Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) (20 page)

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Authors: Logan Belle

BOOK: Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque)
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“It’s not about you or us, Alec. You can be so egocentric, you know that?”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But that’s beside the point.” He sat her down on the couch, then sat on the opposite end. “You know, they tell people who get divorced not to make any major decision for a year—not to sell anything or change jobs.”
“We weren’t married.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“Yeah, well. I appreciate your concern, but this is about my job, not you. I think you were right last year when you told me not to be so quick to give up a legal career. My boss thinks I should take the bar again. He says I’d be a great divorce lawyer.”
“Oh really? What else does he say you’d be good at?”
Mallory looked away. “Nothing. I’m just saying, you were right, okay? So this is what I need to do. The burlesque thing was a diversion. It was fun, and I’m glad I did it, but what’s the future, right?”
“This doesn’t sound like you.”
“Yeah, well. It’s me. And besides, Agnes told me someone wants to buy the club.”
“Is she considering selling it?”
“I think so. She seemed really cynical and down. Maybe you can talk her out of it.”
“I can’t even talk you out of your craziness. You think I can influence Agnes?”
“Maybe you can find out through your connections who it is and what they plan to do with the club?”
“Why do you care? You just quit.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. It still means something to me. And I’d hate to see that stupid Penelope Lowe getting all the business Agnes gets now.”
“I’ll ask Justin Baxter, see what he knows.”
“Good idea.”
He shook his head. “I really don’t get you sometimes, Mallory.”
“I know.”
And then he stood up and moved to sit right next to her. She felt her heart race. She had the urge to throw her arms around him, but she held back. But when he reached out to stroke her hair, then leaned in to kiss her, she didn’t resist. The feeling of his mouth against hers was as natural as breathing. His hand reached into her cardigan and traced her nipple over her camisole top. As always, the nerve endings that seemed to connect her breasts to her crotch made her pussy throb, and when he slipped his hand inside her jeans, she wanted his fingers inside of her so badly, she shamelessly began unzipping her pants and pulling them down to her thighs. He turned her around so her back was to him, his arm encircling her, his hand between her legs. She moaned and leaned against him, holding his arm. He skimmed her clit with his finger before pressing it inside of her, then out again, rubbing her outer lips with her own wetness.
“God, Alec,” she said softly. She lay back, pushing aside a heavy law book. She saw him glance at it, but he chose not to remark on it. He pulled off her panties, and she spread her legs, the thought
this is a bad idea
colliding with
lick my pussy
.
As if reading her mind, he moved his mouth between her legs. She let him tongue her clit for a minute, then said, “Alec, wait—this is a bad idea.” She sat up and reached for her underwear.
“It’s nothing. Let me make you come. At least one last time.”
It sounded outrageous to her—how could it be the last time? But that’s what a breakup meant. And she had to stick with her decision even when it was difficult. It was the right thing to do—wasn’t it? Who could think straight with her pussy throbbing like a second pulse?
She lay back again, closing her eyes, letting the ripples of pleasure move through her as Alec lapped at her cunt. Then, while his tongue flicked her clit with fast, repeated motions, he pressed a finger deep inside, locating her G-spot right away. It felt so good it almost hurt.
“Alec!” she cried out. He eased off, moving his finger in and out of her slowly and rhythmically. Her pussy shuddered against his fingers, and she grabbed his wrist, clenching her legs, fucking his hand.
“It feels so good,” she moaned. This would usually be the time when he would take off his pants, his cock throbbing and ready for her, and she would come again as he entered her.
But not tonight.
He pulled his hand out of her, wet with her juice. She wanted to throw herself against him, to tell him to stay, to sleep there so they could wake up in the middle of the night and mindlessly make love. But she reminded herself that they were broken up for a reason. She loved him, but that didn’t mean everything was okay. They needed time apart.
They stared at each other, the weight of their entire relationship between them. She remembered a lawyer from her first job telling her that whoever speaks first during a negotiation reveals the truth of the situation.
