by Logan Belle
Mallory paced the dressing room. Eight hours until showtime, and she was missing half her show.
This was the problem with surrounding yourself with talented people: They always had other options. First, Bette’s manager had called her to Vancouver for a costume fitting for the movie she was about to start shooting. Then their stage kitten—the hot young woman who picked up the discarded garments after each set—got called to LA for an audition for Playboy. And their newest hire, Tori Tempest, had called in sick.
“You need to relax,” Alec said. “If the show is a little short tonight, that’s just the way it will have to be.”
“No!” Mallory said. “We haven’t earned the right to have a show that’s half-assed. Every show is supposed to be fantastic. I’m going to have to get up there myself tonight. But that still won’t fill the show.”
Alec gave her a look when she said she had to get onstage. She sighed with exasperation. “I know you want me to focus on producing, not performing. But this is no time for you to be precious about it. The best thing I can do as a producer tonight is to perform,” she said.
“Who else can you call in?”
“I don’t know who is around. Maybe Nadia? But she’s not even comfortable with her routine yet. I was going to give her time off to practice more and then have her get back onstage with me at Justin’s party.”
“Just call her. You know what? Don’t even ask her to perform burlesque. Let her do some ballet in a sexy costume. The audience will love it. It’s an opportunity to throw something different into the show—something no one else is doing.”
Mallory considered it for a minute. “I love the idea, but there’s one problem: She can’t go en pointe now. That’s the whole reason she’s not doing ballet.”
“Couldn’t she do something without wearing those crazy toe shoes? Like, when my sister did ballet, she just wore those flat little slippers. You know what I mean?”
“I do. You know what? It’s worth a call. You’re brilliant,” she said, kissing him.
“Can I ask you something?” he said. “I know you’re planning the shows for the club … and planning for the burlesque festival. But are you thinking about planning our wedding at all?”
“Um, of course,” Mallory lied.
“Really? Because we’ve never talked about it. I mean, I don’t even have an idea when you’d want to do it. This winter? Spring?”
Mallory sat down in a chair in front of one of the makeup mirrors. “Alec, there’s so much going on right now. Let’s just back-burner it for now, okay?”
“You want to ‘back-burner’ our wedding?” he said, visibly upset.
“What? No, I’m sorry—that didn’t come out right. I just mean, it’s a hard thing to think about right now.”
He gave her a pointed look.
“Don’t be angry,” she pleaded.
“Fine. I’ll just give you something else hard to think about,” he said, pulling her hand between his legs. She felt his cock already straining against his pants. “See? Just talking about marrying you makes me excited.”
“Oh, Alec!” she said, looking up at him and smiling.
“Promise me you’ll start thinking about it?” he said, unzipping his pants.
“Think about it? I’m looking right at it,” she said, leaning forward to run her tongue over his boxers along the length of his shaft. She slipped her hand in the flap and brought him out so she could take him in her mouth.
“You know what I mean,” he said, his voice catching as she gripped his cock, her mouth working on the tip.
Pulling down his boxers, she caressed his ass, then his cock, until she slid her hand firmly from the tip to the base, her mouth following it. He moved his pelvis, pressing his cock deeper, until he reached the back of her throat and she almost gagged.
His fingertips pressed against her scalp, and she glided her mouth back to a place where she had more control. She kept a steady rhythm, her hands moving to hold his hips. He moaned, and she tasted the first bead of semen. He pressed on her head harder, and she picked up the pace of her movements, bringing one hand back to his cock to work in tandem with her mouth. His hands twisted in her hair, and she felt his body tense. Oh, God, she loved taking him in her mouth this way. He moaned as he thrust into her, and the sound turned her on. Her stomach did a little flip as it always did when she knew she had brought him such intense pleasure.
She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and leaned back in the chair. He knelt down and kissed her, then pulled her against him in a tight embrace.
“That was incredible,” he said.
“Your cock inspires me,” she said. “Now, I have to go call Nadia.”
“I feel so used.”
“Later, I’ll hope you’ll use me,” she said. “But first I have to salvage this show.”
11
Billy Barton stretched out on the table. It was his bimonthly visit to the male grooming salon, Sugar, for the “back, crack, and sack” hair removal package. Owned and operated by his first male lover, Harvey Hixenbaugh, Sugar was more than just a part of Billy’s maintenance routine: It was his refuge from the exhausting world of media, money, and celebrity.
“You need to focus on the positive,” Harvey said, pulling a swath of hair from Billy’s scrotum.
“Ouch! I thought you said this gets less painful after a couple of months.”
“Did I say that?” Harvey said. “Now listen, you can’t let that crazy bitch ruin your perspective on all the good things you have going on. Your magazine is doing great. You have a Burberry model in your bed every night. You are living the dream, my boy.”
“I didn’t know ‘the dream’ included being blackmailed into bankrolling a club for a burlesque-dancing dominatrix.”
“You could put an end to that any time you want.”
“And ‘out’ Tyler?”
