Tough to Love: Saving Avery

He walked into the bar like he owned the place, with the swagger of self-importance. He was bigger and broader than most of the guys that frequented, but even with all
of his good looks and body to back it up, I didn’t want to be bothered, especially not today.

“Hey,” he nodded, “can I get something cold?”

“Do you have a preference?”

“Something good,” was all he answered.

I pulled a longneck out of the cooler and poured a shot of iced vodka to go with it.

He slammed the shot down and tossed some bills on the counter.

I hated how much space he took up without even trying. His presence felt larger than life. At another time my thighs would have squeezed together almost out of reflex, my panties would be damp, and I’d be aching to touch the guy’s hard body. Today I could have cared less.

Lately, I couldn’t be bothered. Nobody did it for me anymore – in fact, most men left me cold.

“Quiet night,” he commented, like I couldn’t notice on my own.

“Yep,” keeping it short and sweet.

“Sorry you got stuck working tonight.”

“No big deal, I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

“A pretty girl like yourself; no boyfriend or family to celebrate with?”

My shoulders tensed. My jaw got tight, and my teeth went into lockdown clench mode. It happened so quickly, I barely had time to think about it. Family, that’s funny.
Fucking assholes
.

“Look, I’m not much for talking,” I finally forced out.

“And yet you took a job as a bartender,” he mused.

“I have bills to pay.” I was in no mood. It was one year ago, Thanksgiving eve that my entire world shifted.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said, watching me closely. I could feel his eyes taking in my body, absorbing every detail, almost memorizing it so he could jerk off to my imagine later. His gaze was silent but raw, and I felt naked under his intense stare.

Any other day I might have cared, maybe even shown a hint of desire. I’d never touch the guy though, no matter how smoldering hot he was. I was done with guys like him, guys that thought they owned you, breathing in your air, filling the space and gap between you. People like him were the toughest part of my job – always thinking because they were
strong and aggressive and that they could possess you like some mindless bimbo, using you for their own pleasure.

On
another day, I’d work harder to get a bigger tip but not today, and maybe not even tomorrow.

I liked it better when the place was empty. The occasional straggler came in, but most people were home with their families eating their god damn turkeys and their pasty mashed potatoes.

One more fucking year and I could blow out of this town never to look back - one more year. There was nothing left for me here. Two more semesters and I’d be free. I promised my mom I’d stay only that long. I couldn’t live here anymore – but I promised I’d get my degree. I’m doing it more for me than for her, I could care less what she thinks.

His eyes were still on me watching my lack of movement. Turning my back to hi
m, I went to the other end of the bar.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” he said, sliding his bottle back and getting up to leave.

“Same to you,” I mumbled, glad he was leaving.

I wanted to lock the door, close out any potential customers for the night, but I still had a couple of hours to go. We had to be the only place open in town, and my boss insisted we remain that way. It’s not that I had plans or something better to
do; I was just in no mood to be around people.

When it happened, when he put his hands on me, I pushed him off. He’d had more to drink than he should have, but that was no excuse. Only he was stronger than I was, and he didn’t take kindly to being pushed.

His hand came up fast and hard, pinning me to the wall by my neck. With his other hand, he lifted the gauzy material of my skirt and tore at my panties. His fingers pressed tightly between my thighs, telling me how hot my body was
for him. “You want this, I saw you looking at me,” he snarled, his breath full of booze.

“Get off,” I choked out, calling out as loudly as I could. With that he reeled back and slapped my face hard. The tears spilled out and as I started to scream, his mouth came down hard on my own, muffling my sounds.

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, slamming my head against the wall.

I clawed at him, but his fingers were pushing between my nether lips, penetrating me, and as he forced himself on me, later ripping his jeans off and sliding up between my legs, I cried and beat at him with balled up fists. He didn’t stop
until he was finished.

I felt used, ugly, and my brain was shredding with pain. I hated him, hated myself, and didn’t want to breathe in the same room as him.

Nobody believed me, not my mother, not my step-father, because their precious minor league ice hockey star would never do something like that. He was an upstanding guy, and I was ridiculous. They were tired of my dramatic cries, accusing my step-brother of raping me in the other room. Obviously they would have heard something. How could I ruin Thanksgiving like this, and what the hell was wrong with me?

He sneered at me as I broke down crying. “He fucking raped me,” I screamed out.

“That’s enough of that,” my step-father stood, glaring at me like it was some made up rant, like I had nothing better to do on Thanksgiving than accuse my step-brother of rape.
Fucking asshole
.

I moved out, my mom begging me to stay, but she wouldn’t stand up to him and didn’t know
who to believe. It was easier to pretend it didn’t happen. I hated her for not taking me at my word. I still hate her, but I promised I’d finish school. I’m not doing it for her; I’m doing it for me. It’s bought and paid for, so I’ll finish.

I can’t afford much on my salary, but the bar owner said I could rent a room upstairs. The bathroom is down the hall, it’s not pretty, and it’s small, but my door locks and I don’t have to see my family.

