by Logan Belle
They took the elevator to the third floor.
“After you,” Max said, following behind them.
Devla unlocked the costume studio and turned on the lights. Nadia wandered to the far side of the room, examining sketches for the upcoming show. He couldn’t take his eyes off her; even in her simple gray T-shirt, her hair pulled back, her legs hidden by faded jeans and her feet in worn, white espadrilles, she was the most elegant, alluring creature he’d ever met. He wanted to stand beside her, to breathe in her smell. But then he would be tempted to tell her she was right—he was being ridiculous. Forget it—they should just be together and work the rest out. But he knew that was a recipe for disaster. He’d grown up on the wrong end of that disaster.
“Here we go,” Devla said, holding a deep blue, embroidered dress with a mandarin top that tapered into a tight bodice; underneath was a skirt with a short layer of tulle. The satin-stitch embroidery showed a pattern of dragons, lotus flowers, and butterflies. In the back, a Peking knot gathered at the base of the bodice. “I know you mentioned Ballet Russes as inspiration, and while they did do some Asian-themed costumes, this is an entirely modern take. I was inspired by reading the Lisa See novel Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.”
Devla hung the dress on a hook and retrieved a shoe box.
“Look at these,” she said with unabashed pride. Nadia gasped. Max knew they were undoubtedly the most exquisite toe shoes she’d ever seen. Devla was a genius: The deep red satin was embroidered with intricately detailed flowers and butterflies. The ribbons of the shoes were purple, picking up the small purple accents in the flowers.
“These are stunning. Just … stunning,” Nadia said. “They remind me of the most beautiful pair of Christian Louboutins I’ve ever seen: They were red satin, with black passementerie details. Four-inch heels.”
“I know exactly what you’re talking about,” Devla said. “I think it was from his 2008 collection. They were open-toed?”
“Yes!” Nadia said.
“I’m going to leave you two.” Max opened the door, then paused. “Nadia, good to see you. Good luck with the event. Devla, if you need to rearrange your schedule to accommodate fittings for Mallory, don’t stress about it.”
“You’re leaving?” Nadia said.
He met her eyes across the room, and he realized what a mistake it was to have let her come up to see him in the first place.
He left without another word.
*
Mallory sat on the couch in Martha’s living room. It felt strange to be in the empty apartment. Without all the people around, it felt smaller, not larger. She knew that was the opposite of how it was supposed to feel. She said so out loud, for lack of anything else to say to break the uncomfortable silence.
“My whole world feels smaller right now,” Martha said.
“Oh, Martha! I’m sorry. I really don’t even know what to say,” said Mallory.
“Well, forget about it. I didn’t bring you here to talk about my divorce. At least, not in that way. I do, however, want to apologize for how it’s affecting you and Alec professionally. I want you to know it’s not personal. I just need to terminate any and all intermingled business ventures with my soon-to-be ex-husband. And that includes The Painted Lady.”
“I understand,” Mallory said. And she did. When she and Alec used to have those horrendous fights, and when they had all of their jealousy issues, she wouldn’t have been able to be in business with him or work with him on a daily basis.
She took a sip of the tea brought to her by Martha’s assistant. “You know, Alec and I had a lot of ups and downs. Of course, we weren’t married, but I just wonder if maybe you guys could find some way to talk through this stuff. And I’m not saying that because of the club—please, you have to know that. I just always thought you two were a unique couple. But every couple has ups and downs.”
Martha shifted in her seat, leaning on her cane. “Mallory, I appreciate what you’re saying. And I know you’re not speaking out of self-interest. But the time has come to admit to myself that the marriage was a folly—a failed experiment.”
“Weren’t you in love?”
Martha made an odd noise—sort of a garumph. “To quote Prince Charles—‘whatever that means.’ ”
“What do you mean, to quote Prince Charles?”
“Don’t you know that famous quote? When he got engaged to Princess Diana, a reporter asked, ‘Are you in love?’ And he said, ‘Whatever that means.’ ”
“Really?”
