Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque)

by Logan Belle

  “We have everything you need.”

  Yes, you do, Violet thought. You just don’t know it yet.

  Mallory curled up on the couch in Bette’s suite at the Standard.

  “So what happened?” she said.

  Bette poured herself vodka.

  “It’s my fault,” she said. She looked younger and more vulnerable than Mallory had ever seen her, her face clear of makeup, her pale skin stark against her black hair. “I fucked it up.”

  “I doubt that,” Mallory said. And she wasn’t just saying it to make Bette feel better; Bette had always displayed a cool, rational mind when it came to relationships and sex.

  “No. I did. I need a cigarette,” she announced, pulling a pack out of her Chloé bag.

  “Since when do you smoke?”

  “Since the Paris leg of Zebra’s tour.”

  “You’re going to wreck your perfect skin.”

  “I’ll quit in a year.”

  “Why a year?”

  “That’s the time I’m allotting myself to get over Zebra.”

  “That’s too much time. You know the formula: it takes half the time you were with someone for you to get over the breakup. You were together less than a year, so in five months or so you should be in good shape.” Mallory smiled warmly at her and patted her arm. “Besides, things probably aren’t really over. Maybe you guys just hit a rough patch and it will work out.”

  Bette shook her head, leaning back into the folds of the thick, white couch cushions.

  “I blew it. I tried to make it into something it wasn’t. A bush league mistake.” She tapped her cigarette into a wide shallow glass. “It started out great—the sex was phenomenal; we talked all the time about art and music and dance. She was fascinated by burlesque, and you know I performed at some of her shows. We were like this creative, singular organism. We fucked and performed and dressed up and partied. But I got so wrapped up in her and wanting to be around her as much as possible that I stopped working at building myself. I didn’t practice; I stopped thinking of acts; I stopped paying attention to new music because everything was about Zebra. And before I knew it, she was the only artist in the room, and I was just another hangeron, like the stylists and backup dancers and makeup artists and designers. She totally lost interest in me. And the more I sensed her losing interest in me, the harder I clung to her. It was a vicious cycle. I can’t even blame her for losing interest in me. I wasn’t even interesting to myself.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “It wasn’t me! I’m telling you, love is a dangerous drug. Worse than coke. The highs are high, but you can’t maintain it. You keep trying to, and it just makes things crash that much faster.”

  “I think ideally love is supposed to mellow into something sustainable.”

  “Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

  “Not so well, actually.” Mallory told Bette about her suspicion that Alec was attracted to Violet, and the ill-fated night out for the three of them.

  “That chick is bad news. Alec should know better. And you should have known better than to hang out with her. So where do things stand with you and Alec?”

  “He left for LA the night after the Plaza, and I haven’t heard from him since. I don’t know if he’s hurt, angry, trying to figure things out—or maybe he’s not thinking about me at all. Maybe he’s partying with Kendall James and has decided our relationship isn’t worth the trouble.”

  “I doubt it. That guy loves you.”

  “I messed things up.”

  “Yeah, maybe. But he’s fucked things up in the past and you forgave him. Now it’s his turn.”

  “Maybe. Or all this messing up and forgiveness—or not—is a sign that the relationship just fundamentally doesn’t work. We met when we were twenty-one-years-old. How often do those types of relationships really go the distance? And I’m not talking about people who stay in miserable marriages. I mean really work—like, people stay happy together.”

  “I don’t know. But I think it’s too soon for you to give up. Unless you want to.”

  “Why would I want to?”

  Bette shrugged. “Do you have your eye on someone else?”

  “No!” Mallory said defensively.

  “There’s no other guy?”

  “No! Except sometimes I fantasize about my boss.”

  “The lawyer?”

  “Yes. It’s not just that he’s gorgeous—which he is. Or that he’s extremely smart and good at what he does …”

  “Uh-oh,” Bette said.

  “No, it’s not those things. It’s more that when I’m with him, I don’t have all the baggage of my relationship with Alec. It’s like Gavin—that’s his name—sees me through fresh eyes, and that lets me see myself that way, too. There’s so much intensity with Alec, and as much as I love him I’m just exhausted from it. With Gavin, I can imagine how an adult relationship should be.”

  “Be careful, Mallory. You know what they say—the grass is always greener. You and Alec have something together. Don’t let it go so easily.”

  “It’s not my choice right now—to let it go or not. I don’t know if Alec wants to be together anymore, either. And I’m just trying to see the possibility that it’s not the worst thing in the world instead of curling up in a ball like I did the last time we broke up. I guess I have a lot to figure out.”

  “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I think he really loves you.”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean we’ll make each other happy in the long run. And I don’t know what to do about it except take a step back.”

  “That makes two of us. But I’m going to try to forget about Zebra—which, considering she is on the cover of every magazine, playing over the sound system of every store I walk into, and permeating every corner of pop culture, will mean I basically have to move to another continent. Or planet.”

  “I think you need to focus on yourself. Do a show at the Blue Angel. Agnes would love it. And you need to remember that you’re a star in your own right.”

