Blue Angel (2 page)

The crowd was in a frenzy, and Mallory joined in, whistling and clapping. The woman responded to the crowd, seeming to feed off of the excitement, gyrating close to the edge of the stage, where she slowly bent over, flashing her ass to the crowd, playfully squeezing both cheeks.

Once again, the cheers escalated, though Mallory did not think a higher decibel level was humanly possible.

The rodeo guy returned to the stage.

“One more round, everyone, for Poppy LaRue,” he said, though he didn’t have to ask. The room was still wild.

“What do you think?” Alec asked, squeezing her leg.

“It’s . . . I like it,” Mallory said.

“I knew you would.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

As the rodeo guy launched into a brief monologue, surprisingly clever, full of sly political commentary and pop culture references, Billy Barton slipped into the seat next to Alec. He wore a lavender shirt and purple suspenders. He was handsome and rich, so he could get away with dressing like Scott Disick on
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked, a little too loudly.

“I don’t know. What do you think, Mal? Did he miss anything?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up for the gorgeous, the glamorous, the
dangerous
. . . Bette Noir.”

The regulars in the crowd chanted the dancer’s first name. The curtain remained down, but Marilyn Manson’s “I Put a Spell on You” began to play. As the low, pounding, eerie first beats filled the room, the curtain slid back to reveal two wooden chairs and a small table with a crystal ball. In one chair, a woman was crouched, a towering black witch hat obscuring her face.

She rose slowly, her figure shrouded in a long, black dress. She swayed and looked directly at the audience, moody and defiant; Mallory saw that it was
her
—the stunning, leopard-coat woman.

Mallory knew the song well—had heard it long ago in a David Lynch film and loved it. It had been years since she’d heard it, but it had an unforgettable early crescendo and when it reached that initial peak, the dancer pulled off her black dress to reveal her perfect body in only a bullet bra, black lace panties, black seamed stockings, garter belt, and six-inch patent leather stilettos. In one hand, she held a shiny black wand. This time, when she looked at the audience, she focused on Mallory.

And then—and at first Mallory thought she was imagining this—she pointed her wand at Mallory and gestured for her to come on stage.

Mallory looked away, pretended not to see. But the crowd was cheering her on, and Mr. Rodeo appeared to assist her. Damn Billy Barton and his front row seats! She looked back at Alec, but he was laughing and waving her on.

The exact mechanics of how she got on stage were details she would never quite grasp. But somehow she found herself seated in one of the wooden chairs, in front of the crystal ball, with Bette Noir dancing around her. And then Bette sat in the chair opposite her, back to Mallory, and gestured for her to undo her bra.

Hands shaking, Mallory somehow managed the metal clasp. Her fingertips brushed the woman’s pale skin, as remarkably soft as it was fair. And when Bette turned to face her, bare breasted, Mallory felt she was an audience of one. She did not hear the crowd or the music. She did not know if she even heard Bette speaking to her—but it felt like she was. And Bette was telling her to remove her sweater. The only reason she did it was because she couldn’t be responsible for ruining this gorgeous spectacle. She hesitated for maybe twenty seconds, and then, with a rush of adrenaline, Mallory slowly pulled off her sweater.

Bette did not smile, did not even bat her fake eyelashes. She calmly took the turtleneck from Mallory, walked to the edge of the stage, and tossed it to the seat Mallory had vacated. The crowd was roaring—yes, she heard it now, like a television set that had become unmuted. Mallory, now wearing only her Anne Taylor skirt and white Victoria’s Secret bra, felt her heart pounding. She wondered how much longer she would have to be on stage, but at the same time didn’t want to leave. It was like she was hyper-alive—everything felt louder, brighter, and bigger than life off the stage. It was dizzying, and to ground herself she looked out at the audience to find Alec. She could see that his gaze was riveted on her, only her. She took a deep breath and kept still as Bette worked the stage around her, wearing only a bejeweled thong and impossibly high heels and still holding the wand and dancing—all the while dancing, moving in the most deliberate and perfectly choreographed way.