“Yes. At the time, what was I, ten years old? It seemed weird to me. Everyone knew what love was. Now, I think I understand better. Did I love Justin? Probably not. But I sure as hell loved looking at him. And I loved the way it felt to have him in bed with me. I’m sure people have based marriages on far less. I don’t mean you and Alec, of course. You two are different.”
Mallory looked away. Martha had married Justin just for the hell of it—maybe to see what would happen. But Mallory was really and truly in love, yet she could not even let herself think of setting a date out of some undoubtedly ridiculous fear.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” said Martha.
“If you don’t love him, then why is it so bad that he slept with someone else?”
“I don’t mind that he’s married to me and not in love with me. But I sure as hell don’t want him married to me when he’s in love with someone else.”
Mallory nodded. “I can’t argue with that logic. Will you at least come to Vegas to see us compete? It would really mean a lot to me—and the rest of the girls—to have you there.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said. “But I’ll tell you what I will do: I’ll go see Agnes now and settle up the Painted Lady tab. At least you won’t have to worry about that.”
“Thanks so much, Martha. Really. And please come to the show in Vegas. It will be fun. And you know, it will be a great place to market your products. The sponsors are putting together gift bags—you should get some of your stuff in there.”
“Brilliant idea. I’m going to do it—and I’ll go.”
Mallory’s phone buzzed with a text from Nadia.
The costumes are amazing. Devla wants to know if you and Poppy and Bette can come in tonight for alterations. Let her know ASAP. “Martha, thank you so much for having me over to talk about the club in person. I am upset, I’m disappointed, but of course I don’t blame you.”
Martha stood up with a grunt. “Mallory,” she huffed. “You are a good girl. You will succeed. I have no doubt.”
Mallory glanced back at the text message. The costumes are amazing.
“I hope you’re right,” she said.
28
Nadia closed the door to her apartment and leaned against it. And she let loose the sob she’d been holding ever since leaving the studio.
The day had been a setback.
She should have told Mallory no, that she couldn’t see Max no matter how badly Mallory needed the costumes. She should have told Mallory to go on her own. Seeing Max had hurt her in a way she hadn’t anticipated: It had confirmed that she was in love with him.
She’d braced herself during the entire cab ride to the studio: Of course she’d anticipated that she’d feel attracted to him, feel awkward, feel sad. But what she hadn’t expected to feel was the agonizing empathy. She could see him looking at her with the same longing and sadness that she herself felt. And she wanted to walk across that office, put her arms around him, and tell him she understood how he felt. She wanted to ease the look of discomfort and sadness on his face. She felt an urge to take care of him in a way she’d never felt for a man before, not even Jackson. She’d probably never felt it for Jackson because she’d never seen him look at her with the longing Max had shown today.
“This is crazy,” she said. Twiggy paced at her ankles, pausing to rub her face against her feet. “I’ll feed you, don’t worry,” she said.
Nadia poured the cat food into a b
owl, her mind racing.
This was crazy. She was miserable without him; he was miserable without her. And what was keeping them apart? A disagreement over her dancing burlesque! It didn’t make sense. Was it that she was dancing burlesque, or the fact that she had, as he perceived it, turned her back on ballet? Had every woman he’d ever dated been a ballet dancer? Did he have some sort of pathological snobbery?
Nadia poured herself a bourbon and logged onto her laptop. She Googled “Max Jasper girlfriends.” A few images came up of Max with statuesque women at various events, but it was impossible to tell whether they were actually girlfriends. She tried the search “Max Jasper, relationship.” And yes, she felt like a stalker. But when a dozen images of the same woman filled the screen, she realized she’d hit pay dirt. And she immediately wished she had not: The woman was distressingly beautiful. She had enormous, almond-shaped dark eyes, shiny dark hair that tumbled down her back, and a body that made Nadia blush.
One thing was for certain: With those breasts and hips, she was not a ballet dancer. And then she saw the link to a Wikipedia entry: Janine Jasper.