“I should go,” he said.
She nodded as he got up from the couch and walked out the door without another word. She wondered if someone had once told him the same thing.
17
“K
nock knock,” Gavin said, standing in the doorway of her office. Mallory hadn’t even had her second cup of coffee yet, but the sight of him gave her a jolt, and she was suddenly very wide-awake.
“Hey. Come in. I was just doing some research on
Faye v. Doughty.
”
“Great. Listen, I have Marcy Klein coming in this afternoon. I’d like for you to sit in on the meeting with her, but I just want to see where you’re at with . . . the situation we discussed.”
“What?” She blushed, thinking of Alec’s hands on her last night, the ways she wanted him. And now, the attraction she felt to Gavin. What was wrong with her?
“The little moonlighting situation.” He smiled, embarrassed. God, he was so cute. She couldn’t even imagine how freaked out he would be if he actually saw a show. He could barely reference burlesque in conversation.
“Oh! That. It’s taken care of. I quit.”
“Really?” His face lit up, dimples like mini-smiles.
“Yes. It’s done.”
“Are you okay with it? Again, I don’t mean to tell you how to live your life. It’s just that for the purposes here . . .”
“Gavin, seriously, it’s not a problem. I get it. I understand.”
“Well, I’m impressed. I’m sure it wasn’t easy. This calls for a celebration. Are you free tonight? I’ll make a reservation for dinner. And I promise only to talk about work eighty percent of the time. Okay, ninety percent.”
How could she turn down an invitation like that?
“Sure.”
“I think we should try Per Se. Have you been?”
She had read about the restaurant Per Se. There was a lot of fanfare when it opened, and the waiting list to get in that first year was legendary. The bribes and favors pulled to get a table rivaled the backdoor politics that used to be reserved for getting a kid accepted into the 92nd Street Y preschool. And she’d heard if a table for two got out of there with a check for under one thousand dollars, they were lucky.
“Are you sure that’s where you want to go?” she said.
“Absolutely. Tom’s an old friend. It’s a great place. You’ll love it.”
She knew he was referring to Thomas Keller, the owner, who was famous for his California restaurant, the French Laundry, which the press had anointed as the best restaurant in the country.
“I feel bad I’m not wearing something more. . . .” She looked down at her gray skirt, red and gray argyle tights, and black boots.
“You look perfect. As always. Seriously, you look absolutely appropriate. So here’s the plan: I have a hectic day—court later this morning, then meetings all afternoon. Plan to meet me in the lobby at 7:15. The car will be waiting.”
“Okay,” she said, because really, what else was there to say? She felt slightly off-kilter, like the universe had shifted in some seismic way and she was experiencing the aftershock.
Violet let herself into Billy Barton’s loft with her key. She found him sitting in the living room, looking through magazine mock-ups spread out on the glass coffee table.
“Jesus! What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s 10 a.m. Our standing weekly appointment.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Did you leave me a message to cancel?”
“I thought that would be redundant, given the fact that you are blackmailing me.”
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Violet said, taking off her coat. “This is just a simple business negotiation. And frankly, I thought you’d show a little more appreciation. I’m handing you a great idea. What are you going to do—publish that stupid rag forever? Magazines are so 1997.”
Billy took a deep breath, as if he were counting to ten before scolding a child. He seemed about to say something, stopped, and then, in a measured tone, said, “Okay, just give me my apartment keys.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I accept our new business relationship. But that means our old one is over. So give me the keys.”
They locked eyes, and without breaking her stare, she handed over the keys.
“Fine. I’ll accept the redefinition of our working relationship. Did you talk to Agnes?”
He nodded, packing his magazine spreads into a leather portfolio. She sat across from him.
“So don’t keep me in suspense. What did the old bat say?”
“She’s considering it.”
“You’re not dicking around with some lowball offer, are you? Why didn’t she agree on the spot?”
