Blue Angel

by Logan Belle

  It all fell into place so easily, so thoughtlessly. Until last month.

  The wide bronze doors of the elevator opened on the thirtieth floor.

  “Good morning, Ms. Dale,” the receptionist, Blanca, greeted Mallory.

  “Hi, Blanca.”

  Does she know that I failed the bar exam? Mallory wondered. Did everyone at the firm know—down to the woman who came around every afternoon at three o’clock with the coffee cart?

  “At least you’re not famous,” her friend Julie had said. “When John Kennedy, Jr. failed the bar, the Post ran it on the cover with the headline ‘The Hunk Flunks.’ ”

  Needless to say, that did not console her. And even though Alec assured her that it happened to lots of people and that she would no doubt pass the exam when she retook it in February, she was flooded with a feeling about her future that she had never experienced before: doubt.

  Even her office felt foreign to her now. What used to be a haven of order and purpose to her now felt like what it was: a cold, boxy room without enough natural light and with an avalanche of paper everywhere.

  Mallory logged onto her computer. For the next ten hours she would sit at her computer, digging around Westlaw and writing the legal memo she had been working on for the past month. Her boss was part of the defense team for Koomson, the country’s largest paint company. She was researching their potential liability in a lead paint class action suit.

  “Half day today?” Patricia Loomis, a third year attorney, stood in the door way of her office. Patricia was short, her suits were masculine and didn’t fit right, and she bit her nails so badly they looked on the verge of bleeding. But she was the smartest person Mallory had ever met. And she was Mallory’s boss.

  Mallory looked at the time on her computer. 8:30 a.m.

  “I had a late night. My birthday.”

  “Harrison wants the brief at the end of next week.”

  “Okay,” Mallory said. But Patricia was already gone. Ugh! Mallory didn’t know why Patricia disliked her so much, but it had been obvious from day one that she couldn’t stand her. And then when Mallory failed the bar, any spec of esteem she might have begun earning with her hard work evaporated. She knew Patricia was just waiting for her to flame out.

  Mallory opened her handbag, digging around for the Life Saver she knew was in there somewhere. She was so tired she needed a sugar kick. Her hand closed around something small and boxy. When she pulled it out she saw it was a robin’s egg blue matchbook that read The Blue Angel. Who’d slipped that in there? Probably Billy, that ass.

  She set it on her desk, and thought about that dancer. Bette Noir. What did she do during the day? Did she go to an office like everyone else? If so, did her boss know what she did at night? Or did she just sleep all day like a creature of the night, emerging only to appear at the Blue Angel. Maybe her whole life was just about beauty, and art, and inspiration. She probably never heard of the bar exam. She’d probably didn’t know people like Patricia Loomis even existed, never mind having her whole career resting on those slumped and badly clothed shoulders.

  Mallory logged onto Westlaw.

  The buzz of her cell phone jolted her out of her lead paint fog sometime later that afternoon. She bent down to get her handbag and immediately felt dizzy. As usual, she’d forgotten to eat lunch.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey—it’s me,” Alec said. “What time are you getting out of there tonight?’

  “I don’t know—Patricia is on the warpath. She has me transcribing a deposition for her—can you believe that? She’s not supposed to have me doing things like that. And she told me Harrison wants this brief by the end of next week. . . .”

  “I need you to come out tonight.”

  “I can’t. Whatever it is, go without me—I was late today, I’m exhausted, and this is taking me twice as long . . .”

  “Seriously, Mal, I need you to come out tonight.”

  “Why? What’s the urgency?”

  “I e-mailed that dancer, Bette Noir, about doing an interview.”

  A tug of jealousy pulled at her gut.

  “What did she say?”

  “She agreed, but said you have to be there.”

  “That makes no sense. Why would she care if I’m there or not?”

  “I don’t know. She also said I had to find a cool place that she couldn’t get into on her own.”

  “I really don’t have time for these games, Alec.”

