Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque)

by Logan Belle

  “Please—just relax. I need to talk to him anyway. He left me four messages today that he has a great assignment for me, and every time I called him back his assistant said he was in a meeting. So let’s just make the rounds, I’ll talk to Billy, and then we can go.”

  Justin Baxter, dressed in an impeccably tailored dark suit, noticed them from across the room. He excused himself from his conversation with a handsome, dark-skinned man she recognized as Dominick Monde, head of Tout Le Monde Films.

  “Ah, let them eat cake!” Justin said, hugging her warmly. “Amazing outfit! Did you two come straight from the club, or are we lucky enough to be getting a surprise performance from the great Moxie, the Burlesque Ballerina?

  “No performance tonight, Justin.” She couldn’t help but smile. He was handsome and charming and seeing him always reminded her of when burlesque was new and mysterious and unattainable to her.

  “Come say hi to Martha—I know she’ll change your mind.”

  “You guys did miss an inspired performance tonight,” Alec said.

  “I have to get out more. Martha has kept me tied up.” Mallory and Alec exchanged a look. From what they’d heard about the couple from Bette, Justin might have been speaking literally.

  “You go say hi to Martha—I’m going to catch Billy,” said Alec. Mallory nodded. Fine, let him deal with Billy. She couldn’t stand the way he talked down to them, like he was New York royalty and they were serfs in his kingdom.

  Justin took her by the hand and led her through a crowded room toward the bar, where a petite blond woman was mixing pink cocktails and pouring them into champagne flutes. Waitresses flanked her with trays at the ready. Justin snapped a glass up and handed it to her.

  “What is it?”

  “Red velvet champagne cocktail. You’ll love it.”

  She took a sip. It was extremely sweet. He was right—as she was someone who loved dessert more than drinks, it was perfect for her.

  Martha spotted them and waved them over. She was stationed on a chair next to a long table covered with what appeared to be gift bags stuffed with pink tissue paper and tied with wide pink ribbons.

  “You look gorgeous, as always,” Martha said to Mallory when she bent down to kiss her on the cheek. Unfortunately, Mallory could not return the compliment, as much as she would have liked to. The woman looked as unappealing as ever, with her overweight, pear-shaped figure, and stringy, brown hair, her sausage feet stuffed into orthopedic shoes. The contrast to her model-hot husband was always jarring. When Mallory had first met them, she’d assumed their relationship was purely a business transaction: he lived off her fortune, and she was squired around town by a hot piece of man-candy. But the more she saw of them, the more she realized they truly enjoyed each other’s company and shared a love of fine art, food, partying, and subversive sexuality.

  “I love, love, love your costume!” Martha effused. “Please tell me you’re going to perform? We threw this little gathering together last minute, and I feel terrible we have no entertainment.”

  “Oh, no, not tonight, Martha. I’m exhausted. I came straight from the Blue Angel.”

  “Just a quickie—it will only take five minutes and will make the whole night! Justin, find her some music.”

  “Guys, really, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I’m just not in the right headspace tonight.”

  Justin and Martha exchanged a look.

  “No pressure, doll. We just thought it might be fun,” said Martha.

  “Okay,” Mallory said, eager to change the subject. “So what’s new in the world of vaginal optimization?”

  “I’m glad you asked! Your party favor will answer that,” Martha said, reaching over and handing her a bag.

  It was surprisingly heavy.

  “What is this?”

  “Open it,” Martha said, with unabashed glee.

  Mallory lifted a weighty cardboard box out of the bag and opened it to find a wide glass pot filled with what appeared to be pink jelly.

  “Strawberry jam?” she said.

  “No! It’s for your vagina,” Martha said.

  Mallory looked at her blankly and then examined the pot. The label on it read HONEYMOON TWO.

  “You coat the inside of your vagina with it, and the gel makes it slick and tight—and presto, you’re a honeymoon virgin again.” Justin said.

  “Wow. This is really … inventive,” Mallory said.

