Blue Angel (25 page)

“Um, I’m just starting at the Blue Angel. I’ve done a few shows just helping out between sets.”

“I’ll call you when we get back east. We’d love to have you perform again. Do you have a card?”

“Not . . . on me.”

“I can reach you through Agnes or Bette. Okay, then. You’re welcome to join the party. Hope to see you soon.”

This time, he kissed her on the cheek
and
squeezed her ass.

She shook her head and started up the stairs.

“Mallory!”

She turned to find Billy Barton looking up at her. She froze.

“Oh, hi, Billy.” She tried to sound casual, but her heart was racing. She knew the polite thing to do was to go back down the stairs and say hi to him, but her adrenaline had her in fight-or-flight mode, and she just wanted to run away.

“You were fantastic! I had no idea you were a burlesque performer. How could Alec not mention this—he’s writing a feature story on it, for God’s sake. And I like the red hair, by the way.”

She slowly descended the stairs.

“Thanks. Listen, the reason Alec never mentioned it is because he doesn’t know yet. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to be the one to tell him.”

“Sure thing—no problem. I hope you talk to him soon, though.”

“Why?”

“He’s been moping around the office like a lovesick teenager. What are you two fighting about?”

“We’re not fighting,” she said.

“He said you broke up.”

“We’re just . . . working some things out.”

“I’m sure hearing about your new hobby will cheer him up.”

“Billy, I don’t want you to mention it, okay? Things are complicated right now, and I don’t think he needs this news at the moment.”

“My lips are sealed,” he said. They looked at each other for just a beat too long. She felt certain she couldn’t trust him.

She climbed back up the stairs.

The Blue Angel was empty for a Saturday night. Poppy wondered if maybe it was because Bette wasn’t on the bill.

“I don’t like her doing these parties,” Agnes muttered. “I never should have agreed.”

“She’ll be back on Tuesday,” Kitty Klitty said reassuringly. Agnes muttered something in Polish.

Scarlett Letter was headlining in Bette’s place that night. Poppy thought it should be her, but of course Agnes still looked at her as a newbie.

“Don’t you start getting involved with those parties,” Agnes told her.

“I won’t if you let me headline one night.”

“You show me something worthy of a headline!” she said. “And for your smart mouth, you can do the tip jar tonight.”

She couldn’t win with that woman.

Poppy watched Scarlett from the side of the stage. Her eyes wandered to the audience, and she recognized a woman in the first row. She had stringy brown hair and wore a business suit. Looking at her, Poppy thought the same thing she’d thought the first time she’d seen her: that woman needs a makeover. She knew there was significance to the woman, but who was she?

Then she realized who she was. It was Mallory’s boss!

But why was she back at the club? She couldn’t be trying to bust Mallory—Mallory had already been fired.

When Scarlett finished, Rude Ralph reminded everyone to tip generously on the way out. Poppy hated holding the tip jar. She felt the performers should be elusive after the show, and the stage kitten should hold the tip jar. But Agnes said the audience tipped more when it was one of the performers. They also tipped more when the girl stood there wearing nothing but pasties and a thong, which Poppy opted not to do that night. She was in a pissy mood, so she put her bustier and tulle skirt back on. Still, the bucket filled with tens and twenties. And then the stringy-haired woman put two fifties on the pile.

“You were amazing,” the woman said.

“Thanks.” Poppy smiled. Finally, someone had something positive to say!

“And . . . you’re gorgeous.”

“I’m Poppy.” She held out her hand. The woman might need a makeover, but at least she had good taste.

“Patricia,” the woman said, shaking her hand. To Poppy’s surprise, she felt a pulse of excitement when the woman closed her cool fingers around her own.

“Want to get a drink?” Poppy said, surprising herself.

“Sure.”

Poppy handed the tip jar off to Kitty Klitty, grabbed her coat and handbag, and left with Patricia Loomis.

Outside, there was an awkward silence.

“We could go to Dogstar on Avenue A?” Poppy said. “Or B Bar. That’s right around the corner.”

“I live uptown,” said Patricia. Poppy knew an invitation when she heard one.

“Okay,” she said. Patricia hailed a cab.

Patricia lived on 72nd Street off of Lexington. It was a third floor apartment in a quaint brownstone. Poppy noted how serene the streets were compared to the action in the Village.

