Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) (14 page)

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Authors: Logan Belle

BOOK: Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque)
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She turned only to make sure her handbag was where she thought she had left it—on the floor under the antique coffee table. It was, just within arm’s reach.
“Now put your cock in his ass—and don’t take it out until I give you permission. Is that understood?”
Tyler did not answer, but he immediately put his hands on Billy’s buttocks, his thumb rimming the opening, Billy’s eager anus puckering at him like a tiny mouth. She watched in fascination as Tyler’s cock burrowed inside of Billy, her eyes darting from the rhythmic pumping to the look of ecstatic concentration on the man’s face. She didn’t trust him to keep going for as long as she told him to—he probably didn’t have that much control, and he probably didn’t care about meeting with her approval. She watched them closely, circling around once to see that Billy’s eyes were half-closed, glazed with impending ecstasy. Tyler was busy pumping away, and she doubted he would be paying much attention to her. He was not trained, as Billy was, to be acutely aware of her every move during these sessions.
She bent down behind Tyler, discreetly retrieving her handbag.
“Fuck me!” Billy cried.
Oh, I will
. Violet smiled to herself while clutching her iPhone. She crept slowly from her perch behind the two men to a side position where she could get an angle on both Billy’s face and the guy riding his ass, and snapped three shots. Just then, Billy’s penis erupted with semen, and she clicked the camera one more time.
Tyler convulsed in spasms and moans, and she quickly slipped her phone back into her bag.
Her work here was done.
13
M
onday morning, Mallory woke up with a start, wondering why her alarm clock had failed to go off. Even though she was late, she took the time to go through the morning ritual of turning on her BlackBerry and checking for a text or message from Alec.
She had seven new voice mail messages. Since midnight last night.
“What the hell . . .” She logged in and was met with Allison’s excited voice.
“You’re famous! Nice photo, by the way. Call me!”
What was she talking about?
The next message was from Julie. “Did you see Page Six? Call me!”
Mallory jumped out of bed, pulled on sweats—and sunglasses, because she knew she looked like death warmed over—and hurried to the Korean grocer on the corner. She slapped a quarter on the counter and didn’t wait to leave the store before thumbing through the
Post
to the gossip page. There, on the lower left side of the page, was a photo of Bette exiting the Blue Angel, surrounded by paparazzi, with Mallory at her side. The caption read, “Zebra’s paramour Bette Noir exits hot spot Blue Angel with fellow burlesquer, Mallory ‘Moxie’ Dale.”
“Oh ... my ... God.” Mallory looked around the bodega, feeling as exposed as if she were standing there naked. This was a disaster. The one thing she’d worried about the most when she accepted the paralegal job with Gavin. When she was busted for performing at the Blue Angel by the last law firm that employed her, she was promptly fired. At the time, she hadn’t been that upset. She hated the job and had been secondguessing her decision to become a lawyer. But she’d quickly realized that making no money while dancing at the Blue Angel was not a viable mode of existence in New York City. And so she had asked a headhunter to find her a legal job, and the first gig she interviewed for was Gavin’s paralegal opening. She was surprised by how much she enjoyed working in the law without the pressure or commitment of making it her entire life’s work.
But this would ruin everything.
She tucked the paper under her arm and walked back to her apartment. It was colder than she had anticipated—the first hint of winter. She pulled her sweatshirt closed and wished she’d worn a hat.
She dropped the paper on the kitchen counter and started the coffeemaker.
On the one hand, she knew working for Gavin didn’t involve as rigid an environment as her previous job at the venerable law firm Reed, Warner, but she doubted he would be thrilled to learn his paralegal was a burlesque dancer. He represented some very wealthy, high profile New Yorkers in their divorces, and it was conceivable that having a paralegal known for taking off her clothes would impede his business.
She dialed Bette’s cell, but of course she was still sleeping and didn’t answer. The next call was back to her voice mail, where she erased two more calls from Julie, a call from Alec saying he couldn’t wait to see her tonight, a message from Poppy telling her about Page Six, and a message from Gavin on his way to court saying he hoped she was okay since she was not at her desk and if she was sick not to worry, he had
Klein v. Klein
under control.
Her phone rang again. Gavin’s cell phone number appeared on her screen.
“Gavin, hi. I’m so sorry—I overslept but I’ll be in the office in forty-five minutes or less. Good luck in court today.”
“Thanks. Um, Mallory?”
“Yes?”
“Do you read the
Post
?”
Her stomach dropped.
“Sometimes,” she stalled.
“Well, I don’t. But apparently Marcy Klein is a big reader of Page Six.”
“Gavin, I can explain. . . .”
“Let’s not get into it now—I have to focus on what Judge Hager has in store for us. I don’t want to upset you, but I do think this is something that merits further discussion.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Things should be wrapped for the day by eleven thirty or so. Meet me for lunch? I’ll make a reservation at Park Avenue Autumn. Do you know where that is?”
“I’ll figure it out,” she said, looking at the photo of herself. She looked startled by the glare of the camera, like the proverbial deer in headlights. By her side, Bette looked cool and impervious, like a movie star. Yes, Bette was cut out for that life. She was not.
She had thought she could keep the two halves of her life separate, and if she had to choose one over the other it was a no-brainer: her future was as Moxie. But she didn’t feel as surefooted as she had the last time her worlds collided. And she was not looking forward to having to choose again.
 