  “Not everyone makes the effort to Kegel,” Martha explained. “Or their muscles are so far gone, it doesn’t work. Regardless, I’ve come up with a quick fix. It’s not even on the market yet. I’m giving my guests tonight a preview. Or, a preslather.”

  “Um, thanks,” Mallory said.

  “I’m going to bring some by the Blue Angel for the girls,” Martha said.

  “Okay—great,” Mallory said. Because what else was there to say?

  She looked around for Alec, but the room was filling up with women, one more beautiful than the next. And, surprisingly, her outfit wasn’t the most bizarre in the room.

  “Some interesting fashion choices around here,” Mallory commented.

  Martha sighed. “I find it tedious, Honestly, Moxie, you can get away with it. You’re a performer. But most of these girls? Posers. They’re absolutely unoriginal. It’s Lady Gaga chic, and it’s so yesterday. But my husband finds them entertaining, don’t you, dear?”

  “I have to admit, I do,” he said, kissing Martha on the cheek.

  Mallory saw Dominick Monde heading their way with a pale, freckled brunette in tow. She knew it was time to make her exit.

  “Well, it was great to see you guys. I’m going to find Alec and head out soon. It’s been a long night.”

  They kissed her good-bye, made sure she had her gift bag, and told her to have Bette call them when she was back in New York. “Getting in touch with her and Zebra is like trying to get an audience with the Pope,” Justin said.

  Mallory spotted Alec in the next room almost immediately. How could she miss him, standing next to Billy Barton, who wore one of his trademark, flamboyant, three-piece suits. Tonight’s fashion statement was a hunter green suit with matching green, polka-dotted tie. If he hadn’t been so handsome, with thick, dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes, she doubted he would get away with his outfits—no matter how much money he had in the bank or how many magazines he owned. She could see the enormous, gold, Yacht-Master Rolex watch on his wrist from six feet away.

  “Hey, Mallory. Nice to see you. You look fetching, as always.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “You’re just in time for the good news.”

  “Oh, what’s that?” she said. Alec put his arm around her, but she shrugged it off. She was still pissed off about last night, and no matter how late it was getting or how spirited the party, she wasn’t ready to kiss and make up.

  “I was just telling Alec I’m flying him to LA next week for a major interview.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She glanced at Alec, but he was looking at Billy expectantly.

  “Kendall James: our March cover story. She’s in the new Kathryn Bigelow movie coming out that month. Major score.”

  Mallory looked at Alec. A year ago, he had been lucky to get an interview with Bette Noir, a New York burlesque performer. Now he was flying to LA to interview the hottest starlet in Hollywood? She hated to admit it, but she felt jealous.

  “Are you serious?” Alec said, clearly elated.

  “Serious as cancer, my man. So here’s your excuse to have a Kendall James movie marathon this weekend. Just to save you some trouble prioritizing which ones to watch first: she’s topless in the Ryan Ellison one.”

  Mallory rolled her eyes. “I’m leaving,” she said.

  “I’m leaving, too,” Alec said. “Billy, great score. I won’t let you down—Gruff readers will see a whole new Kendall James when I’m done with the article.”

  “I kind of like the old, topless Kendall James,” Billy said. Alec laughed.

  Mallory walked to the doo
r.

  4

  Violet was a visual person. She had seen a lot of beauty in her twenty-five years—not the least of which greeted her in the mirror every morning—and she was difficult to impress. And still, Ryan’s three-story, 3,200-square-foot penthouse suite at the Hotel on Rivington made her gasp.

  Floor to ceiling glass walls. A panoramic view of the city. The room was glass, dark wood, and steel. It was elegant, masculine, and very, very, hot.

  Ryan opened the bar.

  “What do you want to drink?”

  “Champagne,” she said, without hesitation. She only drank champagne. In fact, she only drank carbonated beverages, period. Sometimes she even brushed her teeth with seltzer water. Another girl at the Blue Angel, Poppy, shared her affinity for bubbles. Poppy had gorgeous long legs, and Violet had hit on her one night, but apparently she was in a committed relationship with her hideous dyke girlfriend.

