Page 6 of Sing Me a Song

“Yeah.” I nod. The movement makes my head spin and vision blur.

Freight pulls back the black curtain and I ascend the three steps to the stage. The room is dimmer than usual and the place feels more intimate as the music plays softly in the background. I saunter to the pole and look out across the room. The place is empty save for a table in the back occupied by those four guys I saw earlier, Carl, and a fifth I haven’t seen before.

I let the feel of the music move my body and I let go of any thoughts lingering in my mind. I don’t care about that table and the men occupying it. Right now, I care only to enjoy this high and have this next hour pass me by.

I last about fifteen minutes in that fur atrocity and then I shrug it off, throwing it aside. It’s hot in here and I can’t be bothered if I’m as naked as the day I was born.

The men are preoccupied with their conversation because not one of them has noticed me and if they have, they’ve been discreet about it. Carl looks a bit stressed as he gnaws on his lip and drags his fingers across his forehead, making me more curious as to what is being said.

The original four men are still mostly covered by their hoods and baggy clothing but the fifth member to join them looks professional in a three-piece suit and what looks to be an expensive silk tie. He screams overwhelming wealth and even though his face looks older, he still has smoldering handsome features.

I've seen men like him visit the trailer park whores or drug dealers and assume we all look up to them for how well they're dressed, little do they know that we're watching to see when we can steal their wallets.

They all rise from their seats simultaneously and I realize I haven't moved in the past five minutes. Fuck it, I'm high as a motherfucker. I slowly gyrate my hips as I try to look like I haven't been intensely watching them. Carl is sweating as he nods profusely at the suited fucker that's waving his pointer finger at him, and the other four have their arms crossed identically over their wide chests.

Suit cunt slaps his hand into Carl's arm and the five of them file out towards the exit with the suit in the lead. No one looks my way, even though I'm up here without a stitch on and I can't help but watch as they slowly walk by. It's the last guy-the biggest of the bunch-that turns his head and his tattoo covered hand comes out of his hoodie pocket as he flicks something towards me. I blame my current high for my slow reaction because I look to my feet and see a black switchblade embedded into the stage less than an inch from my big toe.

"Are you fucking serious?" I call out as their backs disappear through the exit.

None of them turn to look at me or the commotion I'm causing on the stage, they just open the doors and disappear into the night.

Freight runs up on the stage cursing and throws the fur jacket over my shoulders. Then he bends and pulls the blade out of the wood. The handle and blade are both black save for an insignia etched into the handle. I try to see what it is when I hear Carl muttering from the floor and turn to look at him.

He's pale and his eyes are wide as he stares at the knife in Freight's hand. "Take her back."

"Why the fuck did they do that?" I ask him, my heart beating wildly. He almost took off my fucking toe.

Carl just shakes his head and continues to stare at the fucking knife. What the fuck just happened? I feel Freight's arm wrap around my shoulders and he steers me back through the curtain.

"Give me that knife." I hold out my hand.

"Are you su..."

"Give me the fucking knife." I cut him off and he places it in my hand.

I storm off for the dressing room and throw the fur jacket into a dusty corner. I sit at my vanity and flip the knife over in my hands. The whole thing feels like a carbide material, lightweight and smooth, but the blade itself is gleaming with a sharpened edge. Was he aiming for my fucking foot? Did he want the blade to sink through my flesh? I shiver at the thought and hold the handle closer to my face.

There is an etching on either side, one side has what looks to be a weird, shaped lightning bolt, and the other has the name Raiden. Raiden? Is that his name? The fucker that tried to disfigure me and for no fucking reason.

"Raiden James." Carl's voice floats in from the doorway. "He's the lead singer of the band Deluge."

I don't have a single clue who the fuck Deluge is but the name Raiden is sounding familiar. I twist the knife in my hands and read the name again. Raiden.

"They come once a year to procure a few girls to work Raiden's birthday." It's like he can read my thoughts.

"Why would an old dude throw a knife at me?" I ask him.

"You were chosen."

Chapter Four

Tempest

I was chosen, simple right?

I’ve been moping around my one room apartment all day, this knife still firmly in my grasp, and a wine bottle to my face. Carl told me to take the next few days off to recoup but what the fuck am I recouping from? Almost losing a digit? Besides, he and I both know I can’t take a few days off. I have rent due and about eight credit cards that I have to pay the minimum balance on.

I chug back the bit of wine left in the bottom of the bottle and grab my purse, dropping the knife inside. Might as well shake my ass and make a few dollars for it.

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