Little Bird [-hs]

010 - dead girl walking

NAOMI

It's like I drank five espresso shots. My eyes are wide open, staring up at my bedroom ceiling. I shift on my mattress, readjusting the pillows and blankets over and over again.

Occasionally I turn to check my alarm clock, counting the hours as they race by. I chew my lip and wait for something to happen, some gentle thought to lull me to sleep. It never comes. A car races outside. Its engine roars as it passes my apartment. I hear something indecipherable and ominous in the alleyway behind the building. My heart beats quick and soft. In the dark of my bedroom, I make out shapes and figures. I watch them carefully to make sure they don't move, make sure they aren't waiting to attack when I've let my guard down.

Eventually I dig through my bedside table drawer, and I pull out an almost empty bottle of melatonin. I shake out two of the small white pills, little powder circles engraved with different numbers. I swallow them dry and throw the blanket back on. My brain retreats in fear, the forced drowsiness ambushing my adrenaline. My last thought escapes me, and I spiral down into a medicated void of half-lucid, anxiety-filled rest.

I wake up to my alarm clock. My heart lurches at the sound. I sit up, slam the snooze button, and fall back into bed. I should get up, but I took the melatonin too late last night. It hasn't worn off, and neither has the exhaustion it brings. I wrap myself in my white comforter and try my best to ignore the sunlight from my window. My alarm goes off again. I groan and hit a button, hoping to delay the inevitable.

A dream lures me back to sleep, two large hands cupping my face as a mysterious stranger kisses my lips. It's sweet, gentle. He moves across my face to my cheek, and then my ear. His teeth tug on my earlobe, and my heart pounds. I lay perfectly still, letting the dream run its course. The scent of whiskey and vanilla builds around me.

"I'll stop there," a voice rasps. It's loud and deep in my head. I can't decide if it's real or not. My eyebrows crease. "Is that disappointing?"

My phone rings. I gasp, pulled out of the dream, and I sit up and grapple for the device. It's Niall. Afraid to dip back into the memory, I wake up fully now. I throw my arm over my face and fall back into my nest.

"Hello?"

The clicking of a turn signal erupts from my phone. "Shit, did I wake you up?"

"What is it."

"I've had three people call in sick this morning."

My heart sinks as I watch my day off slip through my fingers. I glance at the clock, 10:30 AM, and I sit up in the sunshine and tangle of my comforter. "Okay, I can do it."

"Well, just wait before you say that."

"Why?"

"The way I'm moving people around, you'd be covering for Jackie."

"Oh."

"I know you don't like being on the floor so–"

"Yeah," I look over at my rack of clothes. Somewhere, tucked amongst my jackets, that little black dress hangs untouched. I don't like bottle service, never have. There's something far too intimate about it. Up on stage, I'm a spectacle. When I'm taking orders, I'm a girl someone could go home with if they say the magic words. At least that's what everyone seems to think.

"I'll give you half of Erica's tips, I don't think she'd notice–"

"I don't know." I fall back into bed. He ruminates on the other side of the call. I hear his turn signal click again.

"I'm in a real bind here, Birdie."

"I know, I'm sorry."

"Name your price."