by Logan Belle
“Mallie, we feel terrible,” said Allison, adjusting her shiny auburn ponytail. “I promise I will be at the next show—front row, making all that obnoxious noise you seem to love.”
The hostess showed them to one of the large, round tables against the back wall in the main dining room.
“So are we celebrating a successful night?” Julie asked.
“You could say that,” said Mallory.
She waited for them to notice her ring—the way Allison had noticed Julie’s engagement ring the morning they’d had breakfast last year at City Bakery. At the time, Julie’s recounting of Jonathan’s proposal at the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park had sounded very romantic. Mallory could never have imagined that a year later, Alec would be proposing to her onstage in front of hundreds of people.
But Allison and Julie were apparently too absorbed in the menus to notice the diamond elephant in the room.
“I do love the chopped salad here, so I’m not going to complain anymore about the trek,” said Julie.
“Do you think the salmon is wild or farmed?” said Allison.
“Can I get you ladies a drink to start?” asked the waitress.
“We’ll have three margaritas. On the rocks with salt,” Mallory said.
Allison and Julie exchanged a look but didn’t argue.
“You do know we have to go back to work after this,” Julie said.
“I thought book publishing was run on three-martini lunches,” said Mallory.
“This isn’t the eighties,” said Julie.
“Why don’t you tell us about last night,” said Allison, taking a piece of bread from the basket in the center of the table.
“It was everything I hoped it would be. And more,” Mallory said suggestively. No one took the bait.
Their drinks arrived. Mallory ran her finger around the salted rim and raised her glass. Julie and Allison followed.
“To The Painted Lady,” said Allison. “Long may she live—and strip.”
Mallory touched her short, round glass to Allison’s, then to Julie’s. And that’s when she saw Julie hone in on the ring.
“Oh … my … God,” Julie said.
“What? What’s wrong?” said Allison.
Julie reached out and grabbed Mallory’s hand.
“Look! Is that what I think it is?”
Her voice was so loud, people at nearby tables turned to look at them.
“Shh! Yes—Alec proposed to me last night.”
“Congratulations!” Julie shrieked. “When did he do it? How did he do it?”
“In the middle of the show! He called me up onstage in between acts. I had no idea why he was doing that. I’d just finished my performance, but I threw on a robe and went back onstage. He started going on about how I wasn’t just a performer but a producer of the shows, and that he hoped I would take on another role—his wife. And then he got down on one knee and gave me the ring.”
Julie put her head in her hands. “I am so upset I missed it,” she said.
Allison was quiet, shaking her head slowly. “Looks like smart Alec really did get smart,” she said, referring to her nickname for him.
“Very funny,” said Mallory.
“Seriously, bravo, Mal. A year ago this guy is begging you for a three-way with a hooker, and now he wants to tie the knot.”
“She was a dominatrix, not a hooker.”
“Same difference. The point is you pulled off a relationship miracle.”
“Wow. Your sentimentality is getting me all choked up.”
“No, I’m in awe. Congratulations. This is amazing,” Allison said, reaching out and putting her hand over Mallory’s.
“The ring is stunning,” said Julie. “Antique?”
“Yeah. From the 1920s,” said Mallory.
Allison was on her BlackBerry.
“Are we boring you?” said Julie.
“I’m Tweeting this. Seriously, Mal, Alec should have given me a heads-up. This was a great PR opportunity wasted.”
“You are such a romantic,” said Julie. “Maybe Mallory should charge an admission fee to her wedding.”
“It was one of the best nights of my life,” Mallory said. “I felt bad about one thing, though. You know Nadia, my ballet studio partner? She totally froze. She danced the first quarter of her performance beautifully, but when it came to taking off the costume, she couldn’t do it.”
“Well, not everyone is a superfreak like you,” Allison said with a smile.
“Seriously. You just make it look deceptively easy, Mal.”
Mallory smiled, but wondered if her impending marriage signaled the end of her days of superfreakdom. Maybe it was time to pass the baton to someone who needed burlesque to save her the way it had once saved Mallory.
“I’m going to help Nadia find her inner superfreak,” Mallory said.
“Like Bette did for you?”
“Yes. But minus the sex.”
“Oh? Are you retiring your Sapphic self?”
“We’re all about monogamy these days,” said Mallory.
“Hmm. I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I’m serious,” said Mallory. “Isn’t that what marriage means?”
“Yes, for normal people,” said Allison. “But we know you and Alec will never be normal. And we love you for it.”
Violet found Cookies at a table in the back of the club. She wore black yoga pants and a pink hooded sweatshirt, and was smoking a cigarette while drinking a green smoothie.
“Why bother with the health drink if you’re a smoker?” said Violet. She hated the hipster health vibe that had drifted across the continent from the West Coast. The East Village was littered with tiny storefronts selling atrocious, ten-dollar vegetable and fruit concoctions with names like “Hangover Helper” and “Brain Booster.” Violet lived on red meat and Diet Coke, and she was healthy as a horse.
“I figure they cancel each other out and I’m on neutral ground,” said Cookies.
