The Mak Collection

by Tara Moss

  Recognition. ‘Go on up. He’ll be waiting.’

  Or not.

  Mak ascended the staircase, her head already beginning to feel warm from the wig. At the top she pulled her dress back down to her knees out of habit. This is Damien’s crowd? The venue was packed with an eclectic mix of rockabillys, goths, goggled steampunks, men in long velvet coats and rockers with greasy hair and ill-fitting jeans. The few straight-looking types stood out like freaks. In her black dress, she was positively boring. Half the women were in knickers and corsets.

  Mak made a beeline for the toilets, pleased not to be wearing the head-to-toe latex dress some poor woman was struggling with in the next cubicle, and emerged seconds later feeling greatly relieved. She strolled into the main hall, and saw that the fashion was far from the only entertainment.

  On a bare stage, an emaciated MC with slicked hair, Jagger-lips and the long face of a young Tom Waits was slipping the suspenders off his shoulders and undoing the buttons on his ivory dress shirt with exaggerated drama. His shirt soon hung open to reveal a lean, white stomach. His lips quivering obscenely, he made an announcement into the old-fashioned microphone. ‘Ladeeez and Geeeeeeentlemen, I will now perform a fan dance. And, of course, later this evening we have the much-anticipated international burlesque performer—BELLADONNA!’ There was violent applause at the mention of the name, and with this the MC pulled his shirt wide to expose a concave chest with two black ‘X’s of duct tape covering his nipples. He caressed the ‘X’s lasciviously and pouted his engorged lips.

  Brilliant.

  Now the MC brought a stand-up floor fan over. He plugged it in, and it blew gusts of air at him while he performed a satirical striptease, with liberal suggestions of auto-eroticism. Mak laughed out loud. The man was a sensational tease.

  She looked around.

  Where is Damien?

  Mak’s stature assisted her in scanning the crowd for the man in the mask. Perhaps he had a contact there, someone who could hook him up with whatever he desired?

  A rockabilly band next took to the stage, amped up to maximum volume. They began performing a song that appeared to be about cocaine use—perhaps fittingly for the Snowdroppers, as they called themselves.

  Just as she was getting into the music and working her way from one side of the room to the other, looking for Damien Cavanagh or James Wendt, Mak noticed with discomfort that a man at the nearby bar, sober as a stone, was looking at her intensely. He had dark eyes, prominent eyebrows, a handsome face, thin lips. She had been prepared for leering drunks or awkward conversations with oddly dressed strangers, but not this. He was too focused as he approached her, too sober.

  ‘Do you come to gigs like this a lot?’ he asked. Immediately there was something Mak didn’t like about him. Something she didn’t trust. Just behind him, a buxom redhead leaned against the bar with her bosoms lifted proudly, hoping to catch his eye, or hers, Mak could not be sure.

  ‘Are there gigs like this a lot?’ Mak replied with incredulity. She doubted that, but then she had been out of Sydney for a while. She continued to scan the crowd, hoping the man would leave her.

  Her attention was again diverted, this time by a flash of flame. ‘Absinthe, darling.’

  It was the redhead, holding a glass towards her.

  ‘Hi,’ Mak said.

  Already the woman had the flesh of her shoulder pressed against Mak. She blew her own flaming drink out and sucked the shot back in the time it would take any normal person to inhale a raindrop. Mak took her cue to quickly extinguish her little fire. Steadying herself, she tossed the absinthe shot down her throat, barely touching the warm lip of the glass. It stung, and left a hot aftertaste of liquorice.

  Oh, wow…

  ‘Thanks for the drink. That’s very cool of you.’

  ‘You looked like you needed it. There’s a clique that put on things like this every few weeks. Different venues, different names. You should really come more often,’ the redhead told her. ‘You’re so pretty you should be onstage.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Mak said awkwardly, still keeping an eye out for Damien and Wendt in the gyrating crowd.

  ‘Did you see that French troupe when they were in town?’ came another voice. By now the strange man was being distanced from her, and she was grateful for it.

