by Logan Belle
She found Billy at a table in the back talking to the hip-hop artist Nicki Minaj.
“Oh … Violet. Do you know Nicki?”
Violet shook her head, and the woman smiled sweetly at her, extending her hand.
“Okay, doll,” Billy said to Nicki. “I have some business to discuss, but I will call your manager on Monday and talk to him about the cover. But you heard it from me first—we want Nicki Minaj on the cover of Gruff by the summer.”
After a few more pleasantries, the woman strutted off, leaving Billy to shift uncomfortably in his seat across the table. Clearly, he was not a fan of the impromptu social encounter.
“I have to admit, I was surprised to hear from you like this,” he said.
“Pleasantly, I hope,” she replied. He didn’t respond. “Well, you don’t seem to be in the mood for small talk, so I’ll get right to it. As you know, no one is more aware of your tastes and interests than I am,” she said, and he squirmed noticeably. “And while I don’t share your kinkier proclivities—although I’m happy to service them for the right price—we do have one passion in common.”
“And what’s that?” he said, visibly annoyed. She was fascinated how different he was at the club, in his element—Billy Barton, arbiter of cool. Oh, if these people only knew!
“Burlesque, of course.”
He seemed to relax.
“Yes, we have that interest in common. So what?”
“So I have an idea I am hoping you will be excited about: I want to open my own burlesque club. Something like the Slit, but more exclusive.”
“Okay. Sounds good. Go for it.”
“I intend to. But I’m not here for your cheerleading. I need you to bankroll it. We’d be partners.”
“Violet, I have no interest in owning a burlesque club. They aren’t exactly cash cows. And besides, I’m putting everything I have into keeping Gruff afloat. Do you have any idea how difficult the magazine market is right now? The last thing I need is a vanity project on the side.”
“All you need to do is write a few checks. I’ll run the dayto-day, recruit the talent, the PR people. You can use your contacts in the press to make sure the club opens as the biggest thing to hit Manhattan since Studio 54. Or you can choose to be a silent partner and just let me worry about making it a success.”
“I just told you, I don’t have the interest—or the cash flow, frankly—to open a club right now. Even if I wanted to, which I do not.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Billy. But unfortunately for you, I’m not willing to take no for an answer.” Violet felt an adrenaline rush just saying the words. She knew there were two types of people: predators and prey. And, as a predator, she loved going in for the kill. Yes, she would have her club. And then she would have Mallory. Of course Mallory didn’t want her yet—anyone worthwhile wanted to fuck their way up the food chain, not laterally. Violet was newer on the scene than Mallory; she had no clout. But when she owned the club, Mallory would want her. She’d heard the rumors about Mallory and Bette. Such a cliché: new girl at the club fucks the star. But she would forgive Mallory that pedestrian move. Bette was a hot piece of ass as well as being a star. As for herself, she knew it was too late for her to outshine Mallory on the stage. But she had found her shortcut to the top, and once she was there, Mallory would want her.
Billy smiled and shook his head.
“Well, the answer is no. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on with my night—I have real business to attend to.”
“I just told you I’m not taking no for an answer.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
She shrugged. “I will refuse to work with you anymore. I think you’d miss my services. I’m sure your ass would.”
“Listen, you crazy bitch. You’re not the only whore in town—far from it. I could replace you in a second. So don’t forget it.”
“Hmm. And how would you go about finding other ‘whores’ to take care of your pathetic, closet-homo needs? Put an ad in the paper?”
“I think you should leave now before I call security.”
“I’m just saying, if you want to put an ad in the paper, I have the perfect photo for you.”
She slid three prints across the table.
Billy looked at them for a count of three seconds, then crumpled them in his fist.
“Are you out of your mind?” he whispered.
“No. I’ve actually given this a lot of thought. Now, the burlesque scene is getting crowded. I’d say the last thing downtown needs is another club—and I’m only looking at Manhattan. None of this Brooklyn hipster shit. So the obvious move is to buy an existing club that’s doing well and take it over. Maybe give it a little makeover, put our own stamp on it. Get rid of the dead weight; out with the old, in with the new and all that.”
Billy glared at her.
“To get right down to it,” she said. “I want the Blue Angel. So—are you in, or are you out? And I do mean … you will be out.”
Mallory was just putting the key in the door to her apartment when her cell phone rang. She was certain it was Agnes, yelling at her to get her ass back to the Blue Angel. But a quick glance at the incoming number told her she was wrong.
“Gavin?” she said.
“Hey, Mallory. I’m sorry to call so late.”
“It’s not a problem,” she said, surprised at how happy she was to hear his voice.
“I’m trying to find the folder with the summer 2010 depositions for Klein, and it’s not here. I just checked your desk, and I can’t find it. Do you have any idea where it is?”
“It should be on my desk. Are you sure? …” Her heart started pounding. This was a disaster. She was so preoccupied with all the craziness in her life that she was misplacing important files at work. This was unacceptable.
“I don’t see it.”