  “I’m not joking. This is my job. Come on, you know I would help you if you needed it.”

  Mallory looked at her computer screen. The words swam together, the blinking cursor making her eyes blur.

  “Where are you going to do the interview?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m going to call Billy and see if he will get us into Soho House or if he has a better idea.”

  “I can’t leave here before 8:30.”

  “Deal. Thanks, babe. I owe you one.”

  Mallory tossed the phone back in her bag.

  She picked up the Blue Angel matchbox, turning it in her hand.

  It was called the Boom Boom Room.

  Set in the heart of the Meatpacking District, on the eighteenth floor of André Balazs’s Standard Hotel, it was the most decadent, intense space Mallory had seen in her life. It was somehow retro and futuristic at the same time, with curved, pale couches, chandeliers like starbursts and snowflakes, and 360-degree views of Manhattan and the Hudson River. It was as if the entire city had been created as a mere backdrop to the room.

  Mallory teetered near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Her heels were too high—she rarely wore heels. But Alec had warned her to look good, and so she was thankful she had a pair of black Walter Steigers under her desk from last week. Everyone in that room was straight out of a magazine—sleek dresses, and high skirts, and shoes and bags that cost more than her monthly paycheck. Men in suits, models in every corner, Penelope Cruz deep in conversation with Pedro Almodóvar, Lindsay Lohan and entourage . . . and still heads turned for Bette Noir.

  “Come sit with us,” Bette called to her from the cream-colored banquette where Alec had planted her for the interview. Across the room, she saw Billy Barton watching them, then he turned away, pretending he had not been.

  He had given them a wave and a wink when they walked in, but didn’t cross the room to say hi. It was just as well; Mallory was already a nervous wreck by the time they got up to the room. They had met Bette outside the hotel, and she was oddly quiet as they made their way past the line at the velvet rope that looked like a casting call for America’s Next Top Model. She wore a black velvet trench coat, and her bobbed hair was so shiny and dark it looked almost purple in the night.

  “We’re guests of Billy Barton,” Alec told the brawny guy at the door with the headset. And with that, the seas parted, and they walked in. Mallory felt the hostile glares of the wannabes behind her, people wondering, who are they?

  Patricia Loomis and Reed, Warner seemed very far away.

  So there they were, in one of the hardest rooms to get into in all of Manhattan—a city run on exclusivity and closed doors. It was not a scene Mallory would have ever thought to seek out, but according to Alec, it was Bette’s stipulation for doing the interview. A place she couldn’t get into on her own. Like a dare. Or a scavenger hunt task.

  “Yeah, come sit down, Mal.” Alec patted the space next to him, on the opposite side from where Bette was seated next to him.

  “Over here—I like to have a close witness to make sure I’m not misquoted,” Bette said, taking her hand and seating Mallory between her and Alec.

  Mallory was startled when Bette touched her. Had it really only been twenty-four hours ago that Bette was pulling her up on stage?

  “It’s really Agnes’s vision,” Bette was saying about the club. “It’s different from any other burlesque show in New York.”

  It was too loud for Alec to use his mini tape recorder, so he scribbled notes on a small notepad.


  He nodded, and said, “I know—the first time I went I was completely blown away. That’s why I wanted Mallory to see it.”

  “And what did you think?” Bette asked Mallory.

  “Um, it was . . . interesting.”

  “Interesting? Wow. Damned with faint praise,” Bette said.

  “No, it was more than that. I mean, I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

  “Do tell! What have you been thinking?” Bette focused her cat-like blue eyes on Mallory.

  “I think Alec wants to interview you . . . not have you interview me,” Mallory said with a shaky smile.

  “Oh, I’ve got nothing interesting to say. I’m meant to be seen in the flesh, not read in print.”

  Mallory looked helplessly at Alec. He flicked his eyes toward the other side of the room.

  “I’m going to excuse myself . . . to use the restroom. If I can find it.”