  Mak looked over her shoulder. Her new friend was a tall, thin, serenely attractive woman in full gothic attire: white face, black lips, glossy black hair falling down her back to a nipped waist encased in tight corsetry. Mak had moved forward to place her empty shot glass on the bar, and was now frozen mid-lope, like a gazelle in an artist’s study.

  ‘Do you mean Le Théâtre des Horreurs?’ Mak responded. ‘No, I missed them.’

  Perhaps this is Adam Hart’s kind of place? Somehow, that was hard to imagine.

  ‘Shame.’ The black lips pursed slightly. ‘Moira Finucane is on next week at the Speigeltent. I hope I see you there.’ She spoke the last sentence with a small flicker of a smile. Now it dawned on Mak that she was alone at a bar, being flirted with. It was familiar, of course, though much more fun in this crowd. Nothing like her other work for Marian.

  Mak returned the woman’s smile, flattered. She wondered if accepting the absinthe shot had been such a good idea. She could have turned it down, but it would have seemed rude. Now her brain was more than a little fuzzy. For a few seconds she searched for something to say to the woman, who she felt was infinitely cooler than she was. ‘Yeah,’ she finally managed, feeling hugely unimpressive, and perhaps even unworthy of the get-up that had piqued the woman’s interest.

  ‘You make a pretty brunette,’ the lady goth persisted.

  ‘Thanks.’ The wig is obvious. I knew it was obvious.

  Before Mak could compliment her in return, the woman walked away to join her group, a glass of dark liquid in her pale hands. She left behind the faint scent of incense. In seconds, the man had slid into her place, and to Mak’s horror, he leaned in close and spoke into her ear. ‘You’ve been busy since you got back in town,’ he said.

  She flinched.

  Had she heard that right? Back in town? That was not standard pick-up chat. ‘Pardon me?’

  His look was direct, but he didn’t answer. She was sure he had heard her question. What’s going on here? He seemed uninterested in repeating his question, and she did not want to play games.

  ‘Oh, I see, you’ve been reading the papers, huh?’ she mumbled, not caring whether he heard her over the loud music or not. He was like the man on the bus, commenting on the news articles. How annoying. Now she wanted to leave. She turned, but was intercepted.

  ‘You shouldn’t be following him,’ he said, gripping her forearm.

  She yanked her arm away. ‘What?’ Her head snapped around to face him eye to eye. His thin lips looked mean. Cruel. At this distance she could smell him, and he smelled of cheap cologne and dirty money.

  The Cavanaghs. The Cavanaghs have sent him. He’s following me. The bastard is following me.

  ‘Where’s your baseball cap, arsehole?’ she said. ‘I’m out of here.’

  ‘What’s up? Is this guy bothering you?’ Her buxom red-haired admirer gave the man a vicious shove, which he didn’t react to, and grabbed Mak by the hand, hauling her away from the bar, nearly causing her to trip. Now Mak noticed a full-sleeve tattoo of swirling waves and koi. The woman had muscle.

  Holy shit. This is getting crazy.

  The man held his hands in the air, palms up, and didn’t follow, but Mak suspected she would see him later, if he was indeed the man in the baseball cap. Mak felt she had already outstayed her welcome. She was halfway down the staircase when her flame-haired protector spoke up.

  ‘But Belladonna hasn’t even gone on stage yet!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I have to go. Thanks for the drink.’

  The bouncer noticed her on the way out. ‘Leaving so soon?’

  She said nothing.

  Mak arrived home humiliated. It should have been easy to foll
ow Damien Cavanagh around for a few days, and figure out who his main contacts were, and what they were known for. If he was up to his old tricks, she’d soon find out. But what was the story with her being tailed everywhere? Did Damien really have security looking out for her?

  Dammit.

  She marched down the echoing hallway and fumbled with her keys. The door opened for her, and she found herself looking at Bogey, unshaven, his black hair slightly ruffled. In her boots she was slightly taller than he.

  ‘Hi, are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Sort of.’

  It was one in the morning, and he was still awake. There were sketchpads on the coffee table. He noticed her looking at them. ‘Just working on some design ideas for a new chair,’ he explained. ‘Kick your boots off and relax. Would you like a drink? I made myself a rum and Coke. Would you like one?’