Max had been married? Nearly shaking, she clicked on the name.
Janine Jasper (born Janine Piña on August 6, 1954) is a Spanish-Canadian model and actress. Jasper was chosen as Playboy’s Playmate of the Month in January, 1975. She became Playmate of the Year in 1976. She dropped out of her career during the early part of her marriage to financier Thomas Jasper in which she gave birth to her only child, a son Max Jasper (born September 22, 1981). In 1984, she reemerged in the erotic thriller Run, Emily, Run. She divorced Jasper in 1984.
His mother.
Nadia sat back in her chair. She tried to remember the things Max had said about his mother. He had said he never understood why his parents got married in the first place—that much she did remember. Had he said his mother was a dancer? She thought, for some reason, that he had. But no—he had said she was an artist. Or that she was artistic.
She stood up and paced the living room. It was crazy, but she knew this was the piece of the puzzle she had been looking for.
The night Max had come back to her apartment after the Painted Lady show, he’d had a pained look on his face when he’d spoken about his mother. He’d been telling her that she was Canadian, that she liked hockey.
He obviously thought about her a lot. And she was the one who’d encouraged him to be a dancer. But Max clearly wasn’t proud of his mother’s risqué career. Or was it that he blamed his parents’ divorce on her nude modeling? Nadia read the Wikipedia entry again, paying attention to the timeline. Janine Jasper had stopped modeling during her marriage, and started up again either when the marriage was over, or at a point in her marriage when the nude modeling would be the last straw in a difficult relationship.
She had chosen the nude modeling over her marriage.
Now it made sense: his seemingly irrational feelings about burlesque; the way he took it so personally that she refused to quit; his willingness to leave the relationship before it even got started.
She reached for the phone.
*
“This better be good because I’m going to be late for an appointment,” Violet said, walking past Gemma into the ‘borrowed” Park Avenue apartment, 22B. She carried an oversized black leather bag.
“This will only take a minute. Just want to make sure I’m on the right track.”
That morning, she had realized that the costumes would not, for the most part, be pieces she had to create from scratch, but would rather be built around key odds and ends she collected at vintage shops, the Village army navy store, and Paragon Sports. And so she spent five hours scouring the city and found most of what she needed. Now she was wearing it all under a bathrobe.
Violet sat on the couch, crossing and uncrossing her legs with impatience. Gemma stood on the zebra-skin rug in front of her and dropped her robe to reveal a black bustier left over from an old costume, frayed denim short-shorts, a wide, army green canvas belt, black fishnet stockings with holes in them, black knee pads, and combat boots. On her face she wore large yellow goggles. Around one thigh, over the black fishnets, she wore a red garter.
“You look badass.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Gemma said.
“I more than approve. I want to fuck the shit out of you.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Gemma, although the words made her stomach flip.
“It might not be necessary, but it’s going to happen,” said Violet. “Oh, but that’s right: You don’t like to be fucked. You like to do the fucking. Okay, I can roll with that.”
Violet moved quickly from the couch to close the heavy living room drapes. She then got busy looking through her black bag.
“You’d better leave,” Gemma said, nervously. “I don’t want you to be late for your … appointment.”
Violet glanced up at her, but ignored the comment.
“Catch,” she said, tossing her a rope.
“Violet, I really don’t think …”
But Violet was already taking off her T-shirt and leggings. She walked to Gemma slowly, wearing only a purple G-string and her four-inch Louboutins. Gemma could not take her eyes off Violet’s full, round but taut breasts, her tapered waist, and her muscled thighs. She felt like a cow next to Violet. She felt unworthy.
Violet stood before her, her green eyes amused, almost daring.
“Do it,” Violet said.
Gemma wanted to touch her, but she couldn’t.
“I’m not going to fuck you, so if you want to get off, you’d better get up the nerve to do what I know you’re dying to do.”
Gemma hesitated for only a minute, then said, “Lie down.”
Violet stretched out on the zebra rug. Gemma picked up the rope.
