Blue Angel (20 page)

“I didn’t pay for this—the Baxters did, remember?”

“Well, then, let them get their money’s worth. Believe me—they would consider it a rip-off if one of us didn’t
get
off.”

“Bette!”

“And look what I brought.” She pulled the Pike Kegel Ball out of her handbag.

“What on earth did you bring that for?”

“I knew you’d never try it on your own—and you really should.”

“Put that thing away.”

“I thought you were going to be open to new experiences out here?”

“I’m not that open.”

Ignoring her, Bette tugged Mallory’s underwear off. Mallory smiled as if humoring an unruly child.

Bette rolled the ball over Mallory’s nipple, which was already erect just from Bette’s proximity. She controlled it with her palm, moving it between Mallory’s breasts, then down her stomach and between her legs, where she rubbed it against Mallory’s outer lips. She pressed it up against Mallory’s clit, moving it in small circles. Mallory’s breathing quickened, and she closed her eyes.

Bette continued the gentle pressure of the ball while she pressed her tongue inside of Mallory. Mallory’s pelvis rocked in barely perceptible motions, and she willed Bette to just finger her, to trigger the release she knew was so close to the surface.

“I can’t believe you won’t try this little ball. You’re being such a bad girl,” Bette cooed, pressing the ball closer to the entrance to Mallory’s pussy. Mallory reached for Bette’s hand, pulling it toward her hungry opening, and she moaned when Bette pushed the Kegel ball inside of her. Then, just as quickly, Bette pulled it out and replaced it with her fingers, pressing deeply and rhythmically. Bette had been right about the massage prelude making her primed for an orgasm: within seconds, Mallory came with such intensity chills washed over her body.

Bette moved onto the table, lying next to her. Mallory propped herself on her elbow, then bent down to suck on Bette’s breasts. She felt so much more relaxed than she had the last time she got to touch her—maybe it was from the orgasm, or maybe it was because she was far away from her real life. Whatever the reason, this time, touching Bette felt like she was a kid running loose in a candy store. She didn’t feel pressure to make Bette come—she knew Bette was happy just to see her relaxed enough to explore her body.

Mallory trailed her hands down Bette’s belly, touching her gently between her legs. It felt weird to put her fingers inside of her—like she was invading her space or something. She knew it was illogical—she tried to remind herself how good it felt when someone did it to her. And it was amazing how smooth and soft Bette’s pussy was. Aside from the one time she tried it, Mallory didn’t wax, she shaved, so her skin was only that soft for a day at the most. And she didn’t take all of her hair off the way Bette did.

She felt Bette’s pussy contract against her fingers, and this excited her in a way that was unlike anything she experienced with guys. It was as if Bette’s body was communicating with hers in the most intimate way, and it was so natural for her to respond by touching her with more confidence. She could sense that Bette was going to come, and this made her so turned on, she pressed her own pussy against Bette’s leg, grinding against it in tandem with Bette’s pelvis thrusting against her hand. And then Bette reached for her, finding her open wetness with two fingers. Mallory burrowed her face in Bette’s neck, trying not to make too much noise as they came together.

“Oh, my God,” Mallory said.

“Hate to say I told you so.” Bette smiled.

Mallory started to get off the massage table.

“Not so fast,” Bette said. “I carried this in, now you carry it out. Hold it for me until we get to the locker room.” And she pressed the Kegel ball back into Mallory’s wet pussy.

“I take that as a challenge,” Mallory said, touching the looped thread that peaked out from her lips.

“Impress me,” said Bette.

Mallory curled up on the couch with a Palihouse blanket and a paperback she’d started reading before all hell broke loose in her life. Seeing the cover, remembering the day she’d bought the book for two dollars off a street stand in the Village while walking around with Alec, she got upset again. Who would have thought on the day she bought the book that by the time she was halfway through, she would be broken up with Alec and reading it halfway across the country?

“You sure you don’t want to go? It will be so fun. I promise.”

Bette and two other girls who were in town for the Baxter party were going to a club called Voyeur. Bette was dressed in a black corset and tight white jeans with white platform mules. Her fingernails and toenails were painted a gunmetal gray / black color that Mallory was crazy about; Bette told her it was a discontinued Chanel polish that she could only find on eBay.

“Yeah, thanks. I’m exhausted. I’ll go to bed early and be rarin’ to go tomorrow.”

“You don’t even want to have dinner with us?”

“No—I’m fine. I’ll order from downstairs.”

Bette sat next to her.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I just miss Alec.”

“Oh, honey. Aren’t you having a good time?”

“I am—but somehow that just makes it worse. I wish I could call him and tell him all about it. I know it sounds crazy, but I wish I could tell him about the Kegel ball thing. . . . He’s my best friend. I just don’t know what happened.”

“If it’s meant to be, it will be. I’m sorry to be trite, but I think that’s the truth.”

“Can I ask you something? When’s the last time you were in love?”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been in love.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve had lots of lovers and some girlfriends I really liked, but I never felt that connection like, this is my soul mate.”

“When’s the last time you had a girlfriend?”

“Two years ago, maybe.”

“That’s a long time.”

“What do I need the hassle for? I get laid when I want; I have fun. I have friends. Look at you—it’s a gorgeous night in LA, and we’re going to the hottest club in the city, and you can’t even get your ass off the couch you’re so depressed. I need to live my life and a relationship will only hold me back. There aren’t many gals who can roll with me, Moxie.”

“Yeah. I can see that.”

Bette kissed her on the cheek.

“Get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Bette, Mallory dialed Alec’s cell phone. It was eight o’clock at night in New York, but the call went straight to voice mail. Where was he? She didn’t leave a message.

