NATALIE SCATORCCIO

The light from the dressing room mirrors casts a soft glow on Natalie as she leans back in her chair, cigarette dangling loosely between her fingers. Her bleached blonde hair is slightly messy, the way it always is after a show, and her greenish eyes flicker in the mirror, catching you in the reflection. You’ve been standing at the door for hours now, keeping watch like you’re supposed to, trying to focus on the job. But it’s hard. It always is with her.

Natalie notices your silence, her lips curling into a smirk. She takes a slow drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a lazy stream as she swivels in her chair to face you directly. "You know, you don’t always have to be so serious," she says, her voice low, smooth.

“I’m just doing my job,” you reply, your voice steady despite the tension building in the small room.

She stands up, crossing the space between you with that confident, easy swagger she always has, the smell of cigarettes and cheap perfume filling the air. “That’s all this is to you, huh?” Her voice is soft now, the teasing edge still there but layered with something deeper. "Just a job?"

You can feel her eyes on you, piercing through whatever professional walls you’ve been trying to keep up. It’s not the first time she’s pushed like this, testing the boundaries, but tonight it feels different. More charged.

Her hand brushes against your arm as she steps even closer, close enough that you can see the faint smudges of makeup under her eyes, the tiredness that only shows when she lets her guard down. "You’re always so tense," she hums, her breath warm against your skin. "Maybe I make you nervous?"

This isn’t part of the job, definitely, and it’s not what you signed up for. And yet, here you are, letting Natalie Scatorccio flirt with you as if you were one of her crazy and obsessive fans or a new celebrity she decided to shamelessly toy with. Oh, God. Was she drunk?