by Logan Belle
“Don’t they give you practice space?”
“They gave all the troupes an assigned time to use the actual stage—it’s in one of the clubs downstairs. I think it’s the Bond room or something. But the thing is, there’s no privacy. Mallory and the girls can use the stage, but the other competitors could sit and watch them.”
“Got it,” Max said. “So tomorrow is just practice day?”
“Yes—Friday rehearsal, Saturday is the show and they announce the winner at the end, and Sunday is the awards ceremony.”
“You know what?” Max said. “I’m really happy to share the show with you as spectators. Are you okay with this?”
“Yes. Absolutely. I never intended to perform here. Even before I officially quit.” She put her arms around him, and he held her close.
They took the elevator up to the suite Mallory and Alec had booked for her. She had been thrilled when she’d first walked in that morning. Everything charmed her, especially the soft curves of the furniture—rounded, azure-colored couch, round coffee table, even rounded terrace furniture overlooking the fountains and the faux Eiffel Tower in the distance. There were square glass vases of fresh-cut white flowers in every room. Every corner seemed to hold a charming design detail—like the quirky wallpaper lining the inside of her closet.
Nadia retrieved a more comfortable pair of flats from her closet. She wondered if she’d ever feel comfortable in heels again. The doctor had assured her that in time, if she took care of her foot, it would feel normal eventually. The thought of someday being back in her favorite shoes helped ease the pain of never again being in pointe shoes. At least she would be able to dress up and feel like a lady, if not a dancer.
“Those red embroidered toe shoes that Devla made are really something,” Nadia said.
“I agree,” said Max, and she could tell he was watching her face with particular interest.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing. I just remember the way you looked at those shoes.”
“They inspired me.”
“Devla is as much an artist as the dancers.”
“Yeah. I could see that. So I was thinking, maybe I could find some satisfaction in working with costumes.” She felt nervous admitting it—it was as if she was quitting ballet all over again. But the look on Max’s face was worth it.
“Are you serious?”
She nodded.
“Babe, nothing would make me happier. And Devla is the perfect person to learn from. Oh, Nadia—I’m just so happy,” he repeated, kissing her and looking into her eyes. Her stomach did a little flip, the way it always did when he kissed her. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
Her cell phone rang.
“Let it go to voice mail,” he said, kissing her neck. She was about to turn her phone off when she saw that the caller was Mallory.
“It’s Mallory. I’ll be quick. Hello?” she said.
“Hey—where are you?” Mallory said.
“In my room.”
“I need to talk to you—don’t go anywhere,” Mallory said.
“Can we make it a half hour or maybe …”
“It can’t wait. Just stay there. I’ll see you in five minutes.”
Nadia looked at her phone, then tossed it onto the blue couch.
“What’s that about?” Max said.
“I don’t know. But she’s on her way over here, so we’ll find out soon enough.”
The knock on the door came with remarkable speed.
“Were you standing outside my room when you called?” Nadia said as she opened the door.
“No,” Mallory said. “Max—good to see you. Devla did a phenomenal job altering the costumes for us. She’s amazing.”
“Yes, she is,” Max said.
Nadia was slightly unnerved by the stiff formality underneath Mallory’s light conversation. Max would never notice it, but Nadia knew Mallory well enough by now to understand that she was upset.
They sat on the couch. Nadia offered Mallory a drink—they’d already stocked the fridge with wine. Mallory said just water was fine for her.
“So, I’m here because there’s a slight … glitch in the weekend,” Mallory said.
“What is it?” said Nadia.
“Bette can’t make it. She’s held up on the set. And as you know, we need three performers to qualify—no more, no less.”
“Oh, no! Mallory, I’m so sorry. Are you sure Bette can’t make it even by Saturday afternoon?”
“I’m certain.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mallory, but I don’t see what Nadia and I can do. Are you pulling out of the show?” said Max. Nadia looked at him, realizing that he’d figured out before she had why Mallory was sitting in their hotel room.