  He pulled out a bottle of Krug.

  “Cool,” he said. “I didn’t even know that was in there.”

  He poured her a glass.

  “Ready for the tour?” he said. Violet did want a tour—was dying to see the place. But she didn’t want to become any more impressed. She was losing too much power as it was. She gulped her Krug. It tasted amazing, and she wondered if it was very expensive.

  “Why don’t you just make yourself comfortable and point me to the bathroom?” she said.

  “The big one is upstairs, but come here for a sec. Check this out.”

  Reluctantly, Violet let him steer her to the back of the loftlike first floor to the home theater, complete with a DVD library of what seemed to be hundreds of films.

  “Holy shit,” she said. She loved movies. She used to collect DVDs but had realized it was a huge waste of money—so much more practical to collect sex toys. But this … It was the most luxurious thing about the suite. More movies than she could sift through.

  “Very cool,” she said, pulling out a selection from the “classics” row. “They have The Blue Angel.”

  “Who’s in that?” Ryan said, pulling it away from her, no doubt wondering if it was something his agent should have gotten him a part in.

  “Marlene Dietrich,” she sniffed. “It’s the favorite film of the old lady who owns the Blue Angel. Her inspiration.”

  “This is really old,” he said.

  “I know. But it’s amazing. Really.” The film was German and from the 1930s, about a guy who falls in love with a beautiful cabaret performer named Lola Lola. He was a very rigid and in-control guy, but Lola Lola awakens this mad passion that ultimately destroys him. That was the thing about passion—it felt amazing but would kill you in the end.

  She thought about her own Lola Lola, and that was the last thing she wanted.

  “Where’s the bathroom?” she said.

  He looked up from the DVD, as if suddenly remembering that he had a woman in his suite who had promised him an alternative to the Slit. He tossed the film onto a chair.

  “You are insanely hot,” he said, moving closer to her with a smile. He slipped his hand under her top, running his thumb over her nipple. She didn’t feel especially turned on.

  I’m hooking up with Ryan Ellison, she told herself, trying to get some mental heat going.

  They locked eyes, then he kissed her mouth. He kissed like a college boy, overeager and a little sloppy. She pushed his face down to her breasts, and he kissed them over her shirt, cupping them hard and pushing against her so she felt his stiff cock against her waist.

  “The bathroom,” she repeated.

  “What?”

  “Where is the bathroom? The master one.”

  Time to get down to business. She already had an idea about what her “performance” would be. It was something she had been planning for next week at the Angel, and she couldn’t do it twice in the same week. But tonight was clearly a better use of the particular creative expression she had in mind. Besides, it was probably something that would make Agnes completely furious.

  “Upstairs.”

  She took his hand and led him up the steel and glass stairwell in the center of the floor. Turning to her left, she saw the Empire State Building glowing green and purple, the rest of the city splayed beneath it like a tableau created solely for her personal viewing pleasure. She was tempted to stop right there, to fuck Ryan Ellison in front of all of Manhattan. But if there was one thing she knew, it was that it always, always paid to delay gratification.

  But Ryan Ellison was clearly not with that program. His arm circled her waist, and he started unbuttoning her jeans. He stroked her over her panties, and she felt herself get wet. Thank God. If the hottest actor in Hollywood couldn’t get her going, she was in trouble.

  Violet looked at the green glow of the building in the distance and wanted nothing more than to lean over the railing and let him put his movie star cock inside of her.

  “Stop,” she said, pulling his hand away. He drew back, a questioning look on his face. She pulled off her boots and jeans, throwing her pants over the side of the stairs to the floor below. He looked at her standing in her tank top, thong, and combat boots. She knew what a great visual she was in that room, on those stairs, against that view. She knew what an amazing sight they would be together, fucking, hot on hot. It was a shame no one else would get to see it. For the first time, she understood the appeal of doing porn.

  He knelt down and licked her pussy over her underwear.

  “Follow me,” she said, leading him by the hand up to the mezzanine and planting him on a couch.

