Saving Emily: A Fighter's Curvy Prize

by Nora Haley

  Most guys here don’t share my qualms. I’m sure a lot of them have wives waiting for them at home, girlfriends, the mothers of their children, but that doesn’t stop them from whoring around. I know for a fact, Eric here, for example, is engaged to a sweet blonde heiress named Taylor. The papers are full of their epic love affair, but that doesn’t prevent him from plunging his tongue into Barbie’s mouth.

  I don’t want to watch that, so I turn my attention to my assigned escort, Cheryl or whatever her name is. After all, it’s not her fault she doesn’t live up to my expectations. I don’t want to get her in trouble, so I play along for a bit, pretend I enjoy her company. Make polite conversation while she sips champagne she’s probably not allowed to have yet.

  I wish I could send her home, tell her to wipe all that make-up off her pretty face and go get a decent night’s sleep. Consider applying for college or something in the morning, instead of hanging out at clubs like this. With guys like me. I can’t say I’m a good influence. And I’m easily old enough to be her father, for fuck’s sake.

  She doesn’t seem to be bothered, neither by my age nor by my job. More intrigued than anything else perhaps. She sets down her champagne glass and puts her hand on my thigh. I shift my leg to get rid of it.

  “Is it true what he’s saying? Did you really smash that guy’s head in?” Her eyes glitter.

  “Nah.” I grimace and take another pull from my beer. “He’s exaggerating. I knocked him out, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” She seems disappointed Eric’s lurid little tale is – for the most part – made up. I could tell her some horror stories about pain and injuries, of course, but I’m not in the mood to revisit those memories just to satisfy a little girl’s desire for sensation.

  I try to think of something more harmless to say when I’m saved by the waitress.

  “Can I get you anything else, sir, another beer?”

  I look up and it hits me like a strike of lightning.

  Now she is my fucking type!

  She’s gorgeous with her large green eyes and full rosy lips and the long brown hair falling in waves over her shoulders, but what makes her stand out is her body. She looks like a goddess, curvaceous and sexy and absolutely mouthwatering. She wears the same sort of little black dress as the other waitresses, but while on them it’s just a bit of fabric, on her it’s fucking perfection. The way it clings to her curves sends a rush of excitement straight to my cock.

  She has to bend over to set the drinks down on the table. The low neckline gives me an excellent view of her full breasts and the fabric riding up her thighs accentuates their thickness, her marvelous ass, the beauty of her wide hips. I want to grab her and pull her down in my lap, against my hardening cock.

  I imagine her naked on top of me, riding me, all those glorious curves bouncing. I would dig my fingers into her hips and push up into her, hard.

  Fuck, I’d bend her over one of these couches right here and now if I thought I could get away with it. There’s something about her that drives me mad with lust.

  Chapter Three

  Emily

  “Can I get you anything else, sir, another beer?” I ask. I’m determined to keep this professional, even if some stupid, irrational part of me finds him ridiculously attractive.

  But then he looks up and– wow! It’s like an electric charge in the air. A tension between us that sends sparks flying. My stomach flutters. My knees get a little weak. I would like to sit down for a moment, just to make sure I won’t keel over.

  He’s got the most amazing brown eyes. Gentle. Soft. They make for a stunning contrast to his thuggish appearance. And I don’t know what could be hotter than being looked at like that by a guy like him.

  He looks me up and down, quickly, as if he’s trying not to stare too much, but I can feel the appreciation in his gaze. He likes what he sees.

  A warm sensation spreads out from my belly.

  After all the dismissive reactions, it’s reassuring, flattering even, to be desired. And it definitely helps that he’s hot. It’s not every day that an attractive man stares at me like that. Not that I think I’m ugly. I know I’m not. It’s just that it can feel like that after a while when all you get is negative feedback.

  Now, finally, someone who appreciates my curves.

  “Another beer would be nice.” The drone of his voice sends a shiver down my spine. The combination of a hard shell and a caramel-soft core is irresistible.