  Mallory stood up, though walking through that crowd was the last thing she wanted to do. In her white blouse and black pencil skirt she was a pigeon in a crowd of peacocks.

  “Where’s the restroom?” she asked a cocktail waitress, who was dressed like the sexiest flight attendant on the face of the planet. She followed the woman’s directions to a corridor near where they had entered the room. She’d only had half a glass of champagne, but something about the layout of the bathroom made her completely disoriented. The entire room was glass—floor to ceiling windows! She couldn’t pee in front of a gigantic window overlooking Manhattan.

  She decided to just touch up her makeup. She wished she’d paid more attention to those magazine articles about taking your makeup from day to evening in two easy steps, or whatever the advice was. A lipstick rolled around in the bottom of her bag, and she uncapped it for the first time in months.

  And then there was a knock on the door.

  “Um, someone’s in here,” she said.

  “I know. It’s me, Bette—open up.”

  “I’ll be out in a second,” Mallory said, shoving her lipstick back in her bag.

  “Just open the door.”

  Mallory complied, about to leave the room for Bette to use it when Bette pulled her back inside and closed the door behind them.

  “Cool space,” she said, walking over to the window and pressing herself against the glass.

  “It’s a little much for a bathroom,” Mallory said.

  “Hmm. You must not have very strong exhibitionist tendencies. I thought you might have, after last night.”

  She locked eyes with her, and Mallory found herself leaning against the sink for support.

  “Come over here and check out this view. Might as well appreciate it, even if you don’t approve.”

  Mallory crossed the small space and stood beside Bette. She felt like she was standing at the edge of a cliff.

  “Put your hand on the glass. Don’t you feel like you’re on top of the world?”

  “Yes.”

  Bette turned to her and brushed the hair away from Mallory’s face. She ran her hand down the length of Mallory’s hair, to a spot between her shoulder blades.

  “I’m not usually a fan of long hair. But on you, it’s hot.”

  Mallory tried to keep her eyes focused on the city stretched beneath them, but Bette walked to the toilet and started pulling up her skirt.

  “Oh! I’m going to give you some privacy. I’ll . . .”

  But before she could leave Bette was peeing, her fishnet stockings around her ankles.

  “What’s the big deal? We’re both girls.” She nonchalantly finished, pulled her skirt into place, and washed her hands. She turned to Mallory.

  “You can go too if you want. I won’t peek.”

  “No—that’s okay. I’m fine.”

  “I dare you.”

  “What?”

  Bette laughed, a full, throaty laugh that would have been contagious if Mallory weren’t so unnerved.

  “Just kidding.”

  Mallory realized she’d been holding her breath a little. Looking for something to do with her hands, she went back to the mirror and pulled out her lipstick.

  “Wait!” Bette said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t put that on.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m just going to mess it up.”

  And with that, Bette put her hands on Mallory’s face and brushed her lips against hers. The touch was so whisper light, Mallory could almost tell herself she imagined it.

  “See you back out there,” Bette whispered. And with that, she was gone.

  * * *

  Mallory took her third glass of champagne from the waitress. Alec threw her a glance, making sure she was holding steady.

  “The best part of the shows happens away from the audience,” Bette was saying. “If you want the real inside scoop, you should have Mallory hang out with me backstage.”

  “I’m writing the article, not Mallory.”

  “Yes, but you’re a guy. I could never bring you into the dressing room. But it’s different when it’s just us girls, right, Mallory?”

  The image of Bette with her fishnets around her ankles flashed through Mallory’s mind.

  “Interesting idea. Okay, I might take you up on that. My deadline is in a week. Any shows coming up soon where you could make that happen?”

  “We’re doing our Christmas show next Saturday night. It’s pretty crazy.” She turned to Mallory. “Are you in?”

  “She’s in,” Alec said.

  4

  Poppy sat on the edge of her bed, finishing up a second coat of Essie A-List red nail polish on her toes. Her BlackBerry buzzed with a text. From Bette.

