The weight of a hundred gazes falls on me seconds later, tracing what little they can see of my silhouette through the veils. The one dangled above my head is taupe, and the colors grow increasingly bolder the closer they get to the center of my body. Light glints off every jewel and bangle adorning me. And there are many. They chime as my body moves to the beat of the sultry music.
It’s too bright. My head spins and I choke on bile. I feel as if I’m going to faint dead away. My eyes sweep the crowd, searching for something. Rescue? Pity? Perhaps a man who can look at me and see a sick girl being paraded on stage, instead of an object of lust to be used and discarded?
Every face I meet is eager, drinking me in like I’m a draft of Sweetland Port. There’s no one here who gives a damn about me, no one who…
My gaze settles on a man perched on a stool near the back. He was easy to miss at first, because he’s not nearly as rotund as most the men I see. Many men in Ascor wear the evidence of their wealth around their belt buckles, where girth stretches the seams of their fine clothing. But this man is different.
He’s as tall and lean as any farm hand, with a slightly golden cast to his skin that suggests he spends a great deal of time outdoors. His clothing is less elaborate than the rest of the men in the room—he wears a simple scarlet tunic draped over buckskin trousers. Only the gold buttons that stud both give away the fact that he didn’t just stroll into the Wicked Lyre by accident.
The understated wardrobe makes the artistry of his face seem even more absurd in contrast. His jaw is slanted at an angle that appears sharp enough to cut glass. A layer of golden stubble ripples across that strong line, drawing my eye to a perfect bow-lipped mouth. His hair has been swept to the nape of his neck, the flyaway golden strands gathered together by a leather thong. But it’s his eyes that strike me most. I expect them to be blue, like those of one of the savage Northmen. But they’re not.
They’re a perfect tawny color, like the piercing eyes of a hawk. He cocks his head in an almost bird-like motion, considering me with detached interest. There’s no ardent desire in this man’s gaze. He doesn’t even appear mildly aroused by my dance or by me. I can’t puzzle out what he’s doing here. Why come to this show, if he isn’t here to get a thrill by peeking at Snow White’s tits and ass?
I don’t know how long I stare at him, but the moment I realize I’m still swaying to the melancholic beat of the music, I snap back into myself. My body begins moving without conscious thought, like a snake before its charmer. I close my eyes, trying to block out the appreciative murmurs that run through the room as I sway this way and that, releasing my veils to the ground one at a time. Amethyst, sapphire, ruby, and topaz drop from my body, curling like colorful smoke before they fall to the floor.
I pretend I’m alone. Alone but for the curious stranger, with his odd eyes and his benign interest. I pretend I won’t be what these men, with their avaricious appetites, will be envisioning when they tug their cocks tonight. In my mind, the curious stranger and I are alone and this is art, not a tawdry peep show.
And then… it’s over. I find myself on the ground, bosom heaving, in the final pose of the dance, with my head bowed. I’m wearing only the shimmering and slightly diaphanous white material that makes up the undergarments Darius provides me.
I’m exhausted and I feel sick to my stomach. My ears ring and tears are already wetting my eyes. I can only hope I don’t heave up the contents of my stomach right here. But, then I remember there isn’t much in my stomach to heave up.
The applause is a dull roar in my ears. I climb unsteadily to my feet, gathering the veils I’ve abandoned as the stage is showered with coins. I take two of them—only two because they’re all I can hide in my tight brazier. Any more and I risk Darius’ wrath.
I spy him in the back, leaning against the bar, talking to the mysterious stranger in the buckskin trousers. I allow myself a curious flick down to the stranger’s groin and I’m offended when it appears I’ve had little effect on him.
Darius and the stranger are in deep conversation, to the point that I wonder if they’re arguing. About what, I don’t know, but I imagine the subject must be money. At the moment, though, I don’t really care. There’s only one reward I want for this night’s work, and it better damn well be waiting for me when I get backstage.
TWO
Neva
A dizzy sense of euphoria settles over me on the shaky inhale. My nose goes immediately numb on contact with the powdery white stuff, but it’s worth the momentary discomfort for the blessed peace I find afterward.
I eye the baggie Darius has given me, and my hands tremble with the effort of not sniffing the lot of it. Do that and I’ll just end up bloodying my nose and pissing off Darius. Better to tuck the baggie away and save it for another day. My employer’s moods are mercurial at the best of times, so I don’t