“Put your hands over your head,” she said. Violet did, and Gemma tied her wrists together. Then she pulled down Violet’s G-string. She couldn’t believe the urges she felt: She wanted to touch Violet’s shaved pussy. She wanted to stick her tongue inside of her. Gingerly, she stroked Violet’s outer lips. Violet spread her legs. Gemma stared at her glistening pinkness. “You didn’t give me enough rope,” she said.
“You’re making me wet,” Violet purred. “You can go into my bag.”
Gemma crossed the room, happy to be wearing the Tank Girl costume. She was able to pretend she was someone else, someone who had every reason to be doing what she was about to do.
She found another rope and a blindfold. She also found a collection of dildos, from which she selected the one that was the least alarming in size. She probably wouldn’t use it, but just in case.
Violet watched her silently from the rug. She didn’t seem to have moved from the position in which Gemma had left her.
Before she lost her nerve, Gemma set to work.
“Spread your legs wider,” she said in barely a whisper.
“I can’t hear you,” Violet taunted.
“Spread your legs,” Gemma said, a bark. A command.
Violet did as she was told.
Gemma used one rope to tie Violet’s right ankle to the edge of the couch, and the other to tie her left ankle to a chair. She surveyed her work: Violet was naked except for her shoes and spread-eagle. Gemma would have felt totally in control if it weren’t for Violet’s unnerving gaze. But there was a solution to that.
Gemma knelt by Violet’s head and tied the blindfold over her eyes. Of course, all Violet had to do was speak, and Gemma would lose the illusion of authority. She wondered if there was a gag somewhere in the black satchel. But she knew enough about the game to try a simpler solution.
“Don’t speak,” she commanded.
She felt she could relax for a minute, and she let her eyes wander over the perfect form splayed out before her. She thought of the intense pleasure she’d experienced at the fetish club—a feeling she’d never had before in her life. A feeling she wanted again—badly.
She thought of the way it had felt to do
things to that redheaded woman, regardless of what that woman wanted. Maybe even doing things the woman didn’t want.
Gemma had no idea what would bring Violet physical pleasure. She realized it was better that way, because it gave her room for trial and error. And maybe the errors would be the most fun.
She knelt in between Violet’s legs and circled her finger along the outside of Violet’s pussy. Then she did something she’d never done before: She flicked her tongue against Violet’s clit, then pressed it down lower and deeper, tasting her sweet and pungent wetness.
“Yeah,” Violet said.
“I said, don’t speak,” Gemma warned. Then she knew it was the perfect opportunity to get what she really wanted. She moved her face from Violet’s pussy and stood up. She walked up to Violet’s shoulders, then put a foot on either side of her head. She got down on her knees, her own pussy inches from Violet’s lips. “This should keep your mouth occupied,” Gemma said. Just saying the words thrilled her. She lowered her pussy onto Violet’s face, and sure enough, Violet’s darting tongue licked her. Violet’s experienced mouth sucked on her clit, and Gemma felt a shock of pleasure that made her lose her balance. She needed Violet to fuck her—she needed her to do things to her that she could barely imagine. Quickly, she untied Violet’s hands and then her feet.
“Take off your blindfold,” Gemma said. Violet sat up, and Gemma stood in front of her. “I need you to fuck me,” she told her, peeling of her denim shorts and fishnet stockings.
“Lie down,” Violet said, without hesitation. Gemma did, spreading her legs. Her need was so great, she pressed her own fingers inside of herself. Violet smacked her hand away and pressed the head of the dildo against her, rubbing it slowly against her clit.
Gemma moaned, pressing her pelvis up toward Violet. She couldn’t believe the heat in her cunt, the throbbing need she’d never felt before in her life. She didn’t know why no man had ever been able to bring her to this edge, but they hadn’t.
Violet pressed the dildo inside of her, sliding it in and out.
“Harder,” Gemma said, and this elicited a wicked smile from Violet. She stopped for a minute and went to her black bag. She returned with a dildo of intimidating girth.