Blue Angel (5 page)

“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.

She kissed Bette’s breasts, then made her way down her body to her stomach. When she got to her pussy, she licked the outside of it the way Bette had done to her minutes before. The scent of Bette was surprisingly exciting—foreign but familiar at the same time. She pressed her tongue against Bette’s clit, and Bette put her hands on the back of Poppy’s head, pulling her closer. Bette made a noise, and Poppy moved her tongue to the center of her, thrusting it as deep inside as she could, trying to fuck her with it. Bette’s hips moved rhythmically, and Poppy slipped her hands under her to grab her ass. She felt her start to come, could taste it. She moved one hand to her own pussy, fingering herself hard so she came just as Bette shuddered, her orgasm going on and on.

She sat back on her knees and looked at Bette, who had one arm over her eyes. Her chest rose and fell heavily. Poppy’s own heart was beating hard. She felt around on the floor for her underwear and pulled it on. She was still wearing her blouse. Now the wig was bothering her, so she pulled it off. Bette looked at her lazily.

“I like your pussy,” she said.

Poppy had no idea what to say to that.

“I was at a party earlier,” Bette said. “It made me so horny.”

“Where was the party?”

“The Standard Hotel. This insane room—the hottest people in the city were there. I told you that guy Billy Barton was worth making an impression on.”

Poppy thought of the brunette Bette had pulled on stage last night. She suddenly felt uneasy.

“Billy took you to a party?”

“Not exactly. He was there, but it was that girl I brought on stage and her boyfriend who brought me. Alec—that’s his name—wanted to interview me for some article he’s writing for the magazine.”

Poppy thought of the woman from last night—her plain clothes, her lank, brown hair. Suddenly, she felt sick.

“So the party made you horny.”

“It was the party, it was the conversation. I don’t know—maybe it was Mallory. I didn’t think she was that pretty at first but I found myself wondering tonight if I could get her into bed.”

Poppy started looking around for her skirt. She didn’t know whom she hated more in that instant—Bette, or that stupid bitch from the audience.

Bette sat up and smiled at her.

“Thanks for meeting me here. That felt good.”

“Yeah, sure,” Poppy said. “I’ll see you later.”

She left the dressing room quickly, closing the door behind her. Outside, in the dark and empty backstage area, she leaned against the wall and put her head in her hands. When she looked up, she found Agnes watching her. The older woman shook her head at her slowly, as if saying,
you poor fool
.

Mallory was propped up on pillows, working on her laptop, when Alec came to bed. She closed the computer.

“Thanks again for coming along tonight, Mal,” he said, turning off his bedside light.

“You’re going to sleep? I’m totally wound up,” she said. That was an understatement. The party, the conversation . . . the kiss in the bathroom. She felt as if she’d drunk three espressos. Or done coke. Not that she’d ever done coke, or would really know what it felt like. But she imagined it would feel something like the way she felt at that moment—like she was jumping out of her skin. Like she would never fall asleep. Ever again.

She also felt turned on. And there was a time when, after a night like this, Alec would have been all over her. He would have told her on the ride home that she was the hottest girl in the room that night—and he would have meant it. But he was deep in his own head, something that happened a lot since she’d moved to New York.

Maybe she was being oversensitive—not to mention hypocritical. After all, she was the one who’d let some strange woman kiss her. Although it barely could be considered a kiss. And besides, Alec always said kissing didn’t count—that a kiss to a guy is no more significant than a handshake.

“You really want me to go to that show next Saturday night?” she asked.

Alec rolled over to face her. “Yeah, of course I do. More detail will help the article. Any schmuck can go to a show. But how many people actually get backstage?”

“Okay. Just checking.”

“You don’t mind, do you?”

“No. I just don’t want our whole lives to start revolving around this.”

“It’s one night out, Mal. I hardly think that qualifies as our ‘whole lives.’ ”

“We spent my birthday at a show, then tonight I had to leave work early to sit there like a prop during your interview. Now we’re going again this weekend.”

Alec turned the light back on.

“What’s this really about?”

“Nothing. I mean, I just told you.”

“I think it’s hard for you not to be the center of attention.”

She sat up. “What are you talking about?”

“When we had the long distance thing while you were in law school, every time we got together it was like a honeymoon—we dropped everything to spend time together. Now that I have work and you have work, you’re upset that you’re not the focus of my undivided attention.”

