Jack Hammer (The Stripped Duet Book 2) Read online

  JACK HAMMER

  THE STRIPPED DUET PART 2

  TABATHA VARGO

  MELISSA ANDREA

  JACK HAMMER Part 2

  Copyright © 2015 by Tabatha Vargo

  All Rights Reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manor whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events or real people are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Jack Hammer/Tabatha Vargo/Melissa Andrea

  Cover Art by Romantic Book Affairs

  ISBN:978-0-9861173-1-2

  PART 2:

  STRIPPED BARE

  1 YEAR LATER

  1

  BLAINE

  “LADIES, WELCOME TO THE STAGE,” Eric, our MC, said into the mic. “The teaser! The Pleaser! Jack! Hammer!” He held the word hammer for four long beats.

  Standing behind the silver curtain, I heard the crowd of ladies go wild. Like drunken men they whistled and called out for me. The beginning beats of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” started tearing through the speakers, and I knew it was time for me to hit the stage.

  I danced and slowly tore away my clothes, giving the ladies exactly what they wanted. My body. Not me. Not my personality. They wanted to see my cock—thick and hard—ready to fuck. They wanted to imagine it was me they were going home with. Not their boring, sexually unfit husbands or boyfriends. And while all of them wouldn’t, a select few with fat pockets would get a taste of me.

  Running my fingers over my sore abdominal muscles, I worked my hips like I was fucking each and every one of them. I looked down with my signature grin, allowing them to fill my G-string with money. Occasionally, a brave lady would grab my cock or finger my balls.

  It was just another night at work—nothing out of the ordinary—same shit, different day.

  Later, after dancing two sets, once as a doctor and once as a fireman, I ended up in the back. The back was where I made the bulk of my money, giving the women much more than a tease.

  “Fuck yes. Oh, God. Fuck me harder, baby,” Rosie screamed.

  The music from the front of the club drowned out her loud shrieks. The boom of the bass from the DJ banged against the wall I had my hand pressed against. The leather couch beneath my knee squeaked with my rhythm. Surrounded by black walls, a single light shined overhead and heated my back.

  The back rooms, which were secluded suites where women could pay extra for a private dance, were simple, black rooms with either a couch or a single chair in the center. A lot of guys only gave private dances, but I wasn’t the only dancer who used the suites for more. A man had to do what he needed to do for extra cash.

  I smacked her ass, and then dug my fingers into her jiggling hips, pulling her into my abusive thrusts. The sounds of my body slamming into hers and her overly-wet twat smacked throughout the room.

  Rosie was one of my regulars. She was a married chick who usually came out every other weekend to get what she wasn’t getting at home. She was sweet and quiet, but that was all for show. Behind closed doors, Rosie liked it rough. A little pain went a long way with her. Needless to say, she enjoyed sex with me.

  Did I enjoy it? Not so much.

  “I’m a dirty girl,” she muffled into the black, leather couch. “A dirty slut.”

  Women.

  The things they said during sex was almost comical. God forbid anyone call them the things they wanted to be in bed. There would be hell to pay. Yet, those words got them off.

  Still, I had a part to play.

  “That feels good doesn’t it?” I growled into her ear, nipping at the lobe. “You like my fat cock in your pretty, pink pussy don’t you, you little slut.” Again, I smacked her ass and pulled her hair. She fucking loved it.

  “Yeah. Oh, I like it so much. Like. It. So. Much,” she stumbled over her words.

  She backed her ass into my thrusts, keeping up with my rhythm.

  She wasn’t an ugly woman, but she was at least twenty years older than me. Her freckled skin had been tanned too many times, and it was wrinkled and stretched in many places. Her hair was dry and over-dyed. I knew for a fact she wasn’t a natural redhead, but still, I shut it all out and did what I had to do.

