Maelstrom

Chapter 12: Thor & The Red Shirt

Saturday night

"Looks like you've caught Thor's attention."

Of course, I knew who Shari was talking about, but I feigned ignorance. "Who?" I asked as I shoveled more ice from my well to the glass in my hand.

Shari bobbed her shaved head in the direction of the owner's balcony, making the giant gold hoops in her ears sway hypnotically. The bartender's smooth black scalp reflected the flashing colored lights in the club like wet pavement. "God of Thunder. He's been staring down at you from his cloud since he got here."

I took the excuse to look up at Alkaev; I had barely managed to stop myself from looking at him for the past half hour. He appeared to be watching the whole of Asylum – a beautiful, mad god of the gyrating damned – but there was no mistaking that his eyes kept returning to, and lingering on, me. A chill that had nothing to do with the icy shaker in my hands raced up my spine. I turned quickly back to the martini I was crafting.

"Maybe it's the braids," I guessed. "Reminds him of back home, in Asgard." I had braided my long pale hair and pinned the plaits around my head in what I thought of as my maids-a-milking style. It kept my neck dry even in Asylum's pressing heat. I blew up underneath my side-swept bangs to cool the sheen of sweat on my forehead; maybe I should pin those back next weekend.

"You look like a princess!" a guy who'd just slid in front of me shouted. I rewarded him with a quick, closed-lipped smile as I passed the vodka martini to the woman next to him and took her 20. "You know, like the one from the 'Frozen' movie!"

She was a queen, I thought, ignoring him.

"Keep the change!" my martini-drinker shouted. I gave the woman a genuine smile and a salute before turning away to ring up the drink.

"Hey!" Disney Fanboy shouted.

I held up my index finger without turning around as I slipped the money into my till and counted out the tip for my jar. With an inward sigh, I turned back to my new customer.

"What can I get you?" I shouted.

"How 'bout your number?" he returned predictably. The guy wasn't bad-looking – average height, muscular build, around 30, with brown eyes and wiry dark hair cut short to control the curl. He clearly worked out a lot, which gave him an attractive spread of shoulder, but a very unattractive, entitled swagger. His bright-red, too-tight, button-down shirt was obviously chosen to attract attention, and his watch would have put me back two months' salary, from both my jobs. The needle on my asshole-meter was spiking wildly.

"Sorry," I said flippantly. "What can I get you to drink?"

His eyes scoured my body. For a moment I regretted the swingy, cloud gray, lightly sequined halter top that had seemed such a good choice in the mirror at my apartment that afternoon. Now it felt more like a neon sign flashing "fuck me". I squashed the feeling of vulnerability rising in my stomach, reminding myself that I didn't deserve this and I hadn't asked for it.

"How about a lap dance?" he countered. My eyebrows shot up. "I've been watching you, and I want to see more." He licked his lips suggestively, and I felt my core clench in disgust.

"How about a nice, cold beer, in lieu of a nice, cold shower?" I returned.

"Ooh, baby," the guy hooted, tossing his head. Other heads were starting to turn. "Just the thought of you in a shower has me all ... mmm!" He slapped his hands to either side of his crotch and started swiveling his hips. "Wadda ya say you do us both a favor and slip on over here for a minute?"

I tried to conceal my revulsion. "I'm working, and if you're not going to order a ..."

"When do you get off? Of work, I mean," he asked, making part-dancing/mostly-humping movements at the bar.

I looked to either side of the jerk. Other customers were starting to get impatient, thankfully. You could always count on New Yorkers to express their dissatisfaction with waiting in the space of about nine heartbeats. "Look, if you don't know what you want ... to drink ... I'm going to have to ask you to step aside so I can help somebody else."

"Okay, okay, sweet cheeks. I'll have a Bud Light."

I felt my shoulders slump. "We don't have Bud Light. Do you want a Grolsch or a Stella or ..."

"You pick," Red Shirt said in some belated, misguided attempt at charm. "I want your favorite."

Fine, I thought, turning back to my taps. I grabbed a frosted pounder and pulled a pint of Guinness. Shari glanced over from the order she was ringing into her till.

"You okay?" she asked. "I could get someone."

I shook my head. "I got this. Thanks."

I turned back and put the stout on the bar. "Ten dollars." The drink actually cost a bit more, but I wanted to give him a whole-bill price in the hope that he would neglect to tip me; I had a feeling he was the type to think he was owed something for a large tip.

Red Shirt took his time pulling out his money clip, gyrating a bit as he suggestively flipped through the bills. He put a 10 down on the bar, just out of easy reach so I had to lean over to get it, allowing him a better view down my shirt. By now I was fuming. As my fingertips brushed the bill, he quickly slapped a meaty hand on top of mine and pinned me in place, leering down my sweat-slicked cleavage.

I grabbed the first thing my left hand found in front of me – an empty highball – and pounded the glass down hard on top of his offending hand, causing his grip to loosen briefly in surprise and pain, long enough for me to pull free, with the money. I rang the drink into the computer and started to turn back to the bar to help the next customer. My gaze snagged on two figures at the bottom of the staircase to the owner's box – the hulking security guard stationed there whenever Alkaev was in the balcony, and Alkaev himself, down from his cloud and speaking quietly to the grim, suited enforcer, blue-gray eyes boring into mine. I saw the guard nod to his boss before I ripped my eyes away.

I scanned the crowd in front of my station for a new patron, trying to remember who had been standing there the longest and struggling to ignore Red Shirt, who was deliberately taking up more than his fair share of prime bar-top real estate. His grin was predatory now as he noted my flashing eyes and rigid posture. He took a long, slow sip of the black stout, demanding eye contact over the rim of the glass. I saw him cough a bit as the bitter taste hit him; quite a change from Bud Light, I guessed. I smirked a bit at that, which deep down I knew was probably not the smartest move in this situation. The asshole mimed a kiss at me and wagged his tongue lewdly.

"Hey, pal!" I hadn't noticed Stefano approaching, but he now stood behind my left shoulder. "There are no seats at the bar for a reason. Kindly move on so we can serve other customers."

Red Shirt finally seemed to notice the surge of increasingly angry bodies around him. He held up his drink in a mocking toast.

"Later, baby." He shot me another kiss and a parting wink and melted back into the crowd. Stefano clapped me on the shoulder and moved on.

"Can I just say, 'eww'?" Shari complained.

"Let's just hope he moves on to more fertile hunting grounds," I replied.

"Yeah, happy hunting, asshole," she said as she watched him stumble through the crowd of dancers. "You choke on that fucking pint."

I let out my pent up breath. "What can I get you?" I asked a petite brunette who slid into Red Shirt's vacated space. I risked a glance at the balcony and almost missed the woman's cosmo order as I was snared by Alkaev's smoldering gaze. Stefano's sudden appearance now made sense. I inclined my head briefly in thanks – the first time, I realized, I had ever acknowledged the man's attention. A little dangerous, perhaps, but having someone watch out for you was no small thing. If Lex were a real person, she would certainly express her gratitude, so I-masquerading-as-Lex did, too.

I assured myself that this was a solid move and I was simply staying in character. But no matter how sensible my reasoning sounded, I knew it was a justification. I pulled the cranberry juice from the undercounter drinks fridge and resolved not to look up at Alkaev again for the rest of the night.