“So you’re the one who got Mallory fired,” Poppy said. She figured she might as well make small talk since Patricia wasn’t particularly chatty.

“Are you friends with her?” Patricia asked.

“Not really,” said Poppy.

“Are you the one who called me that day?”

“Yes,” she said. “You didn’t have to fire her, you know.”

“I didn’t fire her—our boss did. And it wasn’t only because of the dancing.”

“Then why?”

“We didn’t think she had sufficient long-term potential.”

Finally! Someone who wasn’t enamored with the great Mallory Dale. Her night was looking up.

“You don’t have cats, do you?” Poppy asked.

“Yes—a tabby. Is that a problem?”

Okay—so nothing was perfect.

“No,” Poppy lied.

The apartment was decorated in French country—super cute. Poppy wondered if she would ever have enough money to have a nice apartment in New York.

Patricia asked if she wanted a glass of wine, and Poppy said sure, even though she only drank champagne.

“I have a great Malbec or Shiraz if you like red,” Patricia called from the kitchen.

“Um, sure.” As far as Poppy was concerned, Patricia was speaking a different language. But she would roll with it.

Patricia returned with two full glasses. She sat next to Poppy on the couch. An orange cat circled her leg, and she pushed it away with her foot.

“Cheers,” Patricia said, touching her glass to Poppy’s. “I have to confess—I’ve been thinking about you since that night I went to the club to see what Mallory Dale was up to.”

“Really?”

Patricia nodded. “You wore that trench coat with the red lacy thing underneath.”

Poppy saw the reverence in her eyes, and it was the biggest turn-on she’d ever experienced. It was like what she got from the audience when she was on stage, but times a thousand.

She set her glass on the wood coffee table, and took Patricia’s glass from her hand. As soon as Patricia relinquished the glass to her, she felt in control and knew what she wanted to do. Leaning forward, she put her mouth on Patricia’s, and, to her shock, the rigid lawyer responded like she had been shot out of a cannon.

Patricia moved on top of her, and within half a minute flat she had managed to remove Poppy’s sweater and skirt, her hands as practiced as those of Trent at Arkansas State when he took Poppy’s virginity. But this time, Poppy was not nervous. She welcomed the firm, practiced touch teasing her nipples, and loved the feeling of Patricia’s body pressing against her own.

Patricia removed her pants and blouse, and Poppy was surprised to find that the woman’s breasts were large and round, with areolas the size of quarters and the color of pale tea. She was dying to suck them. Patricia lay back next to her, and Poppy propped herself up on one elbow, tracing Patricia’s large, dark nipples. She was amazed by how much they turned her on, and bent her head to suck them. Patricia had a surprisingly slammin’ body—full breasts, womanly hips, but a flat belly and long legs. Who knew you could hide all that under a business suit? And finding it under the navy pinstripe skirt and tailored jacket was somehow much sexier than finding it under a pair of tight jeans and a sweater. She imagined going out to dinner with Patricia, and no one else at the restaurant guessing what was waiting to be unwrapped at home.

But she was getting ahead of herself: she had to make a lasting impression. Alec said the reason none of her hook-ups amounted to anything was because she didn’t have an emotional connection. But that part of relationships was a mystery to her. The only thing she could control was being beautiful enough to attract love, and being good enough in bed to keep people coming back for more. But even sex didn’t seem to be working lately.

She couldn’t worry about that now.

She brushed her mouth across Patricia’s breasts, her hands sliding down to rub her pussy. It felt strange to touch her pussy at first: Patricia had more of a bush than she’d seen in a long time. Nothing crazy—it wasn’t like she was in a 1970s porno or anything. But it was clear that the words “Brazilian” had never crossed her lips. Surprisingly, this didn’t bother Poppy. She was really into Patricia’s body—the way it looked, the way it felt, the way it smelled. For the first time, she understood the expression “animal attraction.” There was no reason for it, but she wanted nothing more than to explore this woman all over in every way she could.

Poppy maneuvered herself so she was positioned on her side with one leg over Patricia. She bent her head to take one breast in her mouth, circling her tongue over the nipple. Patricia made a soft noise, and Poppy felt heat between her legs. She pulled her panties down so she could feel Patricia’s leg against her bare pussy. The urge to grind against the woman was so strong that she let herself, even as she wondered if it was okay. Then, Patricia grabbed her ass, pulling her even harder onto herself.