  I closed my eyes and envisioned the one face I always pictured when I was fucking for money. I imagined her long, brown hair and big, brown, doe eyes. I pictured her soft, smiling lips, and her sweet cheeks that were always blushed. I lost myself in my thoughts of her as I ground my hips into Rosie, hard and fast.

  It wasn’t Rosie I was with in that moment. It was the girl who hurt me like no other who was begging me for more. It was the only woman who ever held my heart who was mewing softly as I lost myself deep inside of her. And it was the love that almost killed me who was beneath me wanting me in a way no one else ever had. I could get into it if I imagined it was her.

  Always her.

  Then her face disappeared, leaving me gasping at the pain left in my chest—pain that still hurt like a fresh wound—as if losing her was only a day ago instead of a year ago. A fucking year. That’s how long it’d been since I saw her face. And still, it hurt so bad I could hardly breathe when I thought of her.

  Shaking my head, I pushed Rosie hard, lifting her leg to crawl deeper inside her. I wanted to disappear into her. I wanted leave it all behind. I needed to get rid of the memories of the person who rocked me so hard I was forever scarred.

  Rosie’s pussy clenched around me before she threw her head back and came, soaking the condom and screaming out her release. Her orgasm let me know it was time to fake it and get the fuck back on stage.

  Time was money.

  I pounded into her faster, her wet juices sloshing around the latex covering my dick. Biting into her shoulder the way I knew she liked, I growled out as if I was coming.

  I wasn’t.

  I never came with the women who paid me.

  Never.

  It was my job. It was work, not play. I teased them on stage, and then pleased them in the back. Teaser and pleaser. It was my tagline so to speak, and I lived by it.

  I gave them what they wanted. I made them think they were the best I’d ever had. I lingered on the parts of their body I knew they hated, and gave them whatever it was they were missing in their love life. Then I got paid. It was a transaction. One that paid my bills and took care of things at home.

  “Oh my God, Jack. That was amazing,” she panted.

  Jack Hammer was my stage name. I never gave them my real name. I didn’t even think Tommy, the man who owned the club, knew my real name. It was easier that way. There was no tax bullshit. There wasn’t even an ID or social security card on record. I could disappear from the club one night and no one would ever be able to track me.

  Rosie turned, throwing herself back onto the couch. Her button-up blouse was unbuttoned and open, and sweat dripped down between her sagging breasts shining in the dim lights above us.

  “You were amazing,” I said, placing a soft kiss on the side of her neck.

  Never the lips. Never.

  Standing, I ripped the condom from my cock and tossed it in the trash. I jerked my jeans up, hiding my raging hard-on, and threw my white T-shirt over my head.

  Thank God for Viagra.

  It sucked being hard for hours on in. It was pure hell not being able to relieve yourself until you were alone in yo
ur shower after work. But like I said before, bills had to be paid. There was food that needed to be put on the table, and prescriptions for Grandma that needed to be filled. I had responsibilities, and I never shirked my responsibilities.

  I’d learned the Viagra trick from the old dogs who worked the club when I first started it. They’d taught me all about the correct dosage for a night, and even hooked me up with my first pill. It was hard to believe that was almost a year ago. A few of them were long gone. Men didn’t tend to stick around the club for very long.

  Once Rosie put herself back together, she pressed her thick, aging body against my chest and kissed my chin.

  “I’ll see you in a few weekends,” she said, slipping a fat roll of hundreds in my pocket.

  Looking down at her, I let my eyes move over her face the way I knew women liked. It made them feel special or some shit. Who the hell knew? Women were more fucked up than men.

  Kissing her on the cheek, I grinned down at her as I squeezed her ass.

  “It won’t come soon enough,” I lied.

  She turned, and I smacked her ass once more for good measure before she left the room.

  Once she was gone, I sat on the couch and ran my hands over my face. Already I’d fucked two of my regulars and the night was just getting started. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to go anymore. I was beyond fucking exhausted. Pretending to be turned on was harder than it sounded.

  No pun intended.