  Call me ASAP.

  Poppy dialed quickly.

  “Hi—what’s going on?”

  “How soon can you meet me at the Angel?”

  Poppy looked at her wet toenails. “A half hour?”

  “Meet me in the dressing room. Oh, and wear a black skirt and a white blouse. And a long, brown wig if you have one.”

  Poppy couldn’t imagine what this was about, but she wasn’t going to waste time asking questions. Bette’s rejection of her in the dressing room last night had stung . . . badly. But now . . . maybe Bette had just been waiting for a better time. More privacy. On the nights when there wasn’t a show at the Blue Angel, it was just a regular bar / lounge, and the dressing room wasn’t used.

  Of course!

  Now she just had to find a white blouse.

  * * *

  Bette was already in the dressing room, seated at one of the vanities. She wore an amazing black velvet trench coat that Poppy had never seen before. Poppy felt like a librarian in her stupid blouse and skirt. Why did she have to dress like a troll? Was it some kind of power play—only Bette could be hot?

  “Why didn’t you wear a long wig?” Bette asked.

  “I don’t have one like that.”

  “Hmm. I thought that might be the case. So I brought this for you.” She handed Poppy a brunette wig. Poppy reluctantly secured it on her head with bobby pins.

  “Perfect.” Bette stood and unbuttoned her trench, revealing her nude and perfect body.

  It was odd—Poppy had never hooked up with a woman before, had never particularly thought about it before Bette. But seeing her incredible breasts, creamy and pert and perfectly round, she felt as attracted to her as she had ever felt to a man. And when she touched them, cupping them gently and then brushing Bette’s hard nipples with her thumb, she felt her pussy quiver more intensely than it had with the last few guys she’d slept with. Bette pulled her face toward her and kissed her, deep and hard and with a surprising urgency. Poppy felt she couldn’t get enough of Bette’s mouth—her lips were full and soft, and she could smell her perfume—vanilla and orange and something woodsy.

  Bette unbuttoned Poppy’s blouse and squeezed her breasts, then slid her hands under her skirt. She stroked her pussy over her underwear, and Poppy was shocked that it was enough to make her wet.

>   “Take off your skirt, and I’ll make you come,” Bette said. Poppy fumbled over the zipper, her hands shaking as she eased off her panties. No guy had ever spoken to her like this.

  Bette turned her around so that her ass was pressed against her own pussy, and Poppy looked at their reflection in the mirror of the vanity table. But when Bette slid one finger inside her, she closed her eyes.

  Her knees felt weak as Bette worked her finger slowly in and out, her thumb stroking her clit. She knew Bette was probably watching her in the mirror, and this would have made her self-conscious if the throbbing pleasure between her legs had not been making her mind a total blank. She moaned as she came, a sound that shocked her because she was usually so quiet. Bette moved to stand before her, then knelt down and licked her pussy with a single stroke of her tongue, like hard candy.

  “Oh, my God,” Poppy breathed.

  Bette stood so they were face-to-face.

  “Now you’re going to make me come.”

  Bette pulled her over to the musty green couch and proceeded to stretch out like a cat in the sun.

  “Use your tongue,” she commanded. Poppy wasn’t sure where or how she meant, so she knelt in front of the couch. Her own pussy was still throbbing, and she knew if Bette touched her again even for a few seconds she would have another orgasm.

  She took Bette’s breast into her mouth and touched the other one with her fingers. Bette slapped her hand away. “Just your tongue.”

  Poppy moved her mouth to Bette’s other breast, flicking her nipple with her tongue, then gently biting it. Bette made a small noise and pressed the top of her head.

  “I want you to eat my pussy,” she said.

  If Poppy hadn’t been in such a heightened state of arousal, she doubted she’d have been able to do it. But the way she felt at that moment, she wanted to eat Bette. She wanted to be with her in every way. She wished one of them was a guy, so they could fuck properly—fuck in a way that hurt a little.