“No. That’s not an option. I’ll get someone off the street if it comes to it. But I’m hoping it won’t.” She looked at Nadia. “Could you step in for Bette?”
Even though she’d guessed the request was coming, Nadia almost gasped. She didn’t dare look at Max.
“Mallory, I’m flattered that you think I could help you with this. But you know I’ve never even completed a performance at The Painted Lady, never mind in an intense situation like this.”
“Yes. I know that. But I also know that you’re a professional dancer. You know how to perform under stress. I’m sure you’ve pushed through lots of performances when the circumstances were not ideal. I believe you can do this, and I’m asking you—begging you, really—to try.”
“You’re asking too much of her,” said Max.
“Both of you—stop. Just give me a minute to think.”
Nadia walked over to the sliding glass doors of the terrace. She stepped outside, looking out over all of Las Vegas. She weighed her promise to Max against the debt of gratitude she felt she owed Mallory. And then, of course, there were her own fears and issues about her short-lived, almost-burlesque career.
Maybe this was a sign. Maybe here, in this place of fake Eiffel Towers and an endless strip of buildings designed for spending money, making money, and experiencing pleasure, she was meant to dance her first and last burlesque performance. Deep down, she suspected it was something she needed to do, or she might always wonder what it would be like.
She returned to the living room, where Max and Mallory were locked in adversarial silence.
“Mallory, I need to talk to Max alone for a minute.”
Nadia could tell Mallory had to fight not to smile. She knew Nadia was leaning toward helping her.
“I’ll wait on the terrace,” Mallory said.
Alone with Max, Nadia had to think of how to explain her reasoning. She couldn’t find the words.
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said.
“I want to do it,” she said.
He took a deep breath. “Does that mean you’re rethinking what you said to me that night at Central Park?”
“No. I meant what I said that night. This would be a onetime thing. I wasn’t looking for the opening, but now I have one last chance to just see if I can do it. And I’d be giving something back to Mallory, who helped me pick myself up off the ground last year. And whether I pull it off on that stage Saturday or I don’t, I will at least know I saw this experience through. And I won’t ever look back.”
Max stood up and paced for a minute. And then he turned to her and said, “You made a big compromise for this relationship when you offered to give up burlesque. I guess the least I can do is compromise over this one show.”
Nadia jumped up and threw her arms around him.
“Thanks for understanding,” she said. “It means so much to me.”
“You mean so much to me,” he said. “I’ll do whatever I can to make this work.”
31
Violet loved Vegas.
Her biggest decision of the day was which of the three Cosmopolitan pools she should go to. Now this was the way to live.
She decided on the pool they called
the Marquee Dayclub. It was “adults only”—the party pool, she felt certain.
“We can leave our bags here to hold the chairs while we swim,” Violet said to Gemma, whose skin was porcelain white against her black bikini. “And seriously, you have got to get some sun.”
“I don’t tan, I just burn. And I don’t swim,” she said in that clipped accent of hers.
“Wow, you’re quite the party. I don’t know why you didn’t just stay in New York,” Violet said. She untied her white Alice + Olivia cover-up, revealing her tight body in the tiniest of red bikinis. Of all the poolside hotties, Violet knew she stood out.
She kept her black platform heels on as she strutted to the side of the pool, removing them only when she got to the edge and sat down to dip her feet in the water. In less than a minute, a man appeared next to her. He was middle-aged, deeply tanned, and had the sheen of wealth.
“That’s a dynamite set of tattoos you’ve got there,” he said.
“Yes, it is,” she said coolly. The tattoos were her pride and joy: On her front, just above her bikini line, it read in gothic letters, Merci. On her backside, just above her ass, in the same lettering, it read No Mercy.
“Are you, by any chance, here for the burlesque festival?” he asked.
She sized him up. Maybe she could pick up a quick dom gig while she was out here.