Mallory waited by the hostess station at Park Avenue Autumn. She had read about the restaurant, which changed its décor and menu with every season. Although she had no idea what they did for summer, winter, and spring, she couldn’t imagine it surpassing the simmering elegance of their take on autumn, with the dark wood and copper and perfectly attenuated lighting that was neither bright nor dim but some perfect meeting of the two that had the inexplicable effect of making Mallory feel beautiful.
“Sorry I’m late,” Gavin said, looking unusually harried and slightly disheveled. He shrugged off his Burberry overcoat and handed it to an attendant.
“No problem. How did it go today?”
“Pretty well,” he said, as they were shown to their table.
“This room is fantastic,” she said. “I can’t believe they change it every few months.”
“I know. I thought they might get complacent and abandon that gimmick after the first year, but they haven’t. I’ve been here a few times, and I have to say the best room is Spring. But this is a close second.”
“I think that’s true of New York in general. Spring is the best time of year, followed closely by fall.”
“I know a lot of people who would debate you on that,” he said.
She read the menu and appreciated the autumnal accents on all of the dishes. She decided on the roasted pumpkin soup with lobster croutons and then the shrimp Cobb for her main. Gavin ordered the fig carpaccio with goat cheese and the roasted chicken with pumpkin pie.
She realized all the food and décor talk was a way of stalling, avoiding the real reason they were having lunch at a fancy restaurant in the middle of the workday. The suspense was killing her, so she decided to bite the bullet.
“About that photo . . .”
“Are you really a burlesque dancer?”
“Yes,” she said.
“What is that, exactly?”
“Well, it’s a performance art, like any other kind of dancing. Costumes play a big role, and lots of the dancers put a feminist spin on it. . . .”
“But there’s an element of stripping, right?”
“Yes. But not fully. I mean, I take my costume off but I’m wearing . . . Look, I feel really uncomfortable talking to you about this.”
“Mallory, I feel bad even having this conversation because typically, I’m not one to judge. And really, I don’t care what you do in your spare time. But people make generalizations, and Marcy Klein depends on you a lot and this shakes her confidence, rightly or wrongly. When I’m running around at court or I’m in a deposition room with you, I can’t worry that the opposing counsel or our clients may be taking you—and, as an extension, me—less seriously because of your, um, other job.”
“I understand,” she said, her stomach sinking.
“I’m not sure what to tell you, except to consider the fact that you might have to make a choice.”
 
Violet pulled the covers off of her naked body and reached for her iPhone. She scrolled through the images of Billy Barton being ass-fucked by the Burberry model and it made her wet—not because the images were hot, but because they were going to get her what she wanted. Well, at least one thing she wanted.
She placed the phone down and rubbed her clit with her index finger, thinking of the way she’d fucked Poppy LaRue, but instead of Poppy tied up on her bed it was Mallory. What would it take to get Mallory in that position? Some help from Alec, that’s what.
Emboldened by her success last night with Billy Barton, Violet felt she was on a hot streak and dialed Alec’s cell.
“Hello?”
He sounded groggy.
“It’s Violet. Can you hear me? Where are you? It’s so loud.”
“I’m getting on a plane. What do you want?”
“I’m ready for another outing. Think you can find something interesting for us to do tonight?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“What’s the problem? Too much partying in LA? Did Kendall James wear you out?”
“How did you know about Kendall James?”
“A little birdie told me. A hot little birdie.” Silence on the other end. “So do you want to meet up tonight or what? Mallory might want some entertainment, party pooper.”
“I’ll pass,” he said.
“Are you cranky because I didn’t fuck you, too?”
“Jesus, Violet. It’s a little early in the day for this. I don’t think Mallory has any interest in your games.”
“I think you’d be surprised what Mallory is interested in,” said Violet. “You’re being too hasty in answering for her. I bet she’d be up for a drink. Perhaps you should just stay home this time and let the girls have all the fun. Are you willing to take one for the team, Alec?”
“Mallory and I are the team, Violet. You aren’t even on the bench.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” he said.
“We’ll see. Oh—and Alec?”
“What?”
“I can’t wait to taste your girlfriend’s pussy again.”
She hung up and began composing a text to Mallory.
Gavin peered at her over the dessert menu.
“I’m thinking the chocolate cube. What do you say?”
“Sounds great,” she said, though she was too nervous to eat any more food. He hadn’t pressed her further on the issue of her Page Six exposure, but now that dessert was on the way, she had a feeling her less-than-desirable night gig would be back on the table, so to speak. Sure enough, when the dark chocolate square appeared on a silver tray, he turned pensive.
“So, how serious are you about this burlesque career?” Gavin finally said.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” she said.
“Well, is this a passing hobby or something you plan on doing for a while?”
Mallory swallowed hard.
“To be honest, if you had asked me that a few months ago, I would have told you I was very serious about it. I love performing, but I’m starting to wonder what the endgame is. And I didn’t think I had to know the absolute answer to that, but . . .”
“I only press you on this because I don’t see how I can keep you on, knowing that you have such a high-profile, edgy nightlife.”
“It’s not usually high-profile—I don’t even use my real name. This was a freak thing because of my friend Bette. . . .”
He put his hand on hers, and she felt something electric shoot through her. She looked at him in surprise.
Oh, my God, I’m actually attracted to him. Truly attracted to him
.
“Forgive me if I’m speaking out of line—and this is none of my business except for the part about how it affects the office—but I think you’re brilliant, and it is a terrible waste if you don’t at least consider taking the bar exam.”
Mallory sighed.
“There was a time when I really thought that was what I wanted. Every choice I made in my life was centered on my goal to be a lawyer at a big firm. And then I got the job at Reed, Warner, and I hated it. Every day I dreaded waking up in the morning. I didn’t know how I could be so miserable when I was getting what I’d worked so hard for. So I tried to pretend I wasn’t miserable. And then I failed the bar. My boyfriend said he thought I failed on purpose on some level. I told him that was crazy, but maybe he’s not entirely wrong.”
“Reed, Warner is a tough gig. They burn out more lawyers than not. That culture isn’t for everyone. But the fact that you even got a place there tells me you must be pretty damn good.”

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