  Leaving the back room, I danced two more sets, earning the mortgage payment in one night. It was a Saturday, and Saturdays were usually reserved for bachelorette parties and wild-ass women looking for a good time. Saturdays were my money making days.

  The Golden Banana, New Jersey’s hottest male strip club, was right on the outskirts of New York City. It was a two-hour drive I fucking hated, but it was necessary. I didn’t want anything in my double life to blow back on all I had left of my family.

  The club was open seven days a week, but I only worked the busy days, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. When I wasn’t at the banana, slinging cock for cash, I was working lawn care, and trimming a different kind of bush for a landscaping company.

  Lawn care was hard work, but I loved being outside with the sun on my back. I loved the smell of the fresh air, and the freedom of being away from the club. I loved working. Period.

  Seven days a week I worked. Seven.

  Other than the fact that working took my mind off of things I struggled every day to forget, I had people who depended on me. I had people who only survived because I worked my fingers until they callused, and my cock until some rich bitch wanted to ride it.

  With all that in mind, I left the banana, and got into my sixty-nine Camaro with a pocket full of cash, and a painful cock and balls.

  The things we do for the ones we love.

  **********

  TWO HOURS LATER, I crept into the house. It being four in the morning, I didn’t want to wake anyone. The house was dark and quiet. Maggie, my grandma’s old cocker spaniel, ran up to me and jumped on my leg.

  “Down, Maggie,” I whispered, shutting the front door as quietly as possible.

  The house was a small, modest place close to the city. The brick exterior begged for a pressure washer, but the yard looked perfect since I took my time to make sure it looked nice. Grandma had a thing for flowers, and if all it took to keep a smile on her face were a few tulips, then so be it.

  I snuck across the house, careful to miss the parts of the floor that creaked, and went to the kitchen. Flipping on the light, I found the plate of leftovers Grandma left in the microwave, and pressed the button to heat it up.

  Then I went straight to the sink for water. More than anything else, I needed water. My body was craving it. Most dancers spent the night getting drunk, taking shots from the ladies and drowning it all out.

  Not me.

  Alcohol changed my life for the worse. Alcohol ripped my life apart and took away the people I depended on the most. My parents were gone because some asshole drank way too much and then got behind the wheel. I was only eighteen, and too young to realize how much my life was about to change. Because of that, I never drank the shit. Just water for me.

  I shoveled the food in, barely tasting anything, and washed it down with more water. Once I secured the house, I went into my room, which was the size of a large closet, and snatched a pair of sweats from my dresser. Creeping to the bathroom, I turned the shower on as hot as it would go and stepped under the stream.

  I washed away the perfume and lipstick. I washed away the filth of what I’d spent the night doing. Closing my eyes, I let the guilt of what I’d done move out of my system. The sex—the lies—my life and all it entailed went down the drain.

  Leaning against the shower tiles, I let the hot water run over my skin as I palmed my dick. It was still hard like a rock, and had started hurting an hour before it was time to leave work. My balls ached, and the head felt bruised as if someone had spent the night chewing on it.

  Most men jacked off for the feel of it—the rise of an orgasm tickling your spine—the sweet clench of your balls right before you blew a load. The feel of emptying yourself usually felt amazing. The release usually so extreme your muscles clenched and your mouth hung open in pleasure.

  It wasn’t like that for me.

  Not anymore anyway.

  I could remember jacking off because it felt good. Now, it was the only way I was going to get some sleep.

  My cock ached, but not in a good way. It hurt to touch it after a night of abusing it. I was exhausted, and some nights I’d have to jack-off for hours just to get it to go down. Thankfully, it wasn’t one of those nights. I pumped my fist a few times—closing my eyes and letting her big, doe eyes move into my thoughts—then my hot come streamed into my palm.

  I pressed my forehead against the tile, breathing hard with my release, and prayed that one day I’d be ahead. I prayed that one day I could just work lawn care and still be able to make ends meet. It wouldn’t happen for a long time, but the idea was a nice one.

