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“Dismissed.”
They all file out of the room, and I flop down onto the couch, my folder of information gripped in my hand. Flipping through the pages, I search for a picture of Makayla Elizabeth Ashbridge, but there isn’t one. Instead, all I find is what Ms. Steinbeck already told us and a physical description: petite, long brown hair, slim, and wears glasses most of the time.
Leaning back against the cushions, I close my eyes and try to conjure an image of a woman fitting that description. Unfortunately, all I come up with is a blurry likeness of Mea.
And not for the first time, I wonder…
What the fuck has Odin gotten us into?
8
Makayla
“You’re up next.”
I nod absently at Claire, one of the other dancers at Cherry’s as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My contacts are burning tonight, but I can’t put my glasses on while I dance. They ruin the image, according to Steve.
Satisfied that I look the part, I push up from the stool and make my way out of the dressing room and down the hall to the back of the stage. Sarah is finishing up her first number of the night, and judging by the hoots and hollers coming from the main bar area, the customers love her.
The music fades, and I smooth my hands down the bodice of my Valkyrie costume. When Sarah steps into the hall where I’m waiting, she rolls her eyes.
“They’re full of piss and vinegar tonight,” she says with a small huff of laughter as she holds up a wad of cash. “But they seem loose with their money, so…” Sarah shrugs.
“Or you’re just that good.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
My music starts, and I walk up the steps to the stage. “You know you’re not my type,” I tease over my shoulder.
The bright spotlights seem more blinding than usual, and I chalk it up to my sensitive eyes. Silently cursing Steve and society for unrealistic expectations of beauty, I begin to move my body to the beat.
Can’t curse them when you’re out here capitalizing on your looks.
Sarah was right, the crowd is full of it tonight, but I don’t mind. It means I’ll take home a decent amount of cash, which will go straight into my safe at home until I need it for something.
Swinging around the pole that’s center stage, I tune out the catcalls and filthy demands for me to take my clothes off. By the time my two songs are over, my skin is slick with sweat, and I’m more than ready to return to the dressing room and rest until I close out the night.
But before I can make my way behind the curtain, my attention is drawn to the entrance when the door swings open. As if being manipulated like a puppet on a string, I stare at the five men who stride in like they own the place, my gaze hyper-focused on the one leading the group.
Holy smokes!
I command my feet to move, but remain frozen. And like he’s connected to me by some invisible tether, the man swings his head in my direction, and even in the dim lighting, I can see his entire body tense.
Oblivious to the rest of the room, I don’t hear the music begin to pump through the speakers or see Claire step onto the stage. I’m transfixed on the man in leather and denim, only to be startled when a hand settles on my arm.
“What are you doing?” Claire whispers harshly. “You’re done, Makayla.”
Shaking my head and blinking several times, I’m finally able to force my muscles to move, and I look at Claire.
“What?”
“You’re set is over. I’m on now.”
“Oh, um… right. Sorry.”
I scurry off the stage and rush to the dressing room where I flop down on the stool.
What the hell just happened?
