by Autumn Avery
Fighter
Autumn Avery
Contents
1. Jenny
2. Tyler
3. Jenny
4. Ty
5. Jenny
6. Ty
7. Jenny
8. Ty
9. Jenny
10. Ty
11. Jenny
12. Ty
13. Jenny
14. Ty
15. Jenny
16. Ty
17. Jenny
18. Ty
19. Jenny
20. Ty
21. Jenny
22. Ty
23. Jenny
24. Ty
25. Jenny
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Mailing List
Also by Autumn Avery
Also by Autumn Avery
1
Jenny
“Hey, baby. Why don’t you bring that sweet ass over here and gimmie a dance!” A rough male voice shouts at me as I shoulder my way through the packed club of Max’s Showroom. Max’s Showroom, the one and only strip club in Red Bridge Falls, New Hampshire, right off the highway, surrounded by motels and restaurants that should probably have been condemned and closed years ago.
“Can I get a shot, Bruce?” I shout to Bruce the bartender, a handsome guy with spikey black hair who looks younger than he is.
“What’ll it be?” he asks, eyebrows raised, clearly aware of my mood tonight.
“Whatever,” I sigh. “Just make it strong.”
“Sure thing, Rose.”
My real name is Jenny Summers, but here I’m known as Rose. All the girls have stage names. Bree, the hostess, is Natalia and puts on a fake Russian accent when new guys come in. Sarah goes by Violet and likes to wear purple stockings, heels and thongs that she should probably wash more than once a week, and Jessica likes to be called Caramel and likes to use spray tan on top of her already unhealthy twice a week visits to the tanning salon.
“Look at this place would you!?” Kristen, aka Chastity, says excitedly as she slides up beside me. “It’s hoppin’!”
Kristen is my best friend and the reason I got into this business to begin with. But our attitudes on dancing couldn’t be any more different. For me, the club is a way to make a buck. I’m the laziest stripper in the world. Ninety percent of the time I don’t even take my top off. I wear a crop top t-shirt (my favorite being the one that says “I’m so good, I moan my own name in bed”), a thong and some heels, and spend most nights in the champagne room bringing bottles to my regulars and basically acting like their therapist.
Kristen on the other hand loves the job and works hard for her bucks: giving lap dances, working the pole whether it’s the small stage or the feature stage, and works more nights a week than I do. She doesn’t have an established client list of regulars who come back to see her, so she has to spend more time really hustling. I could never do what she does. I can barely bring myself to come in here the two nights of the week that I do now.
The life of the stripper is not as fun and glamorous as guys would like to think. The things that go on in the locker room would leave most girls speechless and most men sneering and looking for a bucket to puke in. Aside from the panty checks during “shark week,” the running and hiding from the girls who haven’t bathed in the last week, there’s the mental breakdowns from the new girls and mothering that I inevitably end up roped into when one of them starts crying about her life.
“What am I doing here?” I ask rhetorically as Bruce hands me a shot of what looks like Tequila.
“Oh, don’t be a Debbie Downer,” Kristen says, planting a kiss on my cheek. “It’s going to be a good night!”
Kristen’s wearing a school girl outfit tonight. Most of the girls are pretty traditional with their clothes. I’m the only one who could be considered alternative. I prefer black, rock and roll, and a bit more edge. The thought of wearing lingerie for strangers makes my stomach twirl. I guess you could say I’m not exactly the ideal stripper fantasy. But the fact is, I make way more money than the majority of them, so I must be doing something right. And that is the answer to my own question. What am I doing here tonight?
The truth is, I’m here for the same reason we all are here tonight: money.
Lots of money. I’m a single mom with a deadbeat ex who doesn’t pay child support, and two kids to support. My oldest, Ella, is fifteen and can pretty much handle herself, but there’s still plenty of bills and a college fund to keep pouring money into. My youngest, Josh, is only seven and is autistic. He requires a lot of attention, and this is the only job that lets me spend most days with him and still bring in enough money to support the family.
Colin, my ex husband and the father of both of my children, hasn’t paid a single child support payment since I divorced him five years ago. I got pregnant with Ella at eighteen, and we got married right after. I thought I was in love. I thought he was the one for me, but he turned into my biggest nightmare. Looking back on things now, as an adult, I can see the warning signs. But when you’re young, what do you really know about relationships? What do you really know about love?
After Ella was born, Colin started to drink heavily and was out almost every night of the week. None of his friends had kids, and I think he was just trying to pretend he was still young and free of responsibilities, which left me to care for Ella on my own. When I’d try to talk to him about it, he’d get mad and start yelling. Soon the yelling turned to shoving, the shoving turned to slapping, and before I knew it, I was just another girl stuck in an abusive relationship.
It wasn’t until Josh was born that I had the courage to get out. I filed for divorce, got a restraining order against him and got him out of my life. I never received a dime of support from him, and I raised my children on my own. It’s been hard, but I love my children more than anything in the world, and I will do whatever it takes to take care of them.
My phone buzzes, and I see it’s a text from Roger, one of my regulars.