  Violet walked through the spacious bedroom, all neutral colors with cherry wood floors and a sleigh bed with pristine white linens. She couldn’t wait to dirty them.

  Next to the bed was an iPod in an iDock. She turned it on and scrolled through Kings of Leon, the Black Eyed Peas, and Duffy, wondering if she was getting a glimpse into Ryan’s musical taste or the whole thing was courtesy of a Rivington staffer. She clicked on Duffy.

  She grabbed the ice bucket from the bar, then indulged herself in a peek into the walk-in closet. Ryan’s jeans and shirt were in a pile on the floor. Good—he didn’t mind a bit of a mess.

  On to the bathroom.

  “Holy shit.” The bathroom was an entirely other level of spectacle—all Italian mosaic Bisazza tile, with glass shower and walls, and, best of all, a two-person Japanese-style soaking tub. She was tempted to jump in for a soak, but decided against it. Ryan would probably come looking for her and join her, and that wasn’t the direction she had planned for the evening.

  She looked through the Ren of London bath products, making a mental note to pocket a Moroccan Rose Otto Bath Oil before leaving. Then: down to business.

  She picked through the basket of bath products and pulled out the High Glide Cooling Shave Cream and a washcloth. In the shower, she retrieved Ryan’s Gillette. Then she filled the ice bucket halfway with water.

  She took off her tank top and and returned to the iPod to select her performance music. Nothing, nothing, nothing…. bingo: the song “Phone Call” by the Faint. She hoped the music was Ryan’s: guys who liked the Faint usually fucked well.

  Maybe she’d finally break her losing streak and come.

  She cranked the music loud enough to reach Ryan, grabbed the shaving cream, razor, and ice bucket, and made her way to the couch.

  Mr. Movie Star was messing around with his BlackBerry, but promptly dropped it when Violet appeared with her bare breasts and her props.

  Violet set the bucket of water, razor, washcloth, and shaving cream down on a beveled glass end table across from the couch.

  Ryan was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

  Violet swayed her hips, circled around slowly, dancing as if she was the only one in the room. She felt Ryan’s eyes on her but ignored him. When she was ready, she eased her thong off and kicked it aside. She ran her hand over her light pubic hair, just an inch-wide “landing strip,” as if wondering how it got there. She glanced at Ryan, an
d she would have sworn he was already breathing heavily. She loved when the guys in the audience looked at her like that, like they could come just from the sight of her. It made her want to start fingering herself, not for his benefit, but because that blatant adoration was the best aphrodisiac, and she felt it most intensely at the beginning of a performance. Once she got too far into the zone, she tuned out and was almost numb. But to stop now would ruin the rhythm of the performance, so no, she wouldn’t let herself come. She was sure Bette Noir hadn’t lost her discipline when she scored that skanky musician. Now it was her chance to shine, and she wasn’t going to lose her game.

  Violet turned her back to Ryan and retrieved the shaving cream with an exaggerated bend so he could get a full view of her ass.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re perfect,” he said.

  That was it—she couldn’t resist. She had Ryan Ellison as a captive audience staring at her ass. When would she get an opportunity like this again? She hadn’t had a good orgasm in weeks. What would Bette do? Ah, fuck it.

  Her back still to him, she set the shaving cream aside, propped one leg up on the table, and eased her index finger inside herself. She had barely gotten three strokes in when he came up behind her and put his own hand on top of hers.

  “What are you doing? No, no, no,” she said, turning around and guiding him back to the couch. God, you’d expect more from an A-list movie star. But in the end he was just a guy, like every other guy. But it was her own fault—she was putting her pussy before professionalism. “Just watch.”

  He opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it and smiled at her. The last time she had seen that particular version of his smile it had been directed at Reese Witherspoon.

  Yes, she would come tonight.

  She retrieved the shaving cream and the razor, turned back to face Ryan, and lathered up her pussy. After one sharp stroke, she languidly reached over and dipped the lathery blade in the bucket of water. The key to this act was really taking her time, almost making the razor against flesh a dance in itself.