Some nights I could still feel his hand on my throat, his mouth on my own, and his cock driving hard into me. The tears don’t fall anymore. Usually I’m numb and just wishing the thoughts would fall out of my head.

The night didn’t get better – and after I made the statement, the bold, fucking truth, I was shut out. I was the bad one
. I was the one who was lying. I was the one who was causing a scene and ruining a perfectly fine Thanksgiving. My mom threw her napkin on the floor and ran from the room, not wanting to deal with it.

“If you ever touch me again, I’ll kill you,” I spat out, lashing my anger at him.

He said nothing, but it was at that moment my stepfather threw me out of the house. I was ready to leave anyway. He said I was a harlot looking to make trouble, and I was no longer welcome there.

I never went back. My mom comes in time to time – but I rarely have much to say. I think she does it to make herself feel better, telling herself lies. She couldn’t say anything, couldn’t go up against him or it would destroy their marriage. I’m grown, but she has the rest of her life to live with him.

She’s dead to me. I see her come in, I let her talk, but I never have anything to say back.

He walked back in, carrying a brown bag with him. Looking up, he caught my eye. His gaze was just as intense, only this time he wasn’t taking no for an answer – so he thought. He was wrong. My answer is always no these days. It didn’t used to be that way…not that it mattered.

There was confidence in his walk. It was more swagger or stride, and he knew his place in the world. He obviously thought he belonged on the top, his arrogance and cocky air moved with him. This was a man that didn’t follow the
rules; he drew his own conclusions and had his own code of ethics.

I wondered what brought him back and what he held in the bag. It dwarfed his large hands, hands that were solid and
strong. His fingers gripped the bag, squeezing the top shut. Those very hands had probably touched a hundred young, tight bodies – girls that chased after him in high school in college. He was the kind of guy girls swooned over. He was the one that women ached to touch, to be with to show that they were the chosen one.

Sitting back in front of me, he tossed the bag onto the bar. “It’s pumpkin pie.”

I looked at him, wondering why he was here.

“A little piece of Thanksgiving for you,” he said. “I’ve got to go
. I’ll be back another time.”

I stared, not sure what to say. I finally choked out the word, “
Wait, thanks.”

With that
he nodded. “The sea of pain in your eyes painted a picture,” he said, turning around and leaving.

It shows?
I thought I hid it well – maybe I was wrong.

A total stranger, a man that could land any woman, a man that you’d assume only put himself first had just brought me pie. It left me confused and fascinated. He didn’t know me, and yet he went out of his way to share this tiny gesture
. For the first time today, I smiled.

His dark eyes didn’t give anything a
way. He didn’t reek of softness and reminded me of somebody rational, but not wearing his emotions on his sleeve. His action took me by surprise. I thought about the man more than I cared to over the next few days. It’s not that I wanted anything from him; I’d just been thrown by the move. He wasn’t asking for anything in return, and in fact I didn’t see him for another full week. By the time he walked back in, I was ready to see him.
That surprised even me
.

It was the confidence in his body language that spoke this time. He was at ease with himself, I’d say almost cocky, but there wasn’t total arrogance surrounding him, just a little. His broad shoulders lead the way, and as he settled at the bar, he looked squarely at me with only the hint of a smile.

“How was the pie?”

“Good, thanks.”

“Good. I’ll take a cold one.”

I pulled a long neck out of the cooler and placed it before him. “This one’s on me,” I said, repaying the debt of the pie. I don’t like to owe anybody.

Nodding, he waited for more words. What was I supposed to say? I wasn’t feeling talkative. That was the hardest part of the job for me, the small talk. Only at this hole in the wall, most people came to bury their stories and frustration. If I wanted a more social place, I would have applied at the busy sports bar down the way.

The dark paneling on the wall, the dim lighting, and weathered booths let me get lost. Nobody bugged me to be their friend; they just wanted a shot and a beer. We didn’t do girly drinks here, we weren’t a trendy martini place, or a nightclub, or a
n up and coming pub, we were the seedy side of the road pub where blue collar guys came to drown after working their asses off all week, and didn’t need small talk to feel better.

He didn’t seem the type that belonged here. He looked like he fit in with the sport
s crowd down the way, the guys screaming at the TV with a group of buddies betting on their latest football pools. His leather jacket wasn’t worn down at the edges enough, it wasn’t broken in enough – that jacket hadn’t seen years of wear, in fact, it looked like he’d just bought it recently. He could have easily cut the tags off and just put it on – it didn’t have years of life it in – not yet.

“One more,” he ordered, and then chugged it down. Peeling bills out of his wallet he tossed five hundred dollars on the bar top,
five hundred freaking dollars
.

Standing to leave, he shoved the money at me like I was some common hooker. It was more money than I could afford to give back. “I’m not some charity case,” I shot at him as he started to walk away.

“I’ve come into some money lately; I’m just spreading the wealth.”

“Not interested,” I answered. Pulling a twenty free, I shoved the rest back at him, calling out, “I don’t want your money.”

“Then give it away,” he said leaving, not saying another word.