  ‘Sure,’ Mak answered. ‘Tonight was a damned disaster,’ she said flatly, and sighed. ‘At least a woman bought me a drink, so I guess it wasn’t a total failure.’ She plonked herself heavily on the sofa.

  Bogey took her coat and placed it carefully over the back of a stool, walked to the stereo and turned it on. It was tuned to a station playing a Nick Cave tune: ‘Into my arms…oh love…into my arms…’

  ‘Is the music okay?’

  ‘I love Nick Cave. Love him.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘It was stupid of me. I was trying to follow Damien Cavanagh, and I got made. Bad.’

  There was the clinking of ice, and the sound of bottles. ‘Is he still up to no good?’ Bogey asked.

  She looked up. At least someone sympathised with her side of things. ‘I don’t know yet. That’s what I hope to find out.’

  He handed the drink to her, and sat next to her on the sofa. ‘I think you are very brave,’ he said.

  Their faces were close, and without a word she locked her lips to his—the first time she had ever kissed him; the first lips she had kissed except Andy’s for what had been years. He tasted delicious. His mouth was soft, his lips like pillows, and so much warmer than hers. His whole body seemed unreasonably warm and magnetic to the touch. They lunged at each other like lovesick teenagers for a moment, kissing and holding each other, until she pulled back, awash with guilt. Was it because she had wanted this so much while she was still living with Andy? She had only just broken with him, and already she was prepared to leap into this other man’s arms? Was this what her heart was made of? But, of course, he wasn’t just any man.

  ‘I…um…should taste this drink,’ she said, and laughed.

  He smiled. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to…’

  ‘You didn’t do anything. That was me. I wanted to kiss you.’ She picked up her drink and downed half of it in one gulp. ‘I really like you, Bogey.’

  Bogey took her in with childlike wide eyes. He put his hand in hers and looked at her with silent intensity. He clearly did not want to push her into anything she might regret, but his desire was palpable.

  Again she leaned close, this time pushing her hips to him. The hollow of her lap connected with his hipbone, and they kissed again, falling back against the couch. She felt him throb and grow. He was straining hard against his jeans, and feeling that mound of warm sexuality aroused her further. She straddled him and positioned herself gently against it, straining slightly.

  Delicious…

  The heat between them grew, their kisses ever deeper. She felt herself letting go, feeling like she wanted to consume him completely. In that moment Mak cared little for regrets or expectations. She didn’t care about what anyone would think.

  She sat up, still straddling him, and smiled. He smiled back, unsure. Her dress had rolled up to her waist. She stood up and took his hand and led him to Loulou’s bedroom.

  ‘Sit down,’ she ordered.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, obedient.

  In one movement she unzipped her tight dress and pulled it down to her thighs, letting the bundle of fabric drop from her hands. She stood in front of Bogey in her bra and panties, feeling bold and unashamed, feeling almost like someone else. He watched, entranced, with that same wide-eyed expression. He did not move. When she bent to pull her panties to the ground, his plump Cupid’s bow trembled, and he leaped to his feet, sliding his arms around her waist. She carefully took his glasses off and placed them on Loulou’s bedside table. Naked of his spectacles, Bogey appeared even more entranced. Vulnerable. She brought her mouth to his, and their tongues connected again, tangled eagerly. With increasing urgency, she found herself pushing against his growing erection with her hips, wanting more and more of him. There was a tension in her that was relieved only when he knelt before her and finally—beautifully—took his moist tongue and licked the soft cleft between her thighs, teasing at first, and then harder, followed by a gentle suckling that sent her into gasps, fading away into a temporary, death-like peace.

  Mak did not know how long she swayed on her feet, pulsing inside. When she regained herself, a surge of desire reanimated her. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his forehead leaning against her bare stomach, his eyes closed. She pushed him back and slid his black leather belt out of his belt loops with a forceful tug, the end flicking his exposed stomach. Instead of tossing it aside, she seized his wrists and—silently daring him to refuse her suggestion—she looped the belt over his wrists and pulled it back around his waist, binding him. In seconds she had his dark denim jeans unzipped and thrown to the floor. The firm tent in his boxer shorts displayed clear arousal. He was hers.