“Let me check my bag.” Was it possible she was so absentminded she’d brought it home with the pile of reading she had to do? She opened her BAE bag, and sure enough, in the pile of papers wedged next to her costume, was one of the Klein v. Klein files. “Oh, my God, Gavin. I’m so sorry. It’s in my bag,”
“You shouldn’t take those out of the office,” he said, but not too sternly.
“I know! It was a total accident. Do you need it now? I can jump in a cab and be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, do that. Just expense the cab. I’ll be in my office.”
“I’ll be right there,” she said.
Mallory put her phone and her bag down and walked straight to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror. She was relieved she hadn’t put on stage makeup that she would have to take time to remove before meeting Gavin.
She felt a flutter of excitement as she changed into a black pencil skirt and gray cardigan. This was ridiculous: Gavin was her boss. He wasn’t interested in her. And even if he was, Alec was still her boyfriend, no matter how many problems they had at the moment. And yet she couldn’t help thinking of Gavin’s thick, sandy brown hair and teal-colored eyes, or the slight cleft in his chin and dimples when he smiled. Today at lunch he’d had an unusual degree of stubble on his square jaw, and she’d had the urge to rub her palm against it, to feel it brush her cheek. And the way he’d looked at her today—the hint that maybe he wanted her—it was the most exciting feeling she’d had in a long time. With Alec, she was always mentally taking the temperature of their relationship—did he still want her; did he love her but not lust for her; did he want his freedom? Did she?
She knew it was pointless to let herself feel attracted to Gavin. But even though his status as her boss would prohibit him from ever making a move on her, just the thought that maybe he would want to if he were able to made her feel the rush she thought she’d left behind at the Blue Angel.
15
Poppy was guilt-stricken. Her hands trembled as she laced up her boots backstage. The other girls were already changed out of their costumes, happily chatting on their way to the bar t
o get drinks and celebrate another great show. Poppy would not be joining them, although she’d told Patricia that she would be. That she might be late—don’t wait up. That she loved her and would see her in the morning.
This thing with Violet was madness, and it had to stop.
What did she hope to gain by it? To make the routine of her relationship with Patricia more palatable? Or was she trying to accomplish something even more futile: to banish the specter of Bette?
Regardless of the root cause of this insane behavior, for the first time, Poppy gave credence to the notion of sex addiction; she had used to scoff when she read about the male celebrities who had to go to “sex rehab” for cheating on their wives. But now she knew. What was this thing with Violet if not some sort of sick addiction? Every time she let Violet fuck her, she vowed it would be the last time. And then a few days later, Poppy found herself craving it with an intensity that overrode everything else in her life. There was something about walking into that room, having no idea what would happen or how, but knowing that it would result in a rush of pleasure so intense and complete it would render her mind blank and her body like a single, vibrating nerve of ecstasy. She felt she could never get enough of watching Violet’s perfect body swathed in leather, the coldness of her wide green eyes, and the cruelty of her fingers that wielded pain while doling out pleasure in the most excruciating increments. How could she go from that to Patricia’s plain face and soft body, her eager-to-please lovemaking that was as predictable as her own menstrual cycle? Of course, there was the question of why: Why did Poppy enjoy being yelled at in bed, called a stupid whore, smacked, deprived of sensation, told she didn’t deserve to be fucked? What was it about her psychological make-up that made this exciting and appealing to the point that she was beginning to have a difficult time reaching orgasm without it? That was a larger problem. For now, she had to deal with the immediate issue: her desire for Violet.
Tonight she would cut it off. Just one last time. She would do as Violet asked—meet her at the bondage club on Fifty-seventh Street. It was called the Cellar, and she had never been there before. She had only met Violet three times at her apartment, and each visit followed a similar pattern of blindfolding, scolding, spanking, and eventually being finger-fucked or penetrated with a dildo before being “allowed” to eat Violet’s pussy. Each session left her more spent and emotionally raw than the last. And each one left her thinking about it and longing for it days later.
She wondered if the new setting would change the dynamic at all. The thought of what the strange space might hold was enough to get her wet.
The cab dropped her off at the corner of Fifty-seventh and Sixth. She walked west, looking for the address. She found the building, its small entrance framed by two older buildings on either side. It would be easy to miss, but she had a feeling no one who was looking for it would give up before finding it.
The street was empty, and the wind was colder than she had experienced since last winter. A part of her wanted to leave. Maybe she should stop this thing right now, cold turkey. In the doorway of the building, a camera turned its roving eye on her.
She turned to see if there were any cabs, but the few she spotted were either occupied or had their OFF DUTY lights on. Poppy was a strong believer in signs and took this to mean she should go into the Cellar. She pressed the button on the intercom and was buzzed inside.
The lobby, if you could call it that, was dark and spartan, the floor littered with unsolicited Chinese take-out menus. She stepped over them to the single elevator bank. Violet had instructed her to take the elevator to the fifth floor. Only in New York would a place called the Cellar be located on one of the top floors of a building.