“I’m here for work,” she said.
“So am I,” he said with a smile. He held out his hand, “Marty Bandinow.”
For a minute, the name didn’t register. Then she carefully re-calibrated her expression. She was talking to the sponsor of the entire festival.
“I know who you are,” she said.
“So I take it your work is burlesque?” he said.
She nodded and finally shook his hand. “I’m Violet. I own Violet’s Blue Angel.”
“Ah, the elusive Blue Angel. I’m happy to finally have your club joining in all the fun. The previous owner was not a fan of our little competition.”
The smile they shared was suddenly one of coconspirators.
“Yes, well, I’m happy to bring the Blue Angel into the twenty-first century,” Violet said.
“So what attracted you to our competition? The prestige or the prize money?”
“The money, of course,” she said.
He laughed. “A girl after my own heart. And what would you do with the winnings?”
“I don’t know—” She shrugged. “Maybe bring Blue Angel to Vegas.”
He smiled and clapped his hands. “Violet, I look forward to seeing your performance on Saturday. In the meantime, enjoy. I know you New Yorkers love your city, but I have to say we’ve got a lot to offer in this town.”
A cocktail waitress stopped by and asked them if they’d like a drink. Violet ordered a margarita.
“Marty, I think you’re right. And it was great to meet you.” She pulled her legs from the water and stood up, giving him another view of her ass. “Do me a favor? If you see the waitress, send my drink over there?” She pointed to the shaded lounge chairs where Gemma was hidden under a wide-brimmed hat.
“Will do,” Marty said.
She got a thrill having people do tasks for her, even a small one like that. She was sure Marty was used to being the one to tell people how to direct his beverages—and everything else he wanted served up on a silver platter. She bet that her telling him what to do got him hard.
Violet walked slowly back to the lounge chair, holding her heels in her hand, letting Marty get a nice long look at her from behind.
“It’s a hundred degrees out here,” said Gemma.
“We’re in the desert,” said Violet. “So guess who I was talking to over there.”
Gemma shaded her eyes and looked in the vague direction of the pool.
“I dunno. An actor?”
“No. I would never waste my time talking to an actor. I met the guy who sponsors the whole competition. And, frankly, I think we had a little moment.”
“A … moment?”
“Yes. A connection.”
“You mean he wants to sleep with you.”
“Exactly.”
“No offense, Violet, but this is a burlesque convention. It’s not like he’s hosting a hotdog-eating contest. He must want to sleep with everyone. Maybe he is.”
Violet shot her a dirty look. “Maybe he is; maybe he isn’t. All I know is that I did a little strategic networking out there. It got me thinking maybe he’d step up and bankroll the opening of a Blue Angel Las Vegas. I could really rock this town. But first, on Saturday, Spider, Cookies and I are going to tear up that stage. Let’s just hope your costumes aren’t the weak link.”
Gemma pulled her hat down farther over her face, but not before taking a good long look at Marty Bandinow.
32
Mallory paced in the dressing room behind the stage at Bond, the performance space in the Cosmopolitan Hotel.
They were an hour into the competition, and she had not yet ventured onto the floor to watch any of the acts. But the next performer was from Violet’s troupe, a woman with the singular name “Spider.”
Poppy and Nadia had both told her they didn’t want to watch anyone else—they needed to keep their heads in the game and focused. Mallory knew that watching other performers could go either way: Sometimes they were unimpressive, and it gave her all the more confidence to rock it when she took the stage. Occasionally, the other women were so good it left her feeling rattled. She knew she shouldn’t risk the latter outcome, but her curiosity was too intense to ignore. She wanted to see who Violet had in her arsenal, and she wanted to see the costumes designed by Gemma, that traitor.
“She’s the biggest British turncoat since Benedict Arnold,” Alec said.
“Benedict Arnold wasn’t British—he was American and went to the British side.”
“Even worse!”