And then the curtain came down.

Poppy LaRue peeked at the crowd from behind the curtain. She could not believe Bette had pulled that brunette onto the stage. Her nerves had barely settled after her own act—it was flat-out sadistic that Agnes had made her open the show on her second performance ever. She thought about telling Agnes just that, but Agnes was too busy reaming Bette for pulling one of the audience on stage.

“What are you thinking? This is not a circus!” Agnes fumed in her thick Polish accent. Agnieszka Wieczorek, former Warsaw ballerina turned proprietress of the Blue Angel, did not take kindly to broken rules.

“Of course it is,” Bette said, calmly lighting a cigarette. “Why else do you think these people come here?” Bette walked past her without another word, into the dressing room. She closed the door with a sharp slam.

Who else but Bette Noir could get away with that?

“I need to get my shoes out of there,” Poppy said. Agnes mumbled something in her native tongue, and waved vaguely in the direction of the closed door with disgust.

Poppy waited until she was out of sight, then rapped lightly on the dressing room door.

“Fuck off,” Bette said.

“It’s Poppy.” She took Bette’s silence as an invitation to enter. When she’d started at the Blue Angel six months ago, she would never have followed Bette Noir into a room if she was in a snit. But she’d finally gotten close enough to feel comfortable; she only hoped she could get a lot closer. She’d never been with a woman before, but she knew Bette only liked girls, and, if that’s what it took to get Bette to take her under her wing and show her the ropes, she had no problem with it.

“I don’t think Agnes’s really mad at you,” Poppy said. She paused in front of the mirror and couldn’t help admiring herself. She’d recently cut her white-blond hair into a chin-length bob, much like Bette’s black one. They were both fair-skinned and blue-eyed, although Poppy was a few inches taller. She’d always liked being five nine, but ever since meeting Bette she wished she were a bit shorter. Everything about Bette seemed more perfect, more right for burlesque, more special. Regardless of the height difference, with the black / blond bob thing going on, Poppy liked to think they were like photo negatives of each other. More and more, she imagined what it would be like to be in bed with Bette, her lovelier twin.

“I don’t really care,” Bette said, looking up from her iPhone, fixing Poppy with her unnerving cat-eyed glare. “I’m not working here to make a hundred and fifty dollars a night for the rest of my life. Do you know who that was at that table?”

“The girl you pulled on stage? No—is she an actress?”

“Not her! The guy in the stupid suspenders.”

Poppy was the one who felt stupid. Was he an actor? She’d barely even noticed him. She decided it was best to say nothing. She knew Bette was going to tell her, regardless.

“It was Billy Barton,” Bette said. When Poppy still showed no sign of recognition, Bette sighed in exasperation. “The owner of
Gruff
magazine. You know
Gruff
, right? They have that annual ‘Hot’ issue. I think it was Megan Fox on the cover last year.”

“Oh, yeah—sure. I read it all the time,” Poppy lied.

“Well, the publisher was here—tonight! That’s a big deal, Poppy. If the magazine writes about the club, we could get some industry people in here. Not just these horny NYU kids.”

“Cool. So . . . do you want to get a drink?”

Bette turned abruptly in her seat, looking at Poppy closely. She eyed her up and down, her gaze lingering at her chest. Poppy, wearing a pink satin robe over her pasties and G-string, felt more naked than she had on stage in front of fifty strangers. She forced herself to stand still.

Bette stood so they were almost face-to-face. She reached out and slipped her hand under the robe, cupping Poppy’s breast. Poppy couldn’t even breathe. After months of being ignored, then barely getting conversation out of Bette . . . this! Poppy had never been so invisible to another human being.

But not anymore.