  A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth and I wonder how it would feel to kiss him. To be kissed by him. All that raw masculine energy channeled into an act of passion.

  The warmth in my stomach begins to transform into an uncomfortable, feverish heat.

  “Can we get some vodka shots?” Cheryl pipes up. She doesn’t look pleased with tough guy’s reaction to me. Probably she thinks she’ll have more luck with him if she gets him drunk. I’m not sure she’s even old enough to drink, but it’s not my job to worry about that.

  “Yeah sure,” I say and stagger off, slightly dazed, but not before I steal another glance at Mr. Tough’s face.

  God, I’ve got it bad. I don’t even know how something like this can be possible – falling in love with someone at first sight. Maybe it’s just about lust. Subconsciously picking up someone’s scent and your body telling you you’re compatible.

  I wonder what Mr. Tough smells like. Probably the best thing I’ve ever smelled. Better than fresh coffee in the morning or cut grass or concrete after a summer rain.

  Lost in thought, I float off to get the beer – and the vodka shots – and probably that’s why I don’t see it coming. Some asshole slaps me so hard on the butt the impact sends me stumbling. Balancing a tablet full of glasses while walking on heels is already not the easiest feat so I almost lose my balance. A glass slips off the tablet and falls to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.

  Every head in the room turns towards me. Embarrassment flushes my cheeks. I wish the ground would open up and swallow me. I know they’re all thinking the same. Fat lump. Hippo girl too ungainly to stay on her own feet.

  “Clumsy cunt,” someone mumbles nearby.

  My ass cheek stings, but the insult stings more. My vision is getting blurry as tears well up in my eyes.

  The guy who slapped me turns around to his buddies, chuckling. “Did you see that booty jingle, man? Told you it would!”

  It’s the same jerk that bumped into me earlier. Looks like he upgraded from natural born nuisance to asshole by intent. And I’d love to tell him what I think about his type, get my anger off my chest, but unfortunately, I’m in no position to do so.

  Turns out I don’t have to.

  “Apologize to the lady,” someone says behind me.

  I don’t have to turn around to know who comes to my rescue. His voice is deeper than before, more of a growl than anything else, the threat palpable in his words.

  The asshole spins around and his reaction promptly confirms my suspicion that Mr. Tough looks even scarier when he’s angry. Asshole's cocky grin melts away quickly and is replaced by a half-apologetic, half-frightened grimace.

  “Sorry, man.” He raises his hands in an appeasing gesture. “I want no trouble.”

  “Doesn’t look like it from where I’m standing,” Mr. Tough growls. “And it’s not me you gotta apologize to.”

  The guy’s eyes flick to me and back to my knight in shining armor. I can see the conflicting emotions flicker over his face: He hates to admit he was out of line. He hates to lose face in front of his buddies. But he’s also afraid of the consequences if he refuses. I’m sure no one in the room has illusions about what Mr. Tough is capable of – or prepared to do when provoked.

  As much as I enjoy seeing that Asshole squirm, I also know my job’s on the line here.

  “It’s okay,” I say, more to Mr. Tough than anyone else.

  He steps up beside me and turns his attention from asshole to me. When he looks at me, his expression softens. Perhaps he
can guess what's up, or I’m actually looking so distressed by the prospect of a patron getting beat up because of me it's impossible to miss. Whatever it is, he backs off.

  And just in time, too.

  “Is there a problem?”

  The stand-off has attracted the boss himself, and that’s rarely a good sign. Preston Wright runs a tight ship. No one’s supposed to put as much as a toe out of line. The whole business model depends on the club working like a well-oiled machine. If anyone causes trouble, they’re out of the door faster than they can say sorry. Mostly it’s employees that kicked to the curb though. A customer rarely manages to misbehave badly enough to be forcibly removed.

  “No problem, sir,” I’m quick to say. “I just dropped a glass.”

  He glances at the asshole, then at Mr. Tough and puts two and two together.