  Her mouth ravaged him, and before long she had removed their last scraps of clothing and climbed on top of him. Time was nothing. It neither passed nor stood still. She felt their bodies joined together, and at the point of orgasm her shoulders began to shake, her thighs, her lips. She cried out and warm tears collected in the corners of her eyes and rolled freely down her cheeks. In that instant she became deeply aware of a well of grief and sorrow, previously unacknowledged. In a blink she saw a black hole of loneliness in the centre of herself, terrifying and impossibly huge.

  Bogey sighed beneath her, snapping her back into the physical world. He pulled out of her quite suddenly, his hard penis pouring warm jets across his naked stomach. She had a flash of his upturned face and his tattoos and pale skin, and she pressed down onto him, melting into him, sweat and moisture pressed tight between them, intermingling. Though her body still tingled with a deep pulsing pleasure, she worried about the glimpse of that giant dark hole of emptiness. She worried about what had been opened up, what it meant.

  He rolled her to his side, still bound to her, limbs entangled. There was only the sound of breathing. No conversation. Nothing to distract her. For long minutes her vulnerability felt intolerable.

  Accustomed to Andy’s habits in recent years, Mak prepared herself for Bogey’s physical departure, followed closely by the toss of a towel to clean herself, or worse, tissues, or the sound of the shower starting. But he remained against her, their bodies touching. He watched her, and seeing her tears, spoke no words. Thoughts rushed through her head—urges to weep, to flee—but he only held her tighter. His warm semen was slick across their bellies and felt somehow comforting.

  Communion.

  CHAPTER 32

  ‘Jolie! Come, come. Mr Roberts is here, and he wants to see you.’

  Ms Rosalay stood in the doorway and held out her long fingers, gesturing to the young woman, who rose from the lounge chair as if manipulated on strings.

  ‘You remember what I told you about Mr Roberts?’ Ms Rosalay said, her brown eyes glittering.

  Jolie nodded. ‘Yes.’ She felt confident. ‘I’ll get ready, then.’ She tried not to take notice of the sudden interest of the other women in the waiting room. Some looked up from their preparations, their reading, the television that was softly speaking in the corner. None spoke. She supposed they would ask her about him afterwards.

  Jolie was not her real name, but no one in this place used real nam
es. She liked to call herself Jolie, after the movie star. Her real name was Faith, and she was from Idaho, but she didn’t think that sounded very glamorous so she kept it to herself. ‘Jolie’ had been working in Ms Rosalay’s establishment in Mumbai for only two weeks, and so far she thought she was doing pretty well. The money was excellent. One client had even given her a $500 tip, which was quite a compliment, she thought. Her mum in Idaho thought she was working part-time as some rich businessman’s secretary while she studied at the SK Somaiya College of Arts, Science and Commerce.

  It was something like that.

  Ms Rosalay had told Jolie about Mr Roberts. She had said he was a nice man, and paid very handsomely, but that some of the girls did not work out for him because they had some kind of problem with his appearance or something, and found it hard to perform their services satisfactorily. Jolie thought that sounded ridiculous, but then, she hadn’t seen him. The important thing was that he paid top dollar, and he wasn’t violent or into any of the weird stuff that she wouldn’t do. In fact, Ms Rosalay said that what Mr Roberts wanted was for a woman to stay with him for the entire night, so he could sleep with them in his arms afterwards. She thought that sounded kind of sweet.

  Jolie sauntered to the bank of well-lit mirrors in the waiting area, leaned in and checked her reflection. She ran a tongue across her white teeth, and slicked her mouth with another coat of clear lipgloss, making her lips glisten alluringly. With her index finger she pressed against her eyelashes to curl them up further so her eyes would look even wider. She applied another coat of mascara to accentuate the look. When she was done, she stood back and patted her hips a little selfconsciously. Jolie wore an ankle-length silk dress in the elegant, sophisticated style Ms Rosalay approved of. It was a dark blue that set off her golden skin, and the design with its thin spaghetti straps and low plunging back offered tantalising glimpses of Jolie’s curves. At 155 centimetres she was petite, and wore designer platform sandals, her toenails immaculately polished in a cherry red. She spun before the mirror, ran her fingers through her hair, took a breath and stepped into the parlour.