“Come out with me—I need to see what’s going on,” Mallory said.
They made their way through the crowd to the designated Painted Lady table. Each troupe had its own table, but most performers, like Mallory, were not sitting in the audience. The only people at the Painted Lady table were Martha, Poppy’s girlfriend, Patricia, and Billy Barton.
Speaking of traitors—what was he doing there?
“How’s it going backstage?” Martha said.
“Um, fine,” Mallory said, distracted by the enemy in their camp.
“Hi, Mallory! You look stunning. I can’t wait to see you up there,” Billy said. His thick brown hair was slicked back, and he wore a lightweight plaid sports jacket, crisp white shirt, and black tie.
“No offense, but what are you doing here?” she said. She was in no mood for this—not when she had to be onstage in less than an hour.
“It’s a long story,” Alec said, pulling out a seat for her. “Let’s just say Billy is back where he belongs—with us. And really, always has been.” He clapped Billy on the shoulder.
“Okay, whatever—I can’t deal with this right now.”
“Want a drink?” Martha asked. She was wearing a floral muumuu and fanning herself with a Chinese folding fan Mallory had given her out of their prop collection. The air-conditioning was straining against the triple digit heat. This was hot—even by desert standards.
“No, thanks. I shouldn’t drink until I’m done performing,” said Mallory.
Martha consulted her program. “There’re two acts after Violet and then you, right?”
Mallory nodded. “How has it been so far? I haven’t watched anything.”
“It’s been solid. But nothing that’s blown me away. You can take ’em,” Alec said.
“Are you ready for more?” asked the MC from center stage, a question that elicited a roar from the crowd. She was a well-known cross-dressing lesbian from New York named Chelsea Corners, and from what Mallory could tell, was doing a terrific job running the show with her trademark ribald humor.
“Lord knows I don’t know what to do with a pole between my
legs, but this next lady sure does. Give it up for the most twisted lady in burlesque, Spider!”
The curtain pulled back to reveal a floor-to-ceiling stripper pole, a trademark prop that had gotten Violet fired from the Blue Angel back in the days when Agnes was running it “old school.” Mallory was not surprised to see the controversial pole make an appearance on the Vegas stage. If anything, it seemed to belong in that town. And Spider seemed equally suited to the vast stage and flashy venue.
Mallory looked at Alec, and he shrugged.
Spider’s hair was shaved in the shortest of buzz cuts, and the crown of her head was tattooed with a snake. Both ears were pierced and ringed from lobe to the highest point around the top. Mallory could also see rings in her nose and her upper lip. It was obvious to Mallory these were not a part of her costume. However, the goggles, knee pads, and combat boots clearly were. And with the cranking punk music, the roar of the crowd, and Spider’s long limbs already clambering to the top of the pole, the overall effect was electrifying.
Mallory felt her stomach drop. The performer’s steampunk hotness was undeniable. Somehow, the woman got her bustier and shorts off while still in the air, either her arms or legs wrapped around the pole at all times. The crowd was going wild, clapping and screaming with delight. By the time she made her way down the pole, Spider was wearing only the requisite G-string. Her body was tight and hard as a rock, and when she flashed her ass at the audience, she did a little trick where she shimmied her buttocks. And then she turned her body, slid to the floor, and folded herself like a pretzel.
“Is this burlesque?” said Patricia.
“Let’s put it this way: If Agnes were dead, she’d be rolling over in her grave,” said Alec. They laughed, but Mallory knew there was really nothing funny about this. Agnes wasn’t a judge. This wasn’t the Blue Angel. It wasn’t even New York: It was Vegas; it was the Cosmopolitan—the place that had heralded its arrival on the Strip with the tagline, “Just the right amount of wrong.”
By the time the song ended, the audience was giving a standing ovation.
Mallory wished she had not seen the performance. By comparison, her choreography and costumes could only be called quaint. And that was on top of the question of whether or not Nadia would actually make it through her performance.