“Are you protecting Tyler? Or yourself?” Harvey said, yanking off another strip with a practiced flick of his wrist.
“Ouch! That hurts.”
“The truth always hurts, my love.”
Billy’s BlackBerry buzzed, and he reached for it next to him on the table.
“I told you to turn that thing off when you’re in here.”
“And I wish I listened to you. Speak of the devil: Violet says she needs to see me ASAP—urgent club business. God, I hate that woman.”
“Well, she’ll have to wait. Your ass crack needs my attention.”
“That sentence was much more inviting in the days when you weren’t wielding a hot wad of liquid sugar.”
After the initial shock of Max’s kiss—during which she gave in to his mouth for a few seconds, long enough to feel a surprising flip in her stomach—Nadia had come to her senses and pulled back.
“What are you doing?” she’d demanded, wondering if she could somehow be lucky enough for him not to have noticed that, for a few beats, whatever he was “doing,” she was doing, too.
“We were kissing,” he’d said, smiling. “At least, that’s what they called it last time I checked. Call me old-fashioned.”
His grin was an unlikely combination of sexiness and warmth, and it took everything she had not to smile back.
“I’m leaving,” she’d said, realizing she should just actually walk out of the park instead of saying she was going to go. What was wrong with her?
“Good,” he’d answered. And she’d felt a bubble of outrage—until he followed with, “That gives you plenty of time to think about where you want me to take you to dinner tonight.”
Now, looking into his gorgeous eyes, she laughed. She couldn’t help it. He was so … obnoxious.
“Maybe I have plans tonight,” she said.
“If you do, I hope you’ll break them. I don’t think I could wait until tomorrow.”
To her surprise and dismay, she realized she didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to see him again, either.
Her phone rang. Her first impulse was to ignore it, but the
n she saw it was Mallory.
“Hello?”
“Am I getting you at a bad time?” Mallory said.
“Um, not really. What’s up?”
“I’m in a major bind tonight. Bette, Tori, and Willow all bailed on me. Is there any way you can come in and maybe just dance or something? You don’t have to do a striptease. You can do ballet, or modern—anything you want. I’ve seen you messing around with choreography that is better than what most people do onstage.”
“I … I don’t know.” It was the last thing she wanted to do. But she felt she owed Mallory, Alec, and even Justin for being the low point of opening night. On the other hand, she couldn’t imagine having the time to work out a performance—even one she had in part done before—and being mentally and physically prepared to appear onstage that night.
She looked over at Max, who was eyeing her like the cat that ate the canary. And she thought about his comment that she wasn’t a dancer anymore. “Okay—I’ll do it.”
“Thank you! Oh, you are a lifesaver. Just let me know what music you need us to have for you. And seriously, Nadia—anything you choose to do tonight will be great.”
Nadia placed her phone back in her bag. She could feel Max’s eyes on her.
“Everything okay?” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “I just agreed to dance tonight. Not even burlesque. Mallory said I can do ballet … or anything.”
“Finally—someone’s come to her senses.”
“Don’t get me wrong—I will do burlesque on that stage. And I’ll do it soon. She just didn’t want to rush me tonight because it’s last minute.”
“I’m trying not to take this personally.”
“Personally?”
“Yes. You’d do anything to have an excuse not to go to dinner with me, wouldn’t you?”
She laughed. “Yes. Busted.”
“Okay, rain check accepted. So what are you going to do on that stage tonight?”
“I honestly have no idea.”
“Want to use one of my studios to practice? I’m sure I have free space this afternoon.”
“Oh, no. Thanks, but I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not? You’re already here. And I’d love to see what you come up with. Maybe even help you brainstorm some non-pointe choreography.”
“Really?” Nadia hated to admit that the thought of it thrilled her.
“Absolutely. On one condition.”
“What’s that?” she asked guardedly.
“You bring me to the show tonight.”
She smiled. “Let’s see how my rehearsal goes, first.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Max.
12
Billy dutifully showed up at the meeting spot Violet had designated: the Mexican chain restaurant Chipotle on lower Park Avenue. He spotted her immediately—who wouldn’t? With her platinum blond hair, tattooed arms and chest, and leather pants despite the eight-five-degree weather, she was turning heads as usual.
“I’m obsessed with this place,” Violet declared, biting into a tortilla shell filled with black beans, rice, lettuce, and cheese.
Billy said nothing, trying to keep his patience as Violet kept him waiting. Finally, he said, “Do you think you could, maybe, get to the point of this little rendezvous? I do have a magazine to run.”
“Here’s the deal, partner,” she said. “As you know, I’m nothing if not an amazing spotter of talent. And, as the creative force behind the club, I am responsible for bringing that talent to us. Comprendez?”
Billy rolled his eyes.
“There is a hot new costume designer fresh off the boat from England, and we need to enlist her services ASAP.”
“What’s wrong with the costumes we have?”
“Nothing’s wrong with them. And nothing’s right with them either. No one would talk about them either way. We need to change that. I mean, what’s the difference between burlesque and stripping? The costumes. So how can we be the best burlesque club in the city if we don’t have the best costume designer?”