  “If there’s one thing that being with Zebra confirmed, it’s that I want real success. I want that level not just of fame, but of influence. I just have to figure out how to get to the next level.”

  “I know you’re hurting now, but being with her did help you get exposure. And in the beginning, that’s what you told me you wanted, remember?”

  “Yes. I remember. And you were disappointed that I wasn’t looking for my soul mate. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe you instinctively knew that she was just there to serve a purpose in your life. I was being a romantic sap. But I’m done with that.”

  “Now you’re a cold, hard realist?”

  “I’m trying to be.”

  Bette raised her glass in a toast.

  A beautiful young man opened the door to Billy’s apartment. Violet recognized him instantly from the Burberry billboard in Soho.

  “Hey,” the guy said.

  Violet shrugged off her leather coat, revealing the steampunk princess costume she’d put back on after the show. The only thing she’d left out of the ensemble was the wig. The man—if he was even technically a man or still a boy—seemed unfazed by her dramatic attire. She wondered if he knew what was in store for him, or if Billy was orchestrating a little midnight surprise.

  “Where’s Billy?

  “Um, in the bedroom.”

  “Why don’t you be a good little whore and wait for us on the couch.”

  The boy looked like he’d been smacked. She did not, in actuality, think he was a prostitute. But he might as well get a sense of the tone of the evening. Things always went more smoothly when everyone knew the drill.

  She walked into Billy’s bedroom and found him doing a line of coke.

  “Great. Party favors,” she said, sitting next to him in front of the glass end table. She dipped her finger into the powder and rubbed some on her gums. “Maybe your boy toy in the other room would like to partake? We s
hould all get in the partying mood, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Billy said.

  “I’m not worried. I just want him to be with the program. I’m not in the mood to have to do a lot of handholding. So what did you have in mind?”

  Billy hesitated for a few beats. “I want you to do the usual to me—you know, scolding, humiliation. And then for punishment I want you to force me to … do stuff with him.”

  “Have you two fucked before?”

  “I don’t know why that’s relevant,” he said.

  “I need to know the dynamic between you two so I can control the room. Answer the question or I’m out of here.”

  “Yes. We have.”

  “Super. Where is the equipment?”

  He pointed to his nightstand. She stood and collected the large black dildo, the paddle, the butt plug, and the arm restraints.

  “This will be a thousand dollars,” she said. “Paid upfront.”

  She strode into the living room and got the men in position: Billy Barton on all fours, and Tyler, the Burberry model, was—at her command—inserting a butt plug into Billy’s ass.

  She enjoyed directing. She was like Sofia Coppola—except hot. Actually, she kind of liked Sofia Coppola’s jolie laide sort of attractiveness.

  “You know he wants your cock in his ass, not that substitute—don’t you, Tyler?” she said.

  The man-child, trying dutifully to play along, looked at her with utter shock every time she opened her mouth. He was a gorgeous specimen, with wide, muscled shoulders and the tapered, taut upper body of a swimmer. He was about six foot five inches, and had a nice big cock. When he first removed his jeans, she told him to stroke himself, and it took all of her willpower not to kneel down and take that cock into her mouth. She rarely craved cock, but when something looked perfect she had to have it. Maybe Billy’s final humiliation of the evening would be to watch Tyler fuck her instead of him. But no, that would derail the most important part of her evening—something that would cost Billy Barton much more than one thousand dollars.

  “Now say thank you,” Violet said to Billy.

  “Thank you, Mistress Violet.”

  “Not to me, you idiot. To Tyler!”

  Billy started to thank Tyler and she interrupted. “You better show your appreciation by sucking his cock. Now! Tyler, get in front of him.”

  Tyler stood in front of Billy, who raised himself on his knees and eagerly placed one hand on Tyler’s thick penis, guiding it to his mouth. He took it in as far as he could, grasping Tyler’s ass with both of his hands, pulling him in a little deeper and holding him in place while his mouth worked him.

  Tyler closed his eyes, moaning so quietly Violet almost didn’t hear it. She circled around the two of them, pausing occasionally to smack Billy’s ass with the paddle.

  She could see that Tyler was getting so worked up he was close to coming, and she couldn’t let that happen—not yet.

  “Tyler, get over here and remove this butt plug. I don’t think Billy is giving you good enough head, and he must be punished.” Tyler looked at her pleadingly, as if to say, Don’t make us stop. But she wasn’t there to help some stupid model get off. “Don’t make me use this on you,” she said, brandishing the paddle. She knew from a little trial run earlier in the session that Tyler did not enjoy pain—not even a little.

  He obeyed her, reluctantly pulling his cock away from Billy’s hungry mouth, and circled around to where she was standing, tapping her boot with impatience, pointing at the offending butt plug, which needed immediate attention.

  Tyler’s cock was reddish purple, veiny with excitement and glistening with Billy’s saliva. She was mesmerized by it, barely taking her eyes away as Tyler pulled the rubber plug from Billy’s rectum.

  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

  Monday 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.