“And I hate the whole Girls Next Door vibe you have going on,” Violet said, pulling on the hood of Cookies’ sweatshirt as she sat down.
“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“So change my mood. Tell me you’ve got photos of The Painted Lady show.”
Cookies logged into her iPhone and slid it across the table.
“Good girl,” Violet said. She slid her finger across the screen, speeding through the shots. “Who’s this?” Violet paused at the picture of a willowy brunette.
“A former ballerina. She didn’t do such a great job.”
“Slammin’ body, though.” Violet was silent through the rest of the photos. When she was finished, she sat back in her seat. “The costumes are phenomenal. Who did them?”
“I think most of them were done by some British chick working with Agnes.”
“What’s her name?”
“Gemma Kole.”
“I have to talk to her.”
“I don’t think Agnes will want anyone who works for her to work for you.”
“Who cares what that old bag wants? Money talks, nobody walks. I’m sure the Brit could use a few under-the-table gigs. I just need Billy to cough up a little pocket change. A boost in the costume department is exactly what we need around here.”
Cookies nodded. Violet reached over and unzipped her sweatshirt. Underneath, Cookies wore a black tank top and no bra. Violet brushed her fingers against Cookies’ nipples, bringing them to a point. “You know what else I need around here?” Violet said. Cookies shook her head no. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Okay,” Cookies said. Violet slipped her hand under the T-shirt to cup Cookies’ bare breast. “I need you to let me watch someone else fuck you,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I said.” Violet moved her hands to tug off Cookies’ pants. Cookies raised her ass to help get them off. She eyed the door nervously. “It’s locked,” Violet said. She pulled Co
okies’ thong down to her ankles, then slid her palms underneath Cookies’ ass so her pelvis tilted up. “Spread your legs,” Violet said, helping Cookies get in the right position so Violet had a view of—and access to—her asshole. As always, it was pink and puckered and just waiting for her. Violet licked her finger, then pressed it into Cookies’ ass, an opening so ripe and available, it made Violet wish she had a cock. She moved her finger in and out, watching Cookies’ breathing get more labored, and feeling her ass relax and give more with each stroke. Cookies’ fingers reached for her own clit, and Violet smacked her hand away. “You have to come just from this,” she commanded. She worked her finger faster, but then she couldn’t resist: Cookies’ clit was so engorged she had to taste it. She pressed her tongue against the tight little knob, and Cookies cried out, her ass clenching around Violet’s finger, her pussy juicing against Violet’s mouth.
When Cookies was still, Violet said, “Don’t you want to be able to make me come the way I always do for you?” Cookies nodded, her eyes half-closed. “Well, I’m telling you how you can.”
“Okay,” Cookies said.
“Good girl,” said Violet. “Now get dressed. I’m going to go score us a brilliant costume designer.”
9
Nadia stood on the Painted Lady stage wearing only jeans and pasties with red tassels.
Nadia had promised Mallory she wouldn’t shy away after the debacle of her opening night performance. And so, in a show of what she hoped was a positive attitude in the face of gross failure, she’d decided to spend the morning at The Painted Lady.
She was unpleasantly surprised to find Bette Noir at the club along with Mallory. She found the black-haired beauty to be very intimidating. Nadia was thankful that Bette was leaving in a month for her next film.
“Open up your rib cage more,” Mallory said from her seat at one of the tables.
Mallory was trying to teach her how to tassel-twirl. It was one of the most distinctive burlesque moves, but Nadia had shied away from it for her first performance. It wasn’t the most refined movement, but she understood the value of it. “Now bounce up and down on the balls of your feet.”
“But loosen your arms away from your sides more,” said Bette.
“She’s right,” Mallory said. “If your arm is too tight against your side, it can halt the movement of the tassel.”
Nadia bounced up and down, but the tassels only swung from side to side, not around in circles.
“We’re going to need to get your shoulders into the mix,” said Bette.
They heard the front door open, and Justin made his way into the room.
“Hi, ladies,” he said.
“Hey—what brings you by?” said Mallory, kissing him on the cheek.
Nadia pulled on her T-shirt and sat on the edge of the stage. There was no way she was going to practice making her tits bounce in front of Justin.
“I wanted to run some scheduling by you. Martha’s birthday is in a few weeks. I totally flaked and didn’t plan anything earlier. What I’d like to do is to close this place for a night and just have a huge bash here.”
“Sounds great.” Mallory pulled out a big DayMinder calendar and flipped forward a few weeks. “What night of the week?”
Nadia went to the dressing room for a bottle of water. When she returned to the stage, Mallory called her down to join them at the table.
“Justin wants to ask you something,” she said.
“Okay.” Nadia pulled out a chair and sat across from him. He was very handsome. It was no wonder a lot of the girls talked about him in a way that was less than professional. But that happened everywhere. She knew Max Jasper had a reputation for bedding his dancers, too.
She shook the thought from her mind. She didn’t want to think about him. His invitation to watch a rehearsal was nagging at her like a hangnail. A part of her thought maybe she should just go, get it out of her system, shut him up about her choices by showing him that visiting Ballet Arts would not have some magical effect on her, and then they could both move on.