P
oppy wasn’t sure what to wear for her “interview” with Alec Martin. On the one hand, it was business. On the other hand, it was a Thursday night, and that was a big night out in New York—maybe even bigger than Friday night. She wanted to look hot, but not in a way that overtly said “I would be happy to fuck you”—although she would be happy to fuck him. If she remembered correctly from the first night she had seen him with Mallory at the show, he was hot. And there would be a certain fairness to it: Mallory was living it up in LA with Bette, no doubt fucking her brains out all across Hollywood. If something happened between Poppy and Alec . . . Well, that’s life. And if it upset Mallory, then maybe Poppy would be willing to strike a little bargain: stay away from the Blue Angel, and she’d stay away from Alec.

She was in a retro mood and decided to channel Jackie O meets Coco Chanel. She pulled on a black trench dress with oversized buttons to the waist and a belt to cinch it. She pinned one side of her bob away from her face with a rhinestone barrette that made her feel girlish. She finished off her ensemble with red lipstick—MAC’s Russian Red—and a light spritz of Chanel Allure.

He’d told her to meet him at the bar at Gemma, the restaurant attached to the Bowery Hotel. When she arrived, he was already there, drinking vodka and sitting at a small table for two next to the long bar. It was early and not terribly crowded, and she spotted him immediately.

“Billy speaks very highly of you,” Alec said when she sat across from him. There was nothing ironic or playful in the statement, so she assumed Billy had exercised discretion when he’d arranged the interview. She wasn’t sure if this surprised her or not.

“He’s an interesting character,” Poppy said.

“I don’t know if Billy told you but I’m actually almost finished with the piece. I spoke to one of the other dancers at the club last month—Bette Noir. But Billy seemed to feel my portrait of the Blue Angel would be incomplete without a few words from you.” He smiled, and it was a boyish, utterly disarming smile. He had the faintest dimples and a slight gap between his two front teeth. She had the urge to stick her tongue in it.

“Bette and I work closely together—I guess you could say she’s my mentor,” Poppy said.

Alec ordered a beer, and Poppy asked for a glass of champagne. The waiter brought them a glass filled with extremely long, thin, crunchy bread sticks. Poppy was starving and quickly devoured one, then reached for another.

“I love those things. I think they are the only reason I keep coming back here,” Alec said.

“I can see how they could be addictive.”

She could tell from their eye contact that he found her attractive. Game on! He asked her questions about how she got started as a performer, and about the culture at the Blue Angel, and she felt pressure to say things that were different and more interesting than what Bette might have said. It was a lot of pressure, actually, and she got tired of it quickly.

“Do you have enough to get a good quote?” she said. She was on her second (or maybe third) glass of champagne.

“I think so. Why—do you have to leave?”

“No, not at all. I just thought it was getting boring.”

He laughed. “I hope my readers don’t think so.”

“Oh, they won’t. I’m sure you know how to keep things exciting.” They locked eyes on that comment, and he broke contact first. Poppy knew it was time to step it up. “So have you been to the Angel since Mallory started with the show?”

His expression clouded over, and she wondered if she had made a mistake by going there. But then he seemed to relax back into his chair, took a sip of his beer (his third, but who was counting?) and shook his head.

“No. I haven’t.”

“You don’t want to?”

“Mallory and I broke up. Didn’t she mention that?”

“Not to me. We’re not exactly friends. But, sorry to hear that. I mean, breakups suck.”

“Are you and Bette friends?”

“I don’t know,” she said, smiling. “Frenemies, maybe.”

“I thought you said she was your mentor.”

Busted! He was good. Did they teach that at journalism school?

“Okay, I guess I exaggerated. I want her to be my mentor. She should be—honestly, I’m the best one there after her, and I just started. She’s been there two years and you’d think she’d want to help someone else get established.”
Someone aside from Mallory, who doesn’t even deserve it.

“Is there a lot of rivalry between the girls at the Blue Angel— or on the burlesque scene in general?”

“I can’t speak for other girls or the scene in general. Besides, I thought you said you had enough for your article.”

“Did I say that? I don’t think I said that.”

“Yes, you definitely did.” She smiled her most alluring smile, and he couldn’t help but smiling back.

“Okay. No more questions. You’re a tough negotiator, Ms. LaRue.”

No more questions? Did that mean he was going to get the check? But no, he seemed to settle back in his seat and even flipped through the menu.

“Have you had dinner yet? I’m starving,” he said.

“Um, no.” Did that mean he was offering to buy her dinner? Because there was no way she could pay for the food on that menu. Plus she’d just spent thirty dollars on feathers for next month’s costume.

“Great. Then let’s get some food.” When she hesitated to pick up her menu, he winked at her and said, “It’s on
Gruff
.”

By the time they finished their porcini ravioli, the restaurant was jumping with a loud and eclectic crowd of hipsters and tourists. Poppy finished her third (or maybe fourth) glass of champagne, which was her absolute limit because anything more was too fattening, and she would be puffy in the morning. Alec seemed to want to have another drink, but she was ready to get the show on the road. And she knew where she wanted that road to lead!

“It’s getting late,” she said.

He signaled for the check.

At the door he helped her with her coat. It reminded her of how long it had been since she’d been on a proper date.

“I’ll get you in a cab,” he said, looking down the street to see if any were approaching.

“I think I’ll just walk,” she said.

“Where do you live?”

“Near St. Marks.”

“It’s freezing out. I’ll get you a cab. I’ll even keep you company in the cab if that would make you feel better—” He smiled that lazy, sexy smile of his.

“Okay.” She knew he thought she was hot; over dinner he’d told her she could be a model, which she already knew, but she’d tried it once and found the go-sees so demoralizing her psyche couldn’t handle it. She preferred the guaranteed adulation of burlesque. And now he was taking a cab with her.