Blue Angel (18 page)

In the entrance foyer, she added her shoes to the carefully arranged footwear left by each of the guests. She could estimate at a glance that she was looking at twenty grand worth of shoes.

Up ahead, the girl in the fishbowl had evolved from coed chic to polished vamp. And just below her, Justin Baxter looked even better than she remembered—and Martha, even worse. Poppy shuddered.

A glass table was covered with folded seating cards. The only time she had seen that before was at her cousin’s wedding. She hoped she wasn’t seated at the Baxters’ table, but was sure that was filled by the remarkable number of boldfaced names circulating in the foyer, sipping champagne served by handsome young men in tailcoats.

She took a glass, knowing it would be phenomenal. As she brought the flute to her lips, Justin caught her eye and smiled.

“Have you seen anyone serving something other than champagne?” a short, pretty blonde asked her. She had a pixie haircut and a smattering of freckles across her nose, and Poppy immediately recognized her from the latest Anne Hathaway movie.

“Um, no—but I haven’t really been looking.”

But the blonde had already spotted someone more important to talk to. Luckily, the crowd seemed to be moving to the assigned tables. Poppy downed her champagne, and followed the herd until she could bench herself at table six.

“Hey, I know you,” said the guy next to her. He was good-looking in an affected sort of way. He had thick, shiny brown hair that was slightly feathered around the sides, and he wore mint green suspenders with a matching cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders. “Poppy LaRue, right?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Billy Barton—nice to meet you. I caught your show a few weeks ago. Brava.”

“Thanks.” Why did his name sound so familiar?

“I’ve never seen you at Justin and Martha’s before. I can’t believe I would have forgotten a face like yours.”

“I just met them recently, so I haven’t really been here before.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s the show?”

“One never knows. It will be interesting, have no doubt about that. And the food will be sublime. Somehow Justin always manages to lure some top chef away from his hot, recently opened, and impossible to get into restaurant for the night. God only knows what they pay these people.”

“I can’t imagine,” Poppy said, shifting uncomfortably.

The cadre of Calvin Klein model / waiters began circulating with platters. One spooned something unrecognizable onto Poppy’s plate, while another poured her glasses of red and white wine.

“Don’t they usually ask if you want red
or
white?”

“I’m seeing the combination serving more and more lately. Some people swear by it—breaks up the flavors, so the palate stays excited.”

The tables were arranged in a loose circle, so that there was a large space left in the center of the room with a slightly elevated platform. An extremely thin blonde with defined, ropy muscles stepped onto the platform. She wore only a black sports bra and black boy shorts underwear. In contrast to her sporty body and attire, her nails were long and painted deep, glittery maroon, and her eye makeup was sweeping and dramatic, borderline garish.

The light classical music that had been innocuously filling the background of the evening changed to an ominous, carnivalesque song. The woman began twisting her body into positions that did not seem possible unless she were made of rubber.

“I just love contortionists, don’t you?” Billy said.

“Um, yeah. I guess.”

“So, were you interviewed for the piece
Gruff
magazine is doing on the burlesque scene in New York?”

So that’s how she knew his name! He was the guy Bette had been so focused on the night she pulled Mallory on stage.

“No, actually. And I probably should be, since I’m the hottest new girl at the Blue Angel. And everyone knows the Blue Angel is the best club in the city.”

Billy looked at her.

“I agree! Plus, you are staggeringly pretty. I want to get some photos of you for the piece. And I’ll have the writer get in touch with you—Alec Martin. If it’s too late for him to work you into the article, I’ll make sure we have shots of you for the editorial spread.”

Alec Martin. Mallory’s journalist boyfriend. Finally, a break—something to give her some leverage. Although what that leverage was . . . she didn’t know yet. The first thing she needed was to get Alec Martin alone. Then she was sure she would figure it out.

“I hope your writer has some time to work me in. I have lots of insider stuff and a different perspective on the scene than the older girls.”

“I’ll talk to him. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

A handsome Latino waiter replaced her plate with another, and again she wasn’t sure what she had been served.

“What is this?”

“Braised short ribs,” said the hottie.