Billy had a sinking feeling he knew where this conversation was headed.
“So go get the costumer. God knows you can be persuasive,” Billy said.
“Oh, I intend to get the costumer. I just need you to write the check.”
“Violet, I am hemorrhaging money for this club, with no end in sight.”
“It takes money to make money, baby.”
“How much do you need?”
“I’m not sure yet. I have to feel her out. My thought is we put her on retainer, and she can’t work for anyone else. That’s going to cost us some coin, but that’s the way I roll.”
Billy shook his head. “I’m not an ATM, you know. There has to be some end to this.”
“End? We’re just getting started. The club hasn’t even been open a year. I need your support, Billy. That’s the deal. Some day, when the club is successful, you can buy me out.”
“Buy you out? You haven’t put a dime in!”
“Sweat equity, baby.”
Billy felt the words “go fuck yourself” bubbling toward his lips. Then he thought of Tyler and his fear of being outed while his modeling career was still on the rise. And then he thought of what Harvey had suggested: A part of him was still hiding, too. Was he prepared to let go of that fear? Maybe. Soon.
Violet crumpled up the gold foil that had wrapped her burrito. “I’ll call you after I get the designer on board. I suggest you have your checkbook ready.”
For the first time in as long as she could remember, Nadia felt comfortable in her own skin.
It barely took her half an hour before it felt like she had been dancing in Max’s second-floor studio for years. The lighting, the surface of the floor, the smell—it was home. And she didn’t feel wasteful that she’d bought workout pants and slippers at the Capezio store downstairs for this little impromptu rehearsal: She was proud of herself for having the good sense to run with the whole thing. She was even feeling excited about the show that night. She didn’t have time to obsess over the perfect song, so she just chose something she knew well. She’d listened to the Adele song “Rolling in the Deep” endlessly after her breakup with Jackson, and she knew it backwards and forwards. After an hour of listening to it in the studio and experimenting with various moves, Nadia cobbled together a mix of modern dance and ballet that felt good for her and would look deceptively complex to the audience.
Toward the end of the song, Nadia moved her arms in port de bras, then, with the passionate chorus, she launched her body into a series of turns. Just the pleasure of moving in circles through the room seemed to stir her blood, and she did a pirouette, rising onto demi-pointe.
The door to the studio opened. She looked over to find Max watching her in stupefaction.
“You said you couldn’t dance!” he accused.
She slowed down, putting her hands on her hips.
“I said I couldn’t go en pointe.”
He ignored the correction and walked into the center of the room, pacing for a half a minute. “You could do a grand jeté just toward the end,” he said.
“I don’t want to jump.”
“Let me lift you.”
“No,” she said.
“It would be beautiful just before that last turn.”
“Maybe so, but what’s the point? You’re not going to be onstage with me tonight.”
“I don’t care about the show tonight. I care about what transpires in this room—I care about every step a dancer takes. Each piece of choreography should be its best. If you aren’t guided by that fundamental principal, you are lost.”
She admired his passion. And so she relented.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll try it once just for the exercise of maximizing the choreography.”
He stepped back, and she started the song from the beginning. Instead of feeling self-conscious because he was watching her, she felt exhilarated to have an audience.
She moved fluidly through the song, her anticipation building toward the moment when he would step in to do the lift. And then, it came: He placed his hands around her waist, and as he held her aloft so she could extend her legs into a “split” in the air, she felt a rush of adrenaline that had less to do with successfully executing the move than it did with the physical contact with Max.
He lowered her gently, but instead of stepping back so she could move into her next sequence of steps, he turned her to face him, and in one fluid motion, kissed her.
It took only a few seconds for Nadia to ignore the impulse to resist him. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her body close to his, feeling a surge of desire she had not experienced in a very long time. He was a good kisser, and it was hard to stop, but the thought of any of his dancers or staff catching them made her pull away.
He held her at arm’s length, smiling down at her. Looking into his dark eyes, she felt a rush of gratitude. She was alive again. He had brought her into the ballet studio; he’d told her it was okay to want to keep some connection to ballet. And now he was reminding her that it was okay to want a man. And, as scary as it was to admit it to herself, the man she wanted was him.
13
Justin knew he was crossing a line. And yet, he felt in the grip of something he had never experienced before. In his mind, he thought of Gemma Kole as teeth-grindingly beautiful. But then, he knew she wasn’t. Somehow, it was this very lack of perfection that made her the object of his fascinated lust.
For the past five years of his marriage, he’d managed to stay within the boundaries of what Martha and he defined as “just having fun.” He never had sex with another woman without Martha at least watching, if not fully participating. She trusted him to scout out the women to fulfill their more outrageous sexual fantasies. And she had made it clear from the beginning that no matter what happened between them and another woman in the bedroom, he was never to see that woman alone afterward. And living up to that agreement had never been an issue. After he and Martha had their way with someone, no matter how sexy or famous she was, he lost interest.