You working?
I quickly reply.
Yup! Coming to see me?
His response comes almost instantly.
Five minutes away!
“Kristen!” I say, feeling a warm sense of relief wash over me, momentarily making me forget about the hot, sweaty room with thick recycled air, and the obnoxious house music blaring in my ears. “Roger is coming in!”
“Oooooh, Roger! Is he bringing his partner?”
“He didn’t say, let me ask.”
Is your partner coming?
I write.
Sure is ;)
“Affirmative,” I say with a smile. Kristen smiles back. We both know what that means: more money.
Ten minutes later we’re in the champagne room with Roger and his partner Greg, who Kristen is keeping busy in the corner of the room. Roger is a sweet guy, a little overweight, with a face that looks like a cherub. Everything about him screams scented candles, interior decoration and his partner being his “partner,” if you get my drift. But he’s been a regular of mine for over six years.
A few years back his mom died, and he inherited a ton of money. I don’t know how much, but whenever I mention anything in my life going on, Roger offers to pay for it. I’ve turned him down on most things though. I like to work for my money, and I don’t want a sugar daddy.
A lot of the girls here do “extra” work outside the club, but that’s not my style. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. It’s just not me. I’ll dance if I’m forced, but mostly I keep my clothes on and talk to my regulars. I work with my brain, not with my body.
“Everything going okay with you?” Roger asks me as he sips his champagne.
“Eh,” I say with a shrug. “Things could always be better.”
“Problems with Colin?”
“Oh, there’s always problem with him,” I say with a sigh. “But nothing I can’t handle. A lot of bills coming in lately. My car needs some repairs.”
“Let me take care of them for you,” he says, putting a hand on mine. “I said I’d replace that for you. Just ask.”
“You’re too sweet, Roger. If I wasn’t such an honest girl I’d end up bleeding you completely dry!”
Roger laughs and raises his glass to mine for a toast.
“To honest strippers!” He grins.
“The one and only,” I laugh.
As I down my glass, I realize we’re out and need another bottle.
“Refill?” I ask him. He looks down and sees the situation.
“Refill.”
“I’ll be right back,” I say, rubbing him on the shoulder. He smiles and turns his attention to Kristen, now in full on lap dance mode in the corner with his partner Greg.
2
Tyler
“What are we even doing here, Ty?” Barry says from behind me as he takes a swig of his cheap beer.
“The more important question here is why do you insist on drinking that piss water?” I say. “I mean, they’ve got a full stocked bar here and you go for that shit.”
“Oh, okay. What are you, some kind of wine expert or something?”
I shrug and turn my attention back to the thick crowd of idiots packed into the main area of the club, watching some girl in purple stockings, purple heels and a purple thong spinning around the pole on the feature stage.
“Ladies gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Violet!” The DJ shouts over the intercom.
That explains it, I think, taking a deep swig of my rum and coke.
It’s weak as shit. They obviously don’t care too much about their drinks here, but that’s okay. This is my fourth or fifth one tonight … or is it sixth? Either way, I’m not here for the quality of the drinks. I’m here to get blasted and watch some girls shake their titties. I mean, isn’t that what you come to a strip club for?
To tell the truth, I’ve only ever been in one of these places one other time in my life, and that’s because a girl I was seeing dragged me in and told me she’d buy me a lap dance. The place was pretty dead, and all the girls were pretty rough looking. I ended up sitting there for about ten minutes then heading home. Never saw the girl again either. I guess she was pissed off that my idea of fun and her idea of fun weren’t exactly the same.
But tonight, I just need some mindless, primal fun. With all the shit that’s been going on in my life lately, I just need to zone out and not think about anything but the boobs, butts and whatever the hell else girls have that I like.
I run a tattoo parlor when I’m not fighting. My tour in Afghanistan was hell, and it took me a long time to get back into society after I came home. I got into MMA, but the money just wasn’t there, and traveling for fights got old really quick. Getting back into my art was what really helped.
I always liked to draw, and was pretty damn good back in high school. Mr. Erving, my art teacher, told me I should go to college on an art scholarship, but my folks didn’t have the money. I enlisted at eighteen and after boot camp I was over there in the sand with the rest of the chumps dumb enough to sign over four years of their life to the Marines.
Coming home was hard on everyone, not just me. My wife and daughter were happy to see me, but civilian life just felt strange. It was like coming home to a world I no longer recognized, and they could tell I felt out of place. I was used to the regimented life of the service, and waking up every day without orders, without someone screaming at me, without a gun and a pack, left me feeling like a leaf blowing aimlessly on the wind.
I did the best I could. And I was managing fairly well, until that night that my life changed forever.…
“Whoa, look at that!” Moore shouts behind me, pointing to the stage. Violet has managed to work her way up the pole to the ceiling and is now hanging upside down, arms spread, holding on with just her legs.
“Yeah,” I shrug. “She’s hanging upside down. I did that kinda shit when I was a kid climbing trees.”
“Yeah, well you didn’t look like that,” Barry laughs, slapping me heartily on the shoulder.