“I’d like to braise his short rib,” said Billy.

She laughed.

“You’re not drinking your wine,” he said.

“I only like champagne.”

Billy immediately summoned a waiter and asked for a bottle of champagne.

“A bottle? Isn’t that too much?”

“This is a Baxter party. There’s no such thing as too much.”

Across the table, a bald black guy in a sharp black suit and white tie called over to Billy. They began an animated conversation about some politician Poppy had never heard of, so she fixed her eyes on the platform and waited for her champagne.

The contortionist untwisted herself, and somehow managed to walk off the platform. Poppy wondered if her legs felt like Jell-O after that performance. She considered sharing this thought with her new bff, but he was laughing with the dude across the table.

A waiter appeared with a bottle of Krug and poured her a glass.

“Thanks. Billy, do you want some?”

“Why not? Poppy, this is Dominick Monde, head of Tout Le Monde Films. Dominick, Poppy LaRue, burlesquer extraordinaire. Oooh—this show just got good.”

One of the waiters was now on the platform. Wait—was that one of the waiters? All these beautiful guys were starting to look alike, with their phenomenal bone structure and taut, muscled bodies and thick heads of hair. This one was on the slim side, with a short blond buzz cut and Siberian husky blue eyes she could see even from the distance of the table.

The music changed yet again, this time to something that sounded like Moby meets dance / trance. The guy removed his clothes, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it aside, then easing down his trousers to reveal that he was not wearing underwear—and sported a big erection.

“I love the Baxters! You can always count on them for sausage with dinner,” Billy said, and the few people who heard him at the table laughed.

A second guy joined the first on the platform, fully nude, holding what looked like a fly swatter. He was Mediterranean-looking and broader shouldered, with longish dark hair, high cheekbones, and an Angelina Jolie mouth. His right bicep was fully tattooed, and he was, overall, one of the hottest guys Poppy had ever seen.

The dark guy stood in front of the blond buzz cut, who immediately knelt and took his erection into his mouth.

“Jesus,” Poppy breathed.

“Jesus Luz?” Billy said. “He looks like him, but trust me, honey—even the Baxters don’t have that much money. That’s Derek Dart. I’ve seen him in films. But I have to say his theatrical performance promises to be much stronger.”

The buzz cut guy worked Derek Dart in and out of his mouth, gripping his muscled ass with one hand, the other working his thick shaft. Poppy wondered how long it could possibly be before Derek came, and wondered if she was mentally prepared to see a guy come in another guy’s mouth. She could tell by the movement of Derek’s pelvis that he was probably getting close, but then he suddenly pulled himself out and turned the buzz guy around. Buzz cut bent over, and Derek started spanking his ass with the fly swatter. She couldn’t help staring at Derek’s cock, which was nearly purple in its heightened state of erection and glistened with saliva.

The blond guy was moaning from the ass-swatting in a way that Derek hadn’t done even when having his dick sucked. Poppy couldn’t believe she was watching this in a room full of people having dinner, and the strangest part was that the vibe in the room hadn’t changed from when it was simply a contortionist on the stage. She was afraid to really look around, because she didn’t want to catch anyone’s eye, but she wouldn’t have been surprised if some of the guests were still eating and talking.

And then Derek spit on his own cock, spread his saliva around on it, and pressed it into the other guy’s asshole. Poppy wanted to look away, but she was riveted. She’d only had anal sex twice and found it painful—and neither guy had been as big as Derek. She couldn’t imagine how this could feel good to the blond guy, but his face was absolutely rapt with ecstasy—unless he was the world’s best actor, in which case he deserved an Academy Award.

Derek pumped his dick into the guy with fast, hard thrusts, and the exertion made the muscles on his chest and arms stand out. Poppy was surprised at how turned on she was—couldn’t believe that her pussy was starting to throb.

Derek pulled his cock out and started pumping it with his hand until spurts of jizz fell like rain on the other guy’s buttocks.

Everyone at the tables started to clap politely, as if a piano concerto had just concluded.