  “Mackenzie,” he flicks his fingers without even looking at her to see if she’s paying attention. He just assumes she is. “Be so kind and take the gentleman here to get a drink on the house.” He gestures towards the asshole, and my heart sinks for a moment.

  That probably means Mr. Tough will end up as the loser of this confrontation. But then I notice the look he gives Alejandro at the door once Mackenzie has grabbed asshole’s arm and dragged him away with her. Preston glances pointedly at his back, then gives an almost unnoticeable shake of his head almost. Alejandro nods to signal he’s understood.

  So that guy’s got himself a free drink and a ban. What an unexpectedly happy ending. Looks like I’m lucky that it was a comparative nobody who got cheeky with me.

  “Clean this up,” Preston tells me, pointing at the broken glass before he moves over to talk with Mr. Tough.

  It’s impossible to tell how angry he is with me. Displeased, mildly irritated, absolutely furious – who knows? He’s always got the same coldness about him.

  Preston Wright is a bit of a scary figure, and not just as an employer. I heard rumors about him, rumors that he has a hand in a lot of shady business: drugs, weapons, extortion. That he’s got ties to the mob. Karen even claimed that shortly before she started working at the club, he shot some guy in his office, point-blank in the head, execution-style. No idea how she’s supposed to know this, but the story still left a mark. Whatever the truth is about him, he sure isn’t someone to cross.

  “So you’re Shawn’s new fighter, aren’t you?” Preston says to Mr. Tough and puts his arm around his shoulder to lead him back to his table. The fact he dares to touch him like that tells you all you need to know about him, probably. Mr. Tough seems to know it, too. He reacts surprisingly meekly to the familiarity.

  “Yes, sir, I am,” I overhear him say. “Name’s Jon.”

  Jon, I think, my heart giving another excited little flutter as I go fetch dustpan and brush to get rid off the broken glass.

  Chapter Four

  Jon

  Fury is pumping through my veins. I want to break that asshole’s nose or better still his hand for touching her. He has to pay for what he did. But lucky for him, the owner of the club demands my attention and I know better than to get on his wrong side.

  “You’re an outstanding fighter from what I hear, Jon. Shawn speaks very highly of you.”

  Everyone knows it’s Preston Wright who opens the doors to real money for you. If you want to make serious cash you have to go through him. Shawn told me to show myself at my best, so that’s what I’m aiming for.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wright.”

  “Oh, call me Preston, please. Everyone does.”

  I know the joviality is an act. A way to lull people into a false sense of security, and I’m not fooled by it. I can sense if someone’s dangerous and Preston Wright makes all the alarm bells go off in my head.

  “I hope you’re enjoying yourself, Jon. Apart from the little incident that is.”

  “Yes, I do.” I swallow the “sir” at the last moment. “It’s a great place you have here.”

  “I’m glad you like it. What about the company?” He glances over to the girl, Cheryl, who sits at the table waiting for us to join her.

  “Oh, she’s lovely,” I say evasively.

  Preston raises an eyebrow. “But?”

  I rack my brain for a reason that’s not an implicit insult of his business model, but Preston is smart enough to come up with one himself. He looks over to the spot where the gorgeous waitress is cleaning up the broken glass. I follow his gaze. Crouching on the floor she is as enticing as ever. Her dress stretches over her round butt in the most sinful way possible. When she leans forwards, her full tits almost pop out of the low neckline. My dick gives an approving little twitch.

  But as much as I appreciate the sight, I hate the fact everyone can stare at her like that. It should be a pleasure reserved for my eyes alone.

  “You like her?” Preston says. Before I even have the opportunity to answer, he calls her over.

  I’m inclined to protest. I wouldn’t want her to think she’s obliged to spend time with me if she doesn’t want to. She looks worried at first, perhaps expecting a lecture from her boss, or to get fired. But then our eyes meet and I feel the same sudden rush of desire as before and I reconsider. I’m a selfish bastard. I want to be close to her, talk to her. Maybe even get to touch her. I smile at her and the apprehension disappears from her face.