“Move up a little,” Patricia said. Poppy complied, and she felt Patricia’s finger slip inside of her from behind. Poppy moaned. Patricia’s hand moved in and out while she kissed Poppy’s neck.

“Don’t stop,” Poppy said.

“I won’t. Come, baby.” The combination of Patricia’s touch— her fingers gently caressing her outer lips, but firm and deep inside her—and the term of endearment sent Poppy into her first orgasm. When she stopped quivering, Patricia pulled her up so they were face-to-face.

“You are so beautiful,” she said.

Poppy smiled, and asked, “What do you want me to do?”

“Come to my bed.”

She led her into a bedroom right out of a Ralph Lauren ad, in the center of which was a king-sized, high wooden sleigh bed covered with a richly colored floral comforter and half a dozen throw pillows. Poppy hesitated, but Patricia told her to get on and lie down.

“Let me look at you,” she said, and Poppy happily complied. It felt good to be objectified, to be someone’s ideal. For the first time since moving to New York, she felt like the prettiest girl in town.

Patricia soon moved from looking at to touching her: she dipped her head between Poppy’s legs, licking her outer lips slowly. Poppy reached down and played with Patricia’s hair while the woman’s tongue moved in circles around the rim of her pussy. Poppy knew how wet she was, but Patricia didn’t seem to mind. She used her fingers again, then, just as Poppy felt close to coming for the second time, Poppy pulled herself up so she was lying directly on top of her, their pussies kissing. Somehow, this felt almost more intimate than intercourse with a man. They rubbed against each other, a slow but intense grind that brought Poppy to the edge of climax. Then Patricia switched positions so that she was above her, bending down to eat Poppy’s pussy while pressing her own cunt into Poppy’s face. Poppy held Patricia’s ass while gingerly running her tongue inside her pussy, and she felt Patricia do the same to her. Even though the outside of Patricia’s pussy had hair, the inside was smooth and easy for Poppy to lick. When Patricia pressed her tongue inside of her, Poppy did the same thing, so they were simultaneously fucking each other with their mouths. Poppy worked to keep up with Patricia, but she felt herself sliding into an orgasm, and she could only put her head back and let the waves rock through her body. She cried out, and Patricia slid her fingers inside her, bringing Poppy to a feeling she had never experienced before.

“That was amazing,” Poppy said when she was finished.

Patricia moved off the bed, and Poppy thought maybe she was tired of fooling around. Failure—again! But then Patricia pulled something out of her nightstand drawer. Something purple. And big. A big, thick, veiny, purple penis.

She returned to the bed and placed the dildo next to Poppy. Immediately, she resumed attending to her, licking her breasts and stroking her arms, her belly. She pressed the dildo into Poppy’s hand.

“I want you to use this on me,” she said.

“Um, are you sure?” It seemed a bit unnatural to her, but then she remembered how when she was hooking up with Bette she had craved penetration.

“Yes—don’t be nervous. I’ll show you what I like,” Patricia said.

She guided Poppy’s hand with the dildo, pressing the thick head along her outer lips, then circling her clit. When Patricia relaxed and moved her hand away, Poppy continued the motion on her own.

“Now press it against my clit. Yes, just like that. Now rub it up and down on that spot.” Poppy followed her directions. Patricia’s head tilted back, her breathing heavier. “Now inside,” Patricia said, moving the dildo toward her wet center. Poppy gingerly pressed the tip inside.

“Fuck me, Poppy. Fuck me the way you like to be fucked,” Patricia said, thrusting her pussy up toward her. Good lord! Poppy felt way out of her depth. It seemed just entirely wrong to stick this object inside someone.

“I . . . can’t,” Poppy said, her hand clutching the purple penis in a frozen position.

“Of course you can.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you. This thing is huge.”

Patricia sat up.

“I’m sorry,” Poppy said.

“Don’t worry about it.” Patricia stood and walked to the door of the bedroom.

“Are you leaving?” Poppy said, aghast.

“No! I’ll be right back.”

Poppy hugged her knees to her chest and hoped she hadn’t just blown it. But Patricia quickly returned, holding out a black box the size of a small shoebox.