Asylum

Chapter 44: Bombshell

My hair was really quite a bit too long to pull off Marilyn's style in The Seven Year Itch, but with tattoos twining around both arms, I was never going to be a dead ringer for the iconic character anyway, so I had slipped into my white "steam vent" dress, plied a curling iron and a handful of bobby-pins to my platinum locks, threw on sweats and my coat over the ensemble, and slipped out of the loft the usual ten minutes after Ivan had left, pulling any possible law enforcement surveillance with him.

Shari pushed into the break room as I was slicking on a perfect pout of M.A.C. Matte in Russian Red. After giving me a slow once over, twice, she shook her head, giant gold hoop earrings bouncing around her shaved pate.

"Girl, you're not gonna make it 10 minutes in those shoes," she said critically.

I looked down reluctantly at the white high heels that completed my outfit. Shari was right, of course – even if my feet and legs could hold up through an entire shift in heels, the perforated rubber mats behind the bar meant anyone not in practical footwear ran a serious risk of breaking a leg, and I didn't think that I had Glory's luck in that department. I'd just brought them along tonight and put them on during my final primping to get the full feel of the outfit, since I hadn't had the chance to sport the entire costume since I'd bought it yesterday afternoon.

"I know," I admitted. I slipped off the heels and thrust my toes into my more practical deck shoes, which I'd decided to recycle from yesterday's Baywatch-inspired ensemble. "But, with the dress, they just looked so delicious," I explained, aping a soft, breathless Monroe-esque voice, "I simply couldn't resist."

Shari's snort was dismissive. She hung her things in the locker she shared with Glory. "What are you gonna do when you run outta blond movie stars and TV characters to dress up like?"

I tilted my head and looked up toward the ceiling in mild consternation, as though I'd never considered this inevitable dilemma before. Then I mimicked an "aha!" moment: "I'll shave my head!"

The other bartender barked out a laugh and slammed her locker shut. I pretended to warm to the idea.

"Just think of all the iconic bald female characters there are to emulate: Ripley from the third Aliens ... Demi Moore in G.I. Jane ... um, that weird V-ger chick from the first Star Trek movie ... ." I followed Shari out of the break room toward the bar, ignoring Mateo as I passed him at the end of the hall. "... one of the royal security forces from Wakanda ..."

"Don't you be talkin' 'bout Wakanda," Shari insisted. We both stepped close to the bar to let Chauncey squeeze through, having just finished prepping the stations seconds before Asylum opened its doors. "You cannot pull off that look."

I couldn't keep a straight face any longer. "I guess you're right," I allowed. "I'll have to come up with a Plan C."

"Damn straight you will."

I suppressed my broad grin and stopped tormenting the intimidating bartender next to me to check over my station once more, mentally ticking off the ingredients I would need to serve up a perfect Blonde Bombshell.

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A couple of hours later, I'd started hawking Gin Rickeys along with the evening's signature cocktail. Although my cheeky take on an Irish Car Bomb was going down well with the club's male clientele, my female regulars found it considerably less appealing. But the Gin Rickeys sounded like something Marilyn Monroe might have ordered, even if she never had on film.

I spun around fluidly, letting the pleated skirt of my dress flair dramatically as I sought out my next customer, my eyes falling on a somewhat grim-faced Lindsay Craig.