The elevator was small and made her feel claustrophobic. It rattled to a stop on the fifth floor, and she tentatively stepped out.
The first thing she noticed was a gaudy chandelier hanging over an elegant, mahogany desk that looked like it belonged at someone’s country estate. Seated at this desk was a young woman with thick auburn hair cascading from a loose bun, granny glasses, and ghostly skin. She wore a Victorian style black blouse, but the rest of her outfit was hidden under the desk.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
“I’m here to see Violet.”
“Mistress Violet? Okay, your name?”
“Um, Poppy.”
The woman pressed a button on the desk phone and announced her arrival.
“That will be two hundred dollars. We take cash and all major credit cards.”
Poppy stared at the woman in disbelief. This was too much, even for Violet. She expected Poppy to pay for it?
“I think there must be some mistake,” Poppy said.
“I’m certain there is not. That’s the rate for a one-hour session with Miss Violet. Nonnegotiable.”
She knew this was the time to leave—the line in the sand that she should not, could not cross. And yet somewhere behind the curtains and doors to the left of the reception desk, Violet was waiting for her.
She handed over her American Express card.
Mallory signed in at the security desk in the lobby of the massive Park Avenue building where Gavin Stone Associates rented office space on the twenty-first floor. She swiped her ID card at the turnstiles guarding the elevator banks and checked her reflection in the chrome framework while she waited. She knew she would be checking herself even more closely in the mirror inside the elevator.
What was wrong with her? She was just dropping off a file. It didn’t make a difference what she looked like. And yet she felt a pulse of excitement in her that was so strong it scared her.
The twenty-first floor was dark and quiet. Only a few overhead lights were on. It was strange to pass the empty reception desk and make her way down the hall to Gavin’s office without seeing another person or hearing a single phone ring. It was like being in a dream.
She found Gavin at his desk, his sleeves rolled up, tie askew, head bent in deep concentration over a document in front of him. He looked like a model in a Ralph Lauren ad staged to depict a hot young lawyer busy at work.
Mallory rapped lightly on the doorframe.
“Knock knock,” she said.
He looked up and smiled.
“Hey. Thanks for bringing that over.”
“Of course! I feel terrible that you were looking for it and it wasn’t here.”
“No harm, no foul,” he said.
She reached into her bag, produced the file, and handed it to him. When he took it from her, his fingers brushed hers. She felt something shake through her.
“I just wanted to apologize for this afternoon,” he said. “I realize that I maybe overstepped. It’s not my place to tell you what to do with your life. I did have to tell you what would or wouldn’t work for me as your employer, but I should have left it at that. But the thing is, I do feel strongly about your potential, and if I hadn’t spoken up today at lunch I might have wondered for a long time if I should have.”
“I’m glad you did,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes. This is a confusing time for me, and I appreciate your candor.”
Silence.
“It’s a confusing time for me, too,” he said.
“Really? You never seem confused. You’re the only person I know who always seems to know exactly what to do, to say. I think being around you has made it impossible for me to accept the craziness in my life.”
“That’s ironic,” he says. “Because being around you makes it impossible for me to live with the boredom of mine.”
She looked at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t know you were a burlesque dancer. But I had an idea you had some sort of other life—someplace you ran to a few nights a week that you never wanted to talk about. Sometimes you show up for work and there’s shiny stuff on your face—like glitter or something. And I know you change into other clothes sometimes before leaving here. I thought may
be you were a major clubber or something—I didn’t know. I always wanted to ask you but knew it wasn’t appropriate. And then when I imagined where you were, I found myself wishing I were there with you. Part of it is because my life is getting so routine, but lately I think it’s because I just want to be with you.”
She looked at him, stunned.
“I realize,” he continued, “that it’s completely inappropriate for me to be telling you this. And that’s why, regardless of what you decide to do with your legal career, it’s probably best if we don’t work together anymore.”
“You’re firing me?” she said quietly.
“I just don’t think I can be your employer any longer. But I’ll help you find another job, give you the best recommendation. In fact, I think opposing counsel in Klein v. Klein is looking for a paralegal.”
“I don’t want to work someplace else,” she said, near tears. “This is the one stable thing in my life.”
“But I’m telling you my feelings for you are less than professional. Don’t you see that this is not a tenable situation?” His face looked as pained as she felt.
She sat down on the black Ethan Allen couch that faced his desk.
“Gavin, what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to quit so I can make love to you.”
“Jesus! You don’t mean that.”
“I do. I can’t stop thinking about you, Mallory.” He stood up from his desk and starting pacing in front of the bookshelf stuffed with legal volumes. “It’s making me crazy. And I realize that even just having this conversation is risky, and you could sue the hell out of me, so I am asking you to just put me out of my misery and quit.”
“I’m not going to sue you,” she said, quietly. “And I’m not going to quit.”
She walked over to him, grabbing his hand to stop his manic movements. He looked at her with surprise, and when she wrapped her arms around him, he did not move to embrace her back, but stood completely still.