“If they’re serving that with the main course, I can’t wait to see what’s for dessert,” Billy said with a wink. Poppy was tempted to say something about not forgetting to put the writer in touch with her, but she didn’t want to sound desperate. “Give me your cell number,” he said. “So I can pass it on to my writer. I want him to get on this. I think the issue is closing soon.”

Trying not to smile, Poppy recited her number, and he programmed it into his iPhone.

Justin appeared beside her seat and touched her shoulder.

“Glad you could make it. Are you enjoying the show?”

Somehow, the way he asked the question made her feel dirty, and this annoyed her. But her pussy was wet, and she couldn’t help thinking of how good he was at eating her out.

“Yes. Thanks.”

“A stellar evening so far,” Billy chimed in.

“Glad you’re enjoying. I hope you don’t mind if I borrow your tablemate for a moment?”

“By all means. “

Justin winked at Poppy and gestured for her to follow him.

He led her to the bar, a room she remembered the last time she was at the house.

“What did you think of the show?”

“It was interesting.”

“Just interesting? I bet you’re wet.”

She did not think honesty was the best policy at this particular moment. “I enjoyed it, okay? Now I’m going to go back to the table.”

“Did I offend you in some way?”

“You offended me the last time I was here. I told you.”

“Let me make it up to you. I’d love to lick your pussy.”

“No, Justin! Seriously, I’m not some fuck toy for you and your wife.”

“I’m not talking about my wife. Just you and me this time.”

“I’ve got to get back to the table,” she said. She knew she was probably blowing her chance at an invitation to the LA trip, but so be it. She already had something more important on deck: the interview with Alec Martin.

Then, as if reading her mind, Justin said, “Maybe your tablemate would like to watch us. You know how curious those journalism types can be.”

And then she realized she could seal the deal for LA and the magazine with one shot.

Justin took her silence as a yes. She watched him walk to her table and whisper something in Billy’s ear. Sure enough, he returned with Justin, and the three of them rode the elevator upstairs without a word exchanged.

Justin led them to a sitting room on the third floor. It was all black and white—three low-to-the-floor black couches, a white shag carpet, and a few retro silver floor lamps. A baby grand piano was in the far corner, and Poppy wondered if anyone actually played it or if it just suited the color scheme.

Billy sat on one of the black couches that directly faced another identical couch. The light was on a dimmer, and Justin set it lower before steering her to the couch across from Billy. He knelt in front of her, hiking her dress up and easing her panties off. She rested her head against the back of the couch, trying not to think of the full view of her pussy currently on display for Billy Barton. But then she thought of how intent Bette was on getting his attention; she was sure she had it in a way Bette never had.

Justin pushed her legs apart and brushed his thumb against her clit. She remembered his technique from last time, the way he pressed his fingers inside her first and then followed deeply with his tongue. Just the thought of it made her squirm, and she touched his hand that gripped her thigh, pulling it toward her pussy. He let her guide his hand, and slowly inserted his middle finger deep inside her. She moaned and arched back, forgetting all about her audience. Just as she was starting to peak, he stopped.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Why don’t you finger fuck yourself for us,” he said. Before she could respond, he sat next to Billy on the couch. The two of them looked at her like they were in front row seats at an off-Broadway play.

She was so close to coming she had to finish herself off anyway, so she decided she would simply pretend they were not there. She put her head back, closed her eyes, and stroked her clit, but she was so aroused she didn’t need any warm-up and moved straight to pressing two fingers inside herself. As she worked herself up toward an orgasm, trying not to think about Billy and Justin watching her, she realized the fact that they were there actually heightened her excitement. She moved her fingers faster and harder, thinking of the publisher of
Gruff
magazine and the millionaire playboy who could be anywhere doing anything choosing to watch her masturbate. With this thought, her orgasm broke, and it was so strong she cried out very loudly. She shuddered against her own hand, and only then did she allow herself to look at her audience.

Justin moved to stand in front of her. He immediately knelt down, took her wet fingers into his mouth. Then he pressed her thighs apart further, and lapped at her pussy like a cat at fresh cream. She glanced over his head at Billy Barton, and saw that his pants were around his ankles, his cock in his hand.