“That is so unfair. I do think there is a change in our relationship, but it’s not about my needing to be the object of your undivided attention.”

“Then what? You said you had fun at the show last night.”

“I did.”

“But now you’re complaining about it?”

“It’s the principle.”

“You want to argue over principle?”

“I don’t want to argue at all.”

“That makes two of us.” He pulled her to him, kissing her face. She looked into his eyes, that complicated pool of blue and gray, and knew she couldn’t be angry.

She was hopelessly in love.

S
ix months into her life in Manhattan, Mallory still couldn’t understand why people lined up all along the Upper West Side every Saturday and Sunday morning for overpriced eggs. The line outside of Sarabeth’s stretched half a block long. The only reason she was willing to put up with this insane Manhattan ritual was that Allison and Julie wanted to have a belated “happy birthday” brunch. Finding a night when all three of them were free was an exercise in futility.

They had been best friends since freshman year at Penn, when they were alphabetically assigned the same dorm room for the pre-term registration weekend: Dale, Diamond, and Delmar. The 3Ds, they called themselves. Still going strong, seven years later.

Her BlackBerry vibrated in her bag: a text from Allison:
RU here? We’re in the front of the line and don’t want to miss getting seated—hurry!

Mallory looked at the time: she was five minutes early, and Allison and Julie still managed to act like she was late. It was impossible to keep up with such compulsive, control freak overachievers.

I’m in line half a block down. B right there
,
you early bitches
.

Allison turned from the front and waved to her. No wonder Mallory had missed them—they were dressed in nearly identical jeans and long black coats that blended in with the rest of the crowd.

“Happy birthday, Mally boo!” Allison said, pulling her into a hug,

“How long have you been waiting?” Mallory asked, slipping in line.

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Why did you get here so early?”

“We knew there’d be a long wait.”

The hostess waved them in, and showed them to a prime table near the front window.

“Did you have a great birthday? I hope Smart Alec found something worthy of your twenty-fifth.” Allison had coined the nickname senior year, when she decided Alec was arrogant. “Arrogant, but hot,” she always said.

“It was interesting.”

“Interesting?” Allison and Julie echoed in unison.

“Yeah, he, um, brought me to a burlesque show.”

“Wow. Happy birthday to
him
,” Julie said.

“Seriously. Where will you go on your anniversary? Scores?”

“You guys are so harsh. It was fun! Seriously, it was something different, and I really had a great time. I mean, it was a show just like if we went to a play or something.”

“Yeah, a play with strippers.”

“They weren’t strippers—or, not the way you think. It’s very artistic—the music, the costumes . . . each dance was a narrative.”

Julie and Allison looked at her like she was crazy.

“Can I have a mimosa, please?” she asked the server.

“Make that three,” Allison added.

“I’ve actually been thinking about it a lot. And then last night Alec interviewed one of the performers for an article he’s doing. We went to this crazy room on the top of the Standard.”

Allison nodded knowingly. “The Boom Boom Room. Fabulous space.”

“Yeah. Well, we went there. And I don’t know—she’s very interesting. I’m going to a show Saturday night. You should come.”

“No, thanks,” Julie said. “So not my thing.”

“I’m in,” Allison said. “Can I bring someone? Or is this a bad idea for a third date?”

Mallory and Julie looked at her.

“Third date? You’re holding out on us! Who is he?”

“He works for Bloomberg. We did this amazing event for the Mayor’s office at the Guggenheim.” Allison worked for a very glam, top-notch PR firm. Her BlackBerry was a who’s who of New York, and every guy she dated was wealthier and more connected than the last. “We just hit it off. What can I say?”

“Name?”

“Andrew. Goldmark.”

“Jewish?” Julie asked. Allison nodded. “Your mom will be so relieved.”

Allison had a bit of an obsession with Italian guys that had started during junior year in Florence.

“It’s only been two dates. We’ll see.” When Allison said “we’ll see,” it wasn’t due to her worry that the guy would stop calling but that she would lose interest. “So can I bring him?”

“Sure. I’d say seeing how a guy reacts to hot women wearing only tassels and a G-string is a good litmus test,” Mallory teased.

“Hmm. I guess that raises the bar for me. Better make a trip to La Petite Coquette.”

“I would never spend that kind of money on underwear,” Mallory said.