“First of all, you don’t understand human nature, Violet. At least, most human nature—I can’t speak for whatever system you’re operating on.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. So go on—enlighten me.”
“Agnes has been running that club for twenty-five years. If she weren’t open to cashing out for her own reasons, no amount of money would budge her. She’s not in it for the money.”
“Okay, Freud. So you think she’s ready to bail on the club anyway?”
“She didn’t seem offended or surprised or any of the other reactions that might come from someone who had never considered selling out.”
“That’s good news. What’s the time frame on hearing from her?”
“She said she’s thinking about it.”
“Tell her she has a week and then you pull the offer. You’ll go to her competitor and infuse them with a cash flow that will help them become the only club worthwhile in the city. She might not sell for money, but she’ll sell not to see her business die a slow death.”
“I’ll put some pressure on the situation.”
“Good. Because while you give Agnes a week, I’m giving you a week. Get the sale done, or I’m calling Page Six and Fleshbot offering a bombshell pictorial.”
She stood up. “I’ll see myself out . . . partner.”
 
The stiff formality of the dining room made Mallory uncomfortable.
She had plenty of experience in fancy restaurants, not only in New York City, but from growing up in a wealthy Philadelphia suburb where her parents took her to dine in Center City a few times a month. But something about this room put her off—the muted gray and brown tones, the oversized arrangements of foxtail lilies, and the view of Central Park that made her feel like she wasn’t so much a part of the city anymore but an observer in box seats. Even the dark suits and ties of the waitstaff seemed less elegant to her than imposing.
Or maybe it was the company.
Gavin seemed to inhabit the room with a complete lack of irony. Had she been there with Alec, they would have been giggling over the vibe and feigning heart attacks over the prices. But when Gavin ordered for both of them—the prix fixe menu at $235 a pop—he didn’t bat an eye. He didn’t consult her about the wine, but when he ordered the bottle, their waiter flushed with pleasure.
“This is quite a place,” she said, after the waiter collected the menus and left them alone.
“It’s a subtle room, right? I like it here a lot.”
“Yes. Very subtle.”
She shifted in her seat, wishing she had worn a longer skirt. Of course, when she had left for work that morning she hadn’t had any idea she would end up on a date with Gavin Stone. If that’s what this was. But no—that’s not what this was; this was just a celebration of her returning to the law after a brief detour. A break from Alec and the drama of their relationship. A return to sanity.
“So you told me you quit the club that you’ve been performing at. But have you given any more thought to what I was saying about getting back into law? I mean, as a lawyer, not just the paralegal stuff you’ve been doing this past year.”
Mallory nodded, wishing she had her wine. And just like that, the waiter appeared. He made a big show of opening the bottle, pouring some into a wide glass for Gavin and then pausing for his approval to pour more.
“Excellent,” Gavin said. The waiter seemed visibly relieved, as if he had been waiting for a jury verdict.
When their glasses were poured and the waiter had returned to the shadows, Gavin raised his glass.
“To a very bright future.” He smiled.
She imagined them as a power couple in the legal world. Of course burlesque wouldn’t fit into that life. She’d thought she and Alec could somehow be a creative couple living a more inspired life than the one her parents had led, or the ones her friends would lead if they worked in jobs that alternately stressed them out and bored them. If they forgot the passion for life they’d had when they started college, when anything seemed possible. But where had all that passion gotten her? A year of pursuing it had just led to a chaotic relationship.
“To the future,” she said, touching her glass to his.
They sipped their wine. She could tell it was very good; the better the wine, the easier it was for her to drink. And this wine went down like nothing she’d ever tasted before. With wine like this, she could understand how people became obsessive oenophiles.
She imagined that everything in Gavin’s life was like this: only the best. While he didn’t talk very much about his personal life, she knew he’d grown up in Manhattan, gone to the private school Horace Mann, and then to Princeton. He was great looking; he was smart—she imagined he could have pretty much anything he wanted out of life. And from the way he was looking at her, it seemed at that moment, what he wanted was her.

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