cracked tooth, your head hurting like hell. Even if you win a fight you’re gonna ache all over. You can count on it.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. As a fighter, you know what you’re getting yourself into. You’re aware of the risks. But it still feels wrong to talk about it like this spoiled millionaire’s spawn does, as if it’s fun to put a guy in a hospital bed.

  But Eric Tucker, heir apparent to Tucker & Sons Real Estate, thinks it is, apparently. He describes my victory move by move while the girls in his arms giggle excitedly, s
queezing themselves closer against him.

  “And then BAM!” He brings down his hand so hard on the table the glasses clink against each other. “Jon slammed his fist right into the guy’s jaw and he just keeled over like a sack of potatoes! At this point, he was a mess – nose bleeding, his lip too...”

  One of them, a skinny brunette with Bambi-eyes, darts me a nervous glance as if I am the creep at the table. The other, a blonde Barbie-type, leans in and whispers something into Eric’s ear that makes him look at me. He chuckles.

  No idea what she said but it feels like a joke at my expense.

  A sudden flash of anger spikes in my blood. I force myself to stay calm and resist the urge to clench my hands into fists.

  I get it. This is what I’m here for. I’m entertainment. A circus attraction. They brought me along as a mascot or a pet so they can pat me on the back for being a good boy. Show me around like an especially vicious breed of dog they managed to train.

  It took me a while to understand that is part of the job, too, but at some point I got it. And here I am, playing my part.

  I shouldn’t be too hard on the girls either. They’re entertainment, too. A different flavor perhaps, but in the end, they’re also here to flatter the guys’ egos. Bambi and Barbie’s performance might not be award-worthy, but Eric doesn’t need much convincing. He wants to believe he’s the stud in the room. While Bambi refills his glass and raises it to his lips, Barbie slides her hand up his leg. His face goes slack.

  Disgusted, I look away.

  At the neighboring tables, similar scenes play out. I would bet good money there’s not a single woman in the whole club who isn’t working right now. From waitress to escort to gold digger, they’re all here for the money. Which is fine. I don’t judge. We all do what we have to. Why not profit from some men’s low self-esteem and inability to attract women with other means than their wallets?

  Shawn and his buddies made sure I got a playmate too, so I wouldn’t feel left out. She’s a tiny blonde thing, pretty, but not my type at all. For one, I don’t do barely legal. I also prefer my women not to be small and fragile. I don’t want to worry about breaking them accidentally. Most importantly though, I’m old school. I can’t enjoy the company of a woman who’s getting paid to be with me. I’d rather sit here and drink my beer in peace all by myself than have a pretty girl pretend she’s attracted to me because someone pays her for it.