She spoke of goals, and dreams and appreciating the smaller things. Like a sunrise, or dew on grass, or sleeping in on a Sunday. They were indeed little things. Did she not have bigger goals?
I never received my answer, because my hour was up. I didn't pay for a second, I could have, but she seemed relieved our time was over. Yet, I was certain she'd enjoyed talking plainly with me. The man with the tattoos, who I had paid earlier, collected her. Her boss. He ushered her quickly from the room, a hand wrapped firmly about her bicep. She didn't even have a chance to say goodbye.
Standing, I straightened out my suit, staring towards the open door. Her last fleeting look, before the tattood man had dragged her from sight, it had been one of apprehension. Risking a little magic, I strode to the door, melting into invisibility, even as a clone of myself exited the room and returned to the main building to leave the establishment.
There was more to her working here for the money, and I was going to find out what.
Ducking around men, who obviously worked here, and scantily clad dancers coming and going, I followed the man leading Toria. They entered a dressing room, and she immediately shrugged on a black silken dressing gown, covering herself up.
"What was going on in there? I didn't see any dancing, and you didn't remove anything?" He asked, voice low, pale blue eyes icy. I sensed threat behind his every word.
"I thought that would make you happy? Two grand, for nothing to happen." She replied back.
"Don't get sassy with me, little bird." He warned, and grabbed at her wrists. "What did he want? He talked too much, and so did you."
"He didn't want anything. He was into a bit of dirty talk." Her lie fell on a shaky breath, but it was plausible, given the situation. She was resourceful m, I'd give her that.
"An intellectual hmm?" He pulled her in close, pressing his mouth to her ear, and I visibly saw her swallow. "I'm sure you just loved that." She didn't answer. He chuckled, dropping her hand, and pulled notes from his pocket. "Three-hundred, and five-hundred." He made to hand them over, only to pull back. "You let him touch you. Encouraged him."
"Only my shoulders, he was quite... respectful. He's never been to a strip club before." A truth from her lips, yet the man narrowed his eyes.
"I don't like others touching my little bird. Don't do it again, or, you'll only get an eighth." The threat was clear. She only nodded, seeming to hold her breath as carefully he loosened her robe and tucked the roll of cash into her bra. "Say thank you." There was murder in her forest green eyes when she pressed her mouth lightly to his, and when she made to pull away, he grabbed the back of her head, forcing her to deepen the kiss.
With a sharp flick of my wrist, I exploded the bright light above our heads. He jumped back, and she let out a half scream, the only light left in the room, bulbs surrounding a mirror. "Somebody get in here and clean up this mess!" The man yelled, storming from the room.
Toria, released from his attentions, quickly dressed behind a screen, and re-appearing, snatched up a brown leather shoulder bag, and ducked from the room. I followed her down corridors, and to a back entrance, which she slipped out of. There, after glancing about warily, she took a moment to breathe, as if releasing a heavy burden from her shoulders. I remained concealed, debating if I should return home, but when she walked quickly from the back of the building, and ducked down a lane, I found myself following. She walked half a block before doubling back towards the bustling street the club front was on, and hailed a taxi. I slipped into the back seat after her, noting how she strapped the safety harness on, checking it twice.
"Where to, miss?" The driver asked kindly, peering at her through the mirror. I kept low in my seat, I didn't need her or the driver seeing me in the reflection of the glass or the mirror.
"Number five, Rosebud Street." A handbag was shoved against my leg, and the car sped off. Under flashes of street lamps, I caught glimpses of Toria's face. Her head rested against the window of the door, her eyes closed, but they didn't hide the glisten of tears in her lashes.
"The meaning of life is to be happy. You don't seem very happy." I murmured lowly. She jolted.
"Did you say something?" She asked the driver, glancing around.
"No, miss." He replied, glancing back at her in the mirror. I kept down, remaining out of view.
"I must have fallen asleep." She gave a huff of a laugh.
"Long night?"
"Something like that." She murmured, falling back into silence.
