Page 24 of The Demons We Hide

“I appreciate the worry,” I tell her, “but I’m as sure as I was when I first asked.”

Bending over, I wrinkle my nose against my reflection in the mirrors attached to the long wall opposite of the girls’ lockers. There’s a collection of makeup sitting on the counter in front of it and I reach for a tube of liquid eyeliner. It’s been a long time since I put any effort into my appearance. Picking it up is almost nostalgic—reminding me of a time when I was a different person, when the brand was far more expensive and I hadn’t even cared.

Ma-Ri blows out another cloud of smoke and snorts. “You never seemed the type to want to take on hosting,” she says. “I’m surprised is all.”

“It’s better money,” is all I offer in response.

“True.”

My mouth automatically opens, forming a round “O” as I stroke the black liner over my upper lid, dragging it out until it wings perfectly. The second eyelid is always harder, but after a few tries and scraping a mistake away with the edge of my thumbnail, I get it right. Ma-Ri hangs out the whole time—a sure sign she’s uneasy about this whole thing. Normally, she’d be back in her office going over paperwork and schedules.

“Friday nights are busy,” she says after a beat.

“Yup.” I pop the word out as I put the finishing touches on the rest of my makeup.

The wickedly winged eyeliner makes my eyes appear sultrier and almost cat-like. The light dusting of foundation covers any perceived imperfections and a rosy hue of blush rides high on my cheekbones, giving me a far more angular look than I normally have. But my lips … my lips are the pièce de résistance. Blood red and lined with a shade that’s so slightly darker than the rest of my mouth that it gives an illusion that my mouth is far fuller and plumper than it actually is—as if I just came from a hot and heavy make out session.

The entire time I complete the look, Ma-Ri watches me from her position by the door. Her small frame is propped against the wall, the cigarette dangling at the end of her holder growing smaller and smaller with each drag she sucks in. Ash drifts down to the floor and she grimaces, swiping it away with the sole of her heels.

“I’ll have to have Madison sweep back here,” she murmurs.

I stand and turn, observing the full look in my reflection. “Next time, just use an ashtray,” I tell her, adjusting the thin straps of my dress. They’re longer in deference to Margo’s body shape, but I don’t try to adjust them. Instead, I let the straps drape the already precariously low neckline even lower, until the upper curves of my breasts are all but spilling out.

If I’m right, then the next part of my plan will be taking place tonight. Though she abandoned me here to deal with the aftermath, I can’t say that my mother never taught me a thing. If there’s one thing Denise Donovan knew, it was that women have different weapons than men. Women work smarter, not harder.

“Doors are opening.” One of the other hosts says, popping her head into the back dressing room. “Ma-Ri?”

Ma-Ri seems to drag herself from her thoughts, her narrowed eyes lifting to rove over me. I step over to the side and slide into the pair of cheap black pumps I found in size in the basket of borrowed items at the back of the dressing room. They’re well worn, but whoever they belong to has taken good care to keep them from looking scuffed.

Ma-Ri points her cigarette holder at me. “Don’t make me regret this, girl,” she orders.

“I won’t.” My voice is less sarcastic than it was earlier, more genuine. Ma-Ri has been too good to me to fuck her or her establishment over. She gave me a job when no one else would, and if anyone’s forcing me to take a step further into the gutter, it’s me—not her.

The other host—a redhead whose name I can’t remember—ducks back into the hallway and the sound of her own heels clip-clopping back towards the front room echo back to us. With a muttered word in a language I don’t understand, she disappears out into the hallway. When I step out myself thirty seconds later, she’s already gone.

Every so often, Ma-Ri gets an idea to have a themed night at the Dionysus Lounge and tonight happens to be one of those nights. Gauzy curtains with paintings of Greek pillars have been strung up throughout the club. Deep instrumental music pumps out of invisible speakers.

Mads along with a few other waitresses are waiting with the drink of the night—Goddess’ Ambrosia as they’ve named the bartender's own concoction—perched on their trays and complimentary shots that accompany them. I scan the darkened room with its red lights highlighting the floor pathways and the changes that have been done to the inside to make it appear like a Greek garden. Tonight, the “guests” are humans who’ve stumbled into this realm of the Gods, and we’re to make them feel as if they never want to leave.

When I find a man in gray slacks and a black button-down shirt over a bulky frame and tattoos peeking out of the neck of his collar, I decide to make the first move. I step down into the main part of the club and shove my shoulders back. When Mads turns and spies me, her lips part and her jaw practically slams into her tray.

My smile is more real than it has been in days as I slowly make my way towards her, not stopping until we’re mere feet apart. “Y-you’re hosting tonight?” She blinks at me.

I take one of the shots on her tray and sling it back and she winces. “Jules!” she hisses before darting a quick look around. “Even if Ma-Ri lets you host, you can’t be seen drinking. What if a cop comes in?”

“Liquid courage,” I say as warmth spreads through my throat and down into my chest. “Don’t worry, I’ll be good for the rest of the night.”

“I don’t know that you should?—”

Without giving her a chance to finish, I grab two of the Ambrosias in frosted glasses. “I’m table three,” I tell her. “You can go ahead and charge the shot to my guest.”

“G-guest?” She stutters out the word. “You already have a?—”

“Sorry, Mads,” I say, cutting her off as I spy the redhead from earlier heading in the man’s direction. “Gotta go.”

Keeping my back straight, I carry the drink across the black tiled floor of the club and turn my back on the redhead as I stop beside the man in gray and black. His eyes widen when I offer one of the glasses.

“Welcome to the Dionysus Lounge,” I say, offering him a smile. “Is this your first time here?”

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