But then, she does something that gets my attention. After a dramatic pause at the top of the pole, Violet lets go with her legs and slides headfirst towards the floor. You can hear the gasps from the men in the crowd as she plummets towards the stage. But just before she slams down, surely breaking her neck, she clenches down with her thighs and stops herself, her nose just inches from the stage.
“Jesus Christ!” I exclaim, setting my drink down to join in with the applause.
“Thought she was gonna break her fucking neck!” Moore cackles.
As Violet does some equally impressive acrobatic movement to get back on her feet, a girl brushes by me, an enormous bottle of champagne in her hands. I smell her as she passes, and whatever she’s wearing, mixed with the slightest hint of her body, wafts over me and I inhale deeply.
I get a slight glimpse of her face before she passes, and even though it’s pretty dark in here and all girls look good in low light, she looks absolutely slamming. What’s weird, is that unlike all the other girls here, she’s not wearing some kind of short skirt or lingerie or something.
She has heels on, which I love. I mean, what kind of self respecting guy doesn’t love heels? But she’s got a t-shirt on! A fucking t-shirt? And a thong. Thank God. And look at that ass. I mean, what a booty. It’s not big, but it’s firm, and I feel my dick twitch as I watch her cheeks jiggle. I can just imagine what it would be like to slap that thing, grab it, or sink my teeth into it. There’s something about a woman’s body that just drives me crazier than most men.
She has long, dark hair, but it looks like she’d dyed it and is going to need to again soon. Somehow, she doesn’t look as “put together” as the rest of the girls in this club. It’s like she’s got a bit of an attitude or something, and I like it. The fact that she’s got that t-shirt on is driving me wild. I came here to see some titties, and I can tell she’s got a great pair under there from the way the fabric on her shirt is stretched and the bounce I can see as she walks.
“What the hell are you staring at, Romeo?” Barry says with a laugh.
“Yeah, man. You looking for your future ex-wife or something?” Moore adds, cracking up a little too hard for such a lame joke.
“Gimmie a break, guys.” I reply, my eyes on the almost unbearable jiggle of her ass as she walks.
There’s a rule that all guys know—well all guys with brains that is: never date a stripper. Most of them are going to go batshit crazy on you and you’re going to end up sucking your thumb in an insane asylum. You go to the club to have a good time, maybe hook up and that’s about it.
So why the hell am I looking at this chick like I want to go say something to her?
Come on, Ty. Get your head out of your ass.
I’m two seconds away from following her to wherever the hell she’s going with that huge bottle that’s about as big as she is, when some asshole bumps into me and knocks my drink out of my hand.
“Hey!” I shout, tossing my hands aside as the big buffoon stumbles past me. He looks like some biker boy wannabe with a ratty leather jacket that looks like he bought it that way, and he’s obviously drunk off his ass and making a total fool out of himself.
“Sorry, buddy,” he manages to mumble as he steps up to the bar. “Lemmie get a—”
But the bartender doesn’t even let him finish. “Sorry, pal. Can’t do it.”
“What the fuck you talking about?” the man replies, slurring like he’s coming out of heavy anesthetic. “This is the bar … you’re a bartender … gimmie some bar! I mean … gimmie some drink! Gimmie a drink!”
The bartender just shakes his head and polishes a glass. “No can do, buddy. You
’re at your limit.”
“Bullshit!” the man shouts, slamming his hand down on the bar.
“Easy, pal,” I say. He turns to me and practically spits all over me.
“No one’s talking to you, dick!”
I frown. This guy obviously doesn’t know who he’s fucking with. A lot of guys underestimate me, and that’s the way I like it. I don’t dress to impress when I’m out in public, or shoot my mouth off at every occasion. It’s always the loudest guy in the room that’s the weakest. But something about this guy is really getting to me, and the way he’s looking at me like he thinks he can take me is pissing me off. But just as I’m starting to get fired up, the bartender intervenes.
“Hey, listen. You either cool down, or I’m gonna have security escort you out. You got me?”
The man looks like he wants to say something. His face is red, and he’s obviously fuming inside, but he keeps his trap shut. After a few seconds he turns away, giving me a glare like he wants to go, and slips off into the crowd.
“Dipshit,” Barry growls behind me.
“Dude doesn’t know how close he came to getting his face beat in,” Moore adds.
“Whatever,” I say, turning to the bartender. “Can I get another? I don’t suppose he has a tab open.”
3
Jenny
I head downstairs, back into the thick of things. “Violet” is on stage, hanging upside down on the pole doing the splits. As much of a bitch as she can sometimes be, I have to give it to her. I’d break my neck if I tried something like that.
The smells of cheap beer and sweat invade my nostrils as I push through what looks like a crowd of frat boys on my way to the back room. It’s hot, and I’m praying I don’t turn into a hot sweaty mess by the end of the night. My hair has been dyed one too many times, and if it gets wet it’s going to be a tangled mess that no comb on Earth can straighten out. Sometimes I want to just say screw it and buzz it all off, but I’m not the kind of girl that can pull that look off.
