Blue Angel (7 page)

“What show?” Poppy asked.

“The Slit.”

“I’ll go with you guys.”

“I’m only on the list plus one, and I’m already bringing two. Another night.”

Mallory knew she was getting another look from hell out of Poppy.

“See you out front in ten minutes,” Bette said.

Alec and Allison were huddled in the vestibule of the club entrance.

“It’s getting really cold out. You ready?” he said.

“Bette invited us to a show she’s going to after this . . . at some place called the Slit.”

“I can’t take any more. You guys are crazy,” Allison said.

“I don’t think I could get you in, anyway,” Mallory admitted.

“Oh . . . well, excuuuse me. I’m not cool enough for the late-night burlesque scene?”

“Believe me—I’m not cool enough for the late-night burlesque scene. You know, I’ll just tell her we’ll do it another night.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—it’s a Saturday night. Why are we rushing home?” Alec said.

I don’t know, Alec. Maybe watching an hour and a half show could be enough for one night, and we could go home and take our clothes off for each other?

“Fine,” Mallory said. “We’ll go.”

“It’ll be worth it—believe me,” Alec said.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve been there.”

Mallory and Allison looked at him.

“When were you there?’

“A month ago. Maybe longer. Billy brought me. He’s friends with the owner—total society brat named Penelope Lowe.”

Mallory wondered where Alec had said he was going the night he went to the Slit—because she would certainly have remembered that destination.

She also wondered if that was around the time he woke up one morning and suggested she try a Brazilian wax.

“Since you’ve already been there, don’t feel obligated to go. I’m fine going with Bette.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m not mad that you went—I don’t even know what it is. But I feel like you purposely didn’t tell me, because we always talk about our nights, and I would have remembered a venue called the Slit.”

“I’m sure I mentioned it.”

“Okay, you two lovebirds. I’m going to get going.” Allison kissed Mallory on the cheek and hailed a cab.

“Don’t be upset with me,” Alec said. “It was a few months ago—we ended up there in the course of some long night out. It’s not a big deal.”

“Is it like the Blue Angel?”

“Um, no. Not exactly.”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s a show, but it’s a different vibe. And it’s hard to get a table there, and it’s a five-hundred-dollar-bottle service minimum. It’s more like a private club. And the tenor of the shows is more . . . intense.”

“How so?”

“You’ll see,” he said.

T
he sign outside the club did not say “The Slit.” Instead, it read “dance hall.” And like the entrance to the Standard Hotel, the door was managed by a bulky man in a suit with an earpiece.

“Bette Noir plus two,” Bette said at the door. The man said something into his headset, then opened the door for them. Mallory couldn’t help noting that she had spent twenty-five years simply walking into clubs and restaurants, and suddenly it was all about being on a list.

Bette led the way. A woman dressed as a flapper greeted them with a clipboard and asked them to sign in. Mallory was amazed by the baroque interior—she felt as if she was stepping into the film
Moulin Rouge
.

And then Alec whispered to her about love, quoting the film. She smiled at him in amazement—she was so happy when they were perfectly in sync like that. He was the first guy she’d ever had that with—experiencing small moments in the exact same way. She’d had that with her best friend in high school, but never with a boyfriend.

The hostess led them up a winding, carpeted stairwell leading to the mezzanine. On stage, two women wearing crotchless dominatrix gear tossed a flaming baton back and forth.

They were shown to a curved, red leather booth. Alec squeezed her hand, then gestured for her to slide in first. She expected him to follow her, but instead he waited for Bette to sit next, and he took a place on the end.

A waitress, also dressed in a flapper dress with ropes of pearls and a feather headpiece, appeared instantly with an open bottle of champagne. She poured them all glasses, then set the bottle on the table.

“Cheers,” Bette said.

Alec said something that made Bette laugh, but Mallory missed it. She was too distracted by what was going on on stage; she could have sworn she saw one of the performers put the flame out on her vagina, but then she thought she must be seeing things. And the audience, unlike at the Blue Angel, was stoic. No applause, no yelling—just cool observation.

And then she felt Bette’s hand on her thigh.

Mallory glanced at Alec, and he was looking at her in a way that, given their ability to communicate wordlessly, made her strongly suspect that Bette’s other hand was on Alec’s thigh.