  “I believe you two haven’t been introduced yet,” Preston says when she’s standing before us, tugging awkwardly on her dress. “Jon this is–” He pauses for her to fill in her name.

  “Emily.” Her green eyes are focused on me, and me alone. “Hi, Jon.”

  Her lush rosy lips are mesmerizing. I hold out my hand. “It’s so nice to meet you, Emily.”

  Her hand is small in mine, soft between my large callused fingers. I have to make a conscious effort to let go of it again after a couple of seconds. If it were up to me, I’d never let go of her again. I would wrap my arms around her and kiss her until we’re both gasping for breath. And that’d be only the beginning...

  Of course, the thought does nothing to calm me down. My cock goes from interested to fully erect in a matter of seconds. I’m suddenly in a hurry to sit back down.

  “You want a drink, Emily?” I ask her, my voice rough with desire. Maybe people are right when they say I’m a beast...

  Thankfully Emily doesn’t seem to notice the state I’m in. Or maybe she just doesn’t mind? She nods and slides next to me on the sofa and beams at me when I hand her a glass of champagne.

  “I feel like Cinderella sneaking into the ball,” she says, throwing back her hair as she sets the glass to her lips. Her long hair shimmers in the dim light of the club. All I can think is how perfect it would be to bury my hands in it.

  My voice is still husky when I speak: “I have to disappoint you, I’m no Prince Charming.”

  “Who says?” She smiles and I respond with a laugh.

  That’d be rich – me as a prince. I’m a foot soldier, that’s all I’ve ever been. A fighter, a warrior. But then, once upon a time, people made men their leaders who were fierce and brave and invincible in battle, so perhaps her character assessment is not completely off.

  And I would try to be her prince if she asked me.

  “If I’m a prince then you must be a princess, and at least that checks out.”

  She blushes a little under my gaze. It suits her, but I wish a simple compliment like that wouldn’t make her uncomfortable. She deserves all the compliments in the world.

  “So what do royalty like us do when they’re not working?” she plays along.

  Is she asking for a date? Maybe she’s not so shy after all.

  “I don’t know, what do you think? Go out for a fancy dinner? Get the presidential suite in a five-star hotel? Leave the city and go on vacation? I could use today’s winnings to take you to a sunny beach somewhere.”

  It’s not even a joke. If she agreed, I’d leave with her this minute. I’ve not felt more certain about anything in a long time.

  Emil
y laughs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “That sounds great. All of it.”

  Just say the word, princess, and I’ll lay the world at your feet.

  She looks so lovely I have a hard time suppressing the impulse to reach out and run my thumb over her bottom lip before I pull her into a kiss.

  Funnily enough, it’s Emily who raises her hand at that very moment. Stopping short of my bruised cheekbone, her fingertips hover less than an inch over my skin. “You’re hurt.”

  She looks genuinely concerned. It makes my heart melt a little.

  “I’ve had worse.”

  And it’s true. My body still bears plenty of proof: I got shot at and stabbed and lots of scars to show for it, and that’s only the surface. What you can’t see are the broken bones and torn ligaments and shredded muscles. You get used to the pain and the lingering discomfort. To a degree at least.

  She drops her hand without touching me, but her face is still concerned. “You did get that cut cleaned, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah sure.”

  I dabbed a cotton pad soaked with disinfectant on the cuts. It stung so it must have worked, right? Unless a wound needs stitches I usually don’t bother with seeing a doctor.

  My bewilderment about the question must have been obvious because by way of explanation she adds: “I’ve got a professional interest in that sort of thing. I’m saving up to go to nursing school.”

  I can’t help but smile. Honestly, that woman must have been made for me. How perfect is that? A nurse would be pretty much my ideal counterpart. Every time I’ll get beaten up, she could put me back together again. Apart from that, I can’t say I’m not relieved working as a waitress at this club is only temporary for her. Considering how they treat women here and all that...