Chapter 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.”