“I know you had a rough time the other night, but I’ve seen you at rehearsals before, and you’re absolutely amazing. I hope you’re going to, you know, get back on the proverbial horse,” Justin said.
“Oh, I will,” Nadia said.
“Great. I was just telling Mallory that I’m going to have a big birthday party here for Martha in a few weeks. I usually do it out of town somewhere, but with the opening of the club it just got away from me this year. But I still have time to pull together something fantastic. A few of the girls are going to perform that night. I hope you will, too.”
Nadia looked at Mallory.
“Just … any act?”
“We usually have a theme. I’m working on an idea for this party. I’m going to have Gemma do the costumes—it will be fun. Very A-list. It will be in all the celebrity rags, and Vanity Fair will cover it for their party section. Trust me—it will be great exposure for you.”
“It might be too soon,” Nadia said. “Obviously, I’m not doing well under pressure.”
“Think about it,” Mallory said. “You know what? We can choreograph something together. That way, if you freeze up, I’ll be onstage to dance around it.”
“If you think it’s a good idea …” Nadia said. God, she hated herself for being so weak. It had been one bad night—she had to get over it. If she couldn’t, then she might as well admit what Max was trying to sell her—once a ballet dancer, always a ballet dancer. She would have no second act.
“I think it’s a tremendous idea,” said Justin. “Now maybe you ladies can help me come up with a theme. I was thinking something to do with Hollywood. Martha’s obsessed with watching old movies lately. Ever since Elizabeth Taylor died and she re-watched BUtterfield 8, she’s been on a classic film kick.”
“I love that idea,” said Mallory.
“You could do ‘silver screen sirens,’ ” said Nadia.
“Yes!” Mallory and Justin said at the same time.
“I’m going to talk to Gemma about the costumes,” said Justin.
“Yeah, don’t distract Agnes. I need her focused on the Vegas costumes,” said Mallory.
“I was thinking Gemma could do those, too,” said Justin. “She did an incredible job on the opening night costumes.”
“She did,” Mallory said, slowly and with an obvious effort at diplomacy. “But Agnes directed her. And Vegas is too important to trust to anyone but Agnes. Winning that would get us lots of press and legitimize us as a serious club, not just another place jumping on the burlesque bandwagon. Don’t get me wrong: I’m glad you like Gemma’s work—I do, too. And as Agnes’s apprentice she’ll be helping, I’m sure. But I think it’s important that Agnes is the one to actually make the costumes. I want her to see that as her project.”
“Okay,” Justin said, “I’ll talk to them about the Vegas costumes and getting on a schedule. I’m going over there anyway.”
“Great. Saves me a trip.”
“Tell Gemma I want to see the costumes for this weekend’s show by Friday,” Bette said. “I don’t want to look like some extra off the set of The Tudors.” Bette and Mallory were performing a Boleyn sisters act.
“I’ll relay the message,” Justin said with a smile. “And Nadia—I’m glad you’re in.”
Gemma spread the synthetic fur fabric on the table and cut it into six-inch strips with pinking sheers. She was relieved to finally be onto the trim of the costume. Mallory had asked her to design two Tudor-period costumes—one for her and one for Bette Noir. The bodice of each had taken Gemma days, the fronts covered with plastic jewels, pearls, sequins, and a central crucifix design made from gold Lurex. Exhausting.
She’d taken the job as an apprentice to Agnes, but the gig was turning into a sweatshop. The old woman didn’t want to do anything herself. What was she working on up there, all day, every day?
There was no way Gemma could do this job for more than a year. Now, more than ever
before, she felt an urgency to get her own label off the ground. But how was she going to save enough money? The money she made working for Agnes barely covered her living expenses. She needed an investor. The notion of being able to finance anything herself was naïve at best.
“Hello?”
Gemma looked up from the cutting table. She hadn’t noticed that the front door had opened until Justin Baxter was standing in front of her.
“What are you doing here?” she said.
“You’re that happy to see me?” He was joking, but she could tell there was something serious underneath what he was trying to pass off as banter. She felt bad: She hadn’t even acknowledged his gift. It was a delicate, chain link silver bracelet. She knew she should have just called and thanked him, but she was still trying to make sense of what had happened the night of his party. She knew his reputation: Certainly, their hot little encounter was nothing remarkable to him. He probably sent gifts to everyone. So she didn’t want to seem like she thought it was something more than it was. And in truth, the only additional thing she would want out of the exchange was money. Oh, not money for sex like a prostitute. But maybe his special interest in her could translate into a sweeter deal for her costuming work. If there even was any special interest on his part.
“I have some items of business to discuss,” he said, obviously looking around the room for some place to sit. The studio was not equipped for meetings.
“Oh? I’m all ears.”
Justin found a folding chair that was propped against a clothing rack, and he placed it at the cutting table so he was seated across from her. She thought, for the umpteenth time, how handsome he was. It made it all the more frustrating that, as usual, she’d felt next to nothing when they had sex. There she was, in a fabulous setting, with a gorgeous, sexy guy—who was doubly taboo because he was married and sort of her boss—and she still couldn’t come. What was wrong with her?