Moment's later, the taxi was pulling up at a curb, and Toria paid the driver and hopped out of the car. I barely managed to slip out after her, accidentally touching her arm. A shiver went through her, and she brushed at where I'd touched her while the taxi drove away. Once the heavily tree'd street was quiet, she began walking along it, stopping at number thirteen. Not number five. Interesting.
I followed her through a high gate, along a short garden path, and slipped through a door, moments after she'd unlocked and opened it. Pressing myself against a wall in the dark, I waited while she flicked lights on, and locked the door. Only then did she tear off her heels, leaving them in the entry way, and with bare feet on pine floorboards, padded down a hall. Her handbag she cast onto a small dining table, flicking more lights on in her wake, and then I stopped short, a bathroom door separating us. I heard the sound of one of those Midgardian rain bath things, and decided to explore the small home.
It was quaint, but stylish, with minimal furnishings. It was a little smaller than my personal quarters on Asgard. In the lounge area there was an impressive display of books on a floor to ceiling full walled shelf, and some art on walls, including art pieces I knew to be Midgardian photographs. I paused before a larger framed photograph of a flame haired dancer, her dress spinning as if the silken material was as alive as her elegant body. She'd said she was a dancer, and this was certainly dancing. If she could truly dance, why waste time entertaining lustful midgardian males?
I passed the small dining table, and moved into what I presumed to be a midgardian kitchen. It had been some centuries since I'd entered a Midgardian home properly. They were different to Asgardian homes. There was a bowl of apples and oranges, and I took an apple, biting thoughtfully into the red flesh while returning to the bookcase to peruse the shelves. Some names stuck out, Midgardian writers who had become immortalised by their minds, their creativity, laid out bare in ink. I pulled Hamlet by Shakespeare from a row, and wandered to a lounge chair, creating the illusion the old leather was not creased beneath my weight, and the book could not be seen. Perhaps the meaning of life was to live on in words upon paper. Like ink dripping from one's heart, baring your soul for all? No, that was a terrible idea.
A door opened and closed, followed by another, and I bidded my time until Toria appeared dressed in a oversized grey shirt with what looked like a blue box with lots of yellow windows, and the words "police" on it. Her lower half was bare. No, she was wearing a lime green pair of underwear which said, "Bite Me" with a half eaten drawing of an apple on the arse cheek. I bit back an amused snort. Hmm, tempting, if only for the reaction.
She raided what I knew to be a fridge, pulling out a bowl of something and putting it into a silver box which lit up with a whirring sound. Even from where I sat, I could feel the strange energy of the device; not altogether pleasant. It beeped a minute or so later, and she removed the now streaming bowl of what smelt like pasta. Now that was something I hadn't seen before. Moments later, she was curled up with a blanket in the lounge chair next to mine, eating her bowl of now hot pasta, gaze focused on what I knew to be a television, watching something about a Doctor and a brown haired woman named Clara, who flew about in a blue box through time and space. It was absurd, but admittedly witty for Midgardian entertainment. It was obviously something Toria enjoyed, because it was the same blue box on her shirt, and she laughed often enough at little comments, some which made entirely no sense. Midgardians were strange indeed.
Eventually she trailed off to a room I hadn't explored, closing the door after extinguishing all the lights and leaving me in darkness. But, she left the television on. Why leave it on if she'd gone to bed? I'd abandoned my book for watching the thing, and did so now, commandeering the long rectangle device she used to control what the television played. Finding the right rubbery buttons, I went though options until a fight scene in hand to hand combat began playing, and I watched, mildly intrigued. It wasn't until it ended, I realised it had engrossed me. And disturbed me. Did Midgardians sacrifice their young to participate in some game to murder one another? It sounded and looked absolutely barbaric. If I'd ended up ruling Midgard, I would have put a stop to such tributes.
Shaking myself, I stood and using the light of the television, crept to the closed door, silently opening it. Toria slept soundly by her deep even breaths; nine small lights hung strung above her bed, twinkling like stars, giving off an inviting, warm glow. Illuminating her face just enough. I shouldn't be doing this, but I wanted answers, and I knew I'd never get the full truth any other way. I pressed a hand to her forhead, and let my magic seek the truth...