Page 14 of Sinful Lord

An unexpected sigh escapes my lips. Then, I feel a hand come down on my shoulder, and I jump again.

“Easy there, killer,” Dana says. “It’s just me.”

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “What’s up?”

“Not sure. Elsa wants to see you out back.”

My chest tightens.

“Why?”

For as much as I’ve come to loathe this job, I still need the money it brings in. I wasn’t able to save up much before I flew the coop. If I’m about to be fired, then I’ll need to prepare myself.

But Dana just shrugs.

“Something about introducing you to an old artist friend of hers.”

That perks my sunken heart right back up.

“Really?”

“I say it’s about time,” Dana huffs. “I’ll cover you. Go network. You deserve it.”

“Thank you!” I scream in a whispered hush.

When I give Dana a quick hug, she hardly reacts. But I don’t stick around to force her into another one.

“Maybe this job wasn’t such a mistake, after all,” I tell myself, bounding through the bar and out of the back door.

But the second I step outside, that excitement falls flat on its face.

Elsa is leaning against a large black van, smoking a cigarette. Her long fur coat flaps in the cold wind. Black and blonde strands of hair whip across her face.

When she looks at me, I see nothing behind her eyes.

“This is the girl?”

My tight chest twitches at the sound of the unexpected voice. In the alley shadows, standing by the hood of the van is a tall, dark figure. He wears a black fedora; brim tucked down over his eyes.

“That’s her,” Elsa confirms.

“What’s going on?” I ask, hugging my body.

“I wanted you to meet a friend of mine,” Elsa says, flicking her cigarette into the light layer of snow that coats the ground.

“An artist?” I desperately hope, looking back toward the black figure.

Just as I do, he lifts the brim of his hat, revealing the same lifeless glare that has taken over Elsa’s eyes. They don’t warm up as he studies my body from head to toe.

“You said she can dance?” the man asks, his voice gravelly and sharp.

“I said I’ve been trying to teach her to dance,” Elsa responds. “She can move her body well enough.”

“What does that—”

I stop when Elsa raises a painted finger to her lips. “Hush now, darling. Be a good girl.”

A pit of fear appears in my throat.