“Take these off,” Bette said, her thumb brushing over the red sequined flowers hiding Poppy’s nipples. Bette sat back in her seat, content to be the audience, while Poppy slowly removed her pasties. In the background, Poppy could hear the chords of “Fever” by Peggy Lee; it was Cookies ’n’ Cream’s number—the final act. Usually, Bette closed the show. But she and Cookie had made some crazy bet, and Cookie won. They wouldn’t even tell Poppy what the bet had been about. She felt like such an outsider, and wondered when that would change. How long would she have to be at the Blue Angel before she understood the place? Before Agnes spoke to her? Before the customers shouted her name? A year? Two?

But none of that mattered right now. All that mattered was that her robe was on the floor, her pasties were in her hand, and Bette was staring at her bare breasts.

Poppy decided to be proactive. That was her new mantra, proactive. She’d heard it on
Oprah,
or read it in
Cosmo.
Or someplace important like that. Don’t wait for things to come to you.

She stepped forward, her eyes locked with Bette’s. It was disturbing to admit it, but she was, for once in her life, faced with someone hotter than herself.

“I’m not really in the mood to drink tonight,” said Bette.

She turned back to her iPhone.

“N
ever a dull moment with you guys,” Billy Barton said, hailing a cab on the Bowery. It was midnight, and it seemed the entire city was out and about. The taxis were scarce, but Mallory wouldn’t have minded walking a few blocks. She was still high on adrenaline.

“Getting less dull by the minute,” Alec said. She couldn’t tell from his tone if he was happy about the evening’s turn of events, or annoyed with her. He’d barely said a word since that woman had pulled her on stage, but with Billy Barton monopolizing the conversation, it was hard to read too much into his silence.

“True that,” Billy said. Ugh, he annoyed the hell out of her. She hated his foppish clothes and the way he talked down to waiters. She hated that he signed Alec’s paycheck, and that he knew so much more about New York City than she ever would. Billy Barton was one of those native New Yorkers who believed he was a breed apart from the rest of the universe. And she hated that he was tagging along on her birthday. “Do you two want to join me? I’m meeting some folks at the Standard. Might be some interesting guys for you to meet, Alec.”

Mallory looked at Alec, and to her relief, he didn’t hesitate before saying, “Another time.”

“Well then, happy birthday, love. I can’t believe I almost got to see you in your
birthday suit
.” He kissed her on the cheek.

Alone, finally, Mallory and Alec walked silently to the corner. He pulled her to him.

“So, birthday girl. That was quite a show.”

“Yeah, it was really . . . interesting.”

“I meant your show.”

“Oh . . . that. Are you mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know. It showed a certain lack of decorum.”

“Mal, you went with it. That took nerve. To be honest, it was hot.”

“Really?”

“Yes! What else would it be to me? My God, any guy would kill to see his girlfriend up there like that. The only thing that would be better would be if we got that dancer back to our apartment for a private show.”

“Alec!”

“What? I told you I’ve been thinking about that.”

“Do you have to bring it up on my birthday? And I don’t need to hear about the specific women you have in mind.”

He stopped and pulled her close to him, kissing her on the forehead.

“You’re the only woman I have in mind. And speaking of, I was going to take you out for dessert somewhere and toast your birthday over champagne but honestly, all I want is to take you home. Is that okay?”

Mallory looked at him. There was nothing in the world she preferred to do over sex with him. Nothing could compare to that feeling of walking into the bedroom, knowing he was going to touch her. Knowing how he would touch her.

“Of course it’s okay.”

He hailed a cab.

In the backseat, he took off his seat belt and moved close to Mallory. She resisted the urge to tell him he really should wear his seatbelt. Her friend Julie’s ex-boyfriend was an ER doctor at Mt. Sinai, and had told her that not wearing a seatbelt in a car accident increases your chance of dying by some huge percentage that she couldn’t remember—probably because she’d blocked it out because it upset her.

Alec started kissing her, and she felt her stomach jump. He still had that effect on her—even after four years. When she told that to Julie, her friend hadn’t believed her.