  **********

  I WOKE UP THREE HOURS after going to sleep to my bed moving. Even with closed eyes, I could feel the sun beating against my face. It was too early. Especially considering I’d just barely gone to sleep.

  “Blaine. Blaine. Blaine. Blaine,” Maddie, my sister, chanted my name over and over again as she jumped on my bed.

  Over the last year she’d conquered the L in my name, and was now able to say the word love properly.

  She was my parent’s miracle baby. They thought they were done when it came to kids, but out of nowhere came Madison. I was fifteen when she was born. I remember seeing her sweet face for the first time and knowing I’d do whatever it took to make sure she was always taken care of.

  I was keeping that promise. Every night when I danced—every day when I cut grass and manicured people’s lawns—I was keeping my promise.

  “Madison, please,” I groaned into my pillow. “Ten more minutes.”

  “But, Blaine, it’s time to get up,” she sang.

  It was Sunday, and I knew I had to be in the Wilson’s yard working by noon, but I couldn’t be mad at Madison. She had no idea what I did for her, and even if she did, I wasn’t sure she was old enough to understand.

  “Go get some cereal. I’ll be out there by the time you’re done.”

  I covered my head with the blanket, and prayed she’d let me get in another thirty minutes of sleep. I knew her making her own cereal meant I’d have one hell of a mess to clean up, but sleep was more important than that thought at the moment.

  “Yuck! I don’t want cereal. Can you make me some pancakes? Please,” she stretched the word.

  My sister was the only child I knew who requested a large, cooked breakfast. She was so tiny. I had no idea where she put all the food. Most kids would’ve loved the freedom of getting up and making their own cereal. Not Maddie.

  Honestly, I think she used our weekend breakfasts as a w
ay to spend time with me, which was why I always gave in.

  “Fine,’ I rasped, my voice thick with sleep.

  Throwing the blanket back, I crawled from the bed before opening my eyes. I ran my palms down the stubble on my cheeks and shook my head.

  The bed stopped moving, and I heard her little, bare feet as she took off across the house toward the kitchen. Standing, I stretched my sore body and cracked my neck. I felt older than my age, and I knew I was a product of the life I led.

  Throwing on an old T-shirt, I covered the tattoos and piercings I knew Grandma wasn’t fond of, and I went into the kitchen. Maddie was sitting at the table with her fork in hand.

  She smiled up at me, and I smiled back. She was beautiful. Her big, blue eyes reminded me of my mother’s… of my own, as well. Her olive skin, also a match to my own, was darker since the summer was coming to an end.

  Her thin, straight, blonde hair—the only thing she’d gotten from our father—was a ratty mess from sleeping. The Frozen nightgown she was wearing, her favorite with Olaf the snowman on the front, reached her tiny feet.

  “Pancakes?” I asked to make sure she hadn’t changed her mind.

  “Pancakes.” She smiled.

  Grandma came in while I was cooking, her wrinkled smile full of love for Maddie and I.

  She was doing better. She’d just recently gotten out of the hospital. Her kidneys decided they’d had enough with her diabetes and no longer wanted to work. Basically, she’d need a transplant soon. Since she had no insurance, it was up to me to make sure the money was there when that time came.

  “Good morning, Maddie,” she said, making her way over the coffeemaker.

  She leaned over and I kissed her cheek before I flipped the pancakes I was making for Maddie.

  We’d been living with Grandma since the accident. Moving from Georgia to New York was a culture shock at first—especially for an eighteen-year-old boy—but once I got the hang of things, it wasn’t so bad.

  I quit school the first time Grandma got sick. It was easier to take care of Maddie. I finished my classes online, which turned out in my favor because I was able to graduate early. When the money from my parent’s life insurance, which wasn’t nearly enough for us to live on, started to run out, I got a job to help out.