"Since you love playing the dog so much, you might as well commit to the role."
At six in the morning, pounding on the door jolted me awake.
Every inch of my body felt like it had been run over by a truck. My head was swimming, and my palm, soaked in water all night, was swollen and ringed with angry red.
Vivienne's assistant stood outside, holding a dog-head mascot suit that reeked of stale urine.
"Put it on."
The assistant pinched her nose, disgust plain on her face.
"Miss Graves says there's a pet charity expo today. You're the mascot at the front entrance. On all fours. Barking. Bark well enough and you get to eat."
"I'm not wearing that."
"No?"
The assistant's lip curled.
"Mr. Henson said if you refuse, he'll take it to mean you don't need this job and don't want to stay in this city."
I bit down on my lip until I tasted copper.
Howard, you heartless bastard.
Twenty minutes later. The hotel entrance.
I was on my hands and knees on scorching concrete, sealed inside the suffocating mascot suit. The sun beat down mercilessly, turning the costume into an oven. Sweat mixed with the blood still seeping from my wounds, stinging every inch of raw skin.