Little Bird [-hs]

001 - psycho killer

NAOMI

Have you ever fallen?

I don't mean tripping over yourself, stumbling forward and landing on your kneecaps. Not into a pool, or any open water. And I don't mean skydiving, your parachute strapped tightly to your back. I mean falling.

Nothing holding you up, no safety net, no mat, no parachute. Just air and gravity and the surface of the Earth rushing towards you as you panic, your throat closing at the velocity, your skin pierced by the wind, your blood finally moving slower than your body falls.

It's not something many people have to think about. Most wouldn't try it, given the choice. The few of us that would are diagnosed with a death wish.

Above me, attached to a large metal hoop in the ceiling, hang my aerial silks. They're two sweeping, white tendrils that fall delicately down from the rafters. My nerves settle in my stomach. Just watching them sway on the small, drafty stage makes me want to climb up and let the draping fabrics wrap around me.

It's hours before we open and so unbelievably quiet. Soon laughter, low whistles, and shot glasses hitting the bar will fill the room. For now I hear the soft whirring of the air conditioning vents to my left. I see dust particles floating in the golden light of the morning. There's no unwavering eyes watching me dance through the air. No one's catcalling from the shadows.

I touch the soft fabric, and as if it's guiding me on its own, it wraps itself sweetly around my arm. I'm about to start climbing when–

"Naomi!" His voice calls. I loosen out of the silk, and I nimbly twirl on my heel. A figure emerges from a doorway at the back of the club, boldly painted EMPLOYEE'S ONLY.

"Hey Niall," I sigh. He folds his arms over his chest and squints at me.

"No safety mat, eh?"

Around his neck is a pair of headphones. His hair spikes up in brown tufts, and his muscles strain under the thin fabric of his black shirt. An assortment of tattoos sprinkle his arms. My favorite one is a heart on his bicep with an arrow through the center, the name Coco written in looping calligraphy... Coco is his dog.

"If you fall, I'd have to catch you." He winks. I roll my eyes.

The fabric sways as I climb off stage. I call it a stage, but it's barely a platform. It's a raised area of the floor, probably three feet off the ground, with two silver stripper poles erected on either end. The silks sway in the middle. They're the centerpiece of the building, and the brightest thing in here once the sun goes down.

Niall reaches to ruffle my box braids. "Deathwish Douglas," he teases. I swat him away, and he pouts his lip. "Ow, what'd ya do that for?"

"That's for not letting me practice," I scold. We walk through the club. I slide into an empty stool at the bar. Niall stops before me. He shoves his hands into his front pockets, his shoulders shrugging around his neck.

"I've got a good reason." He says. I lean over the bar. My stomach presses into the wood, and my fingers dance to open the black door of a mini fridge. I pull out a jar of green olives, and I sit back down. Niall chuckles.

"What was your reason?" I pop an olive in my mouth. He steps closer.

"How'd you like the chance to make a bit of petty cash?"

I frown, finish chewing, and set down the jar. "What kind of chance?"

Niall's the sketchiest guy I know.

He's the friend that gets other friends drugs. He's got this whole underground fake ID business he's running out of his apartment. One time, he asked me if he could store some stuff at my place, and he showed up with a baby alligator and two pounds of cocaine. When he says petty cash, I assume he needs my help getting out of a jam. If it has anything to do with prostitution, I want to know upfront. It wouldn't be the first time he's used my sex appeal to smooth over a seedy relationship, but it would be the first time he's asked permission.