“I’m going to use the restroom,” Mallory said, sliding out.

She made her way back down the staircase. Passing all the elaborately dressed women on the way to the restroom, she once again felt plain and unprepared for where the night had taken her.

The seclusion of the bathroom was a great relief. She didn’t have to pee, so spent a few minutes looking at the display of hair care products, powder, combs, mouthwash, candy, gum, and multicolored condoms set out for the patrons’ use. Mallory took a peppermint candy, and left.

“Hey,” Alec said.

“Jesus! You scared me. The men’s room is on the other side.”

“I know—I wanted to talk to you.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. You doing okay?”

“Yes. I’m fine.” She could tell he wanted to say something, that he was assessing her readiness to hear it. “What is it?”

“Are you open to the possibility of a three-way with Bette tonight?”

Mallory lost her breath. “You think that could really happen?”

He looked at her very seriously and nodded. Mallory wished she hadn’t drunk the first glass of champagne so quickly. It was hard to process what he was asking of her. Yes, she knew he fantasized about having sex with her and another woman—but didn’t all guys say things like that? She’d never thought the moment would actually arrive. And now maybe it had. And it felt like a moment of truth. Here she was, complaining—at least to herself—that their sex life had grown rote and was on the wane. And there he was—the man she loved more than anything—telling her what he wanted sexually. If she said no, she would have no one to blame but herself if their relationship lost its spark.

“If that’s what you want,” she heard herself saying.

Alec looked into her eyes, kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips.

“I love you, sweetheart,” he said. “I only love you—you know that, right?”

She nodded.

“It’s an adventure I want to have
with
you.”

“I know,” she said.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she said. And it was true.

He held her hand, and they made their way back to the table.

Two women and a guy were standing by the side of the booth and chatting up Bette. Bette introduced them as Camille, Valerie, and Max.

“Max is an amazing costume designer,” she said. “He is a genius with zippers.”

Mallory’s mind was racing too fast for her to process new people. She let Alec make the polite conversation, poured herself another glass of champagne, and she watched the show. A woman was taking off her Santa costume to the the Mel Tormé song, “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire.” She wasn’t wearing pasties, and she was soon out of her G-string. She sat on a chair, spread her legs, and proceeded to remove what looked like a chestnut from her vagina. Mallory stifled a laugh and turned to see Alec’s reaction, but he was not watching the stage.

He was kissing Bette.

Mallory didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t pull away—it was like watching a terrible accident at the side of the road. But before she could really get upset, Bette turned and fixed those cat blue eyes on her, and, with a smile, started kissing her. And not just the faint brush of lips like in the bathroom of the hotel, but a deep, real kiss. The first thing she thought was that it felt different—she was aware of how soft Bette’s skin and mouth felt. And she was surprised at how much she didn’t want Bette to stop. But Bette did stop, pulling back after a minute.

“I have to run,” she said. “Camille and Anton are taking me to a party. You guys stay—enjoy the rest of the show.”

Mallory nodded, gulped more champagne, and dared not look at Alec. She watched the finale of the chestnut lady—she was now juggling three of them, and Mallory didn’t even want to think about where the second and third nuts came from—and felt Alec slide next to her. He pulled her hair away from her face and whispered in her ear.

“Go the bathroom. Close yourself in a stall but don’t lock the door. Take all your clothes off. Text me when the coast is clear.”

She looked at him like he was crazy.

“Seriously—go,” he said.

And she did. And so maybe she was the one who was crazy. Or maybe she was just relieved it wasn’t going to be the three of them in the bathroom. Because even though she’d said it would be okay, she knew the way she had felt when she saw him kissing Bette; the thought of having to see him do anything more than that made her stomach knot.

A woman was reapplying lipstick in the bathroom. Mallory pretended to touch up her own makeup, and found that her hands were shaking. She closed herself in a stall, locked the door, and took off her stockings, her skirt, and her blouse. She hung them all on the single hook the best that she could manage, and then put her shoes back on. She hoped standing barefoot for just a minute on the floor wasn’t long enough for her to catch anything. Her mother had always warned her of the dangers lurking on unclean floors.

She closed the toilet lid and sat on it, waiting for the woman to leave. She heard crinkling as the woman sorted through something—candy? condoms?—and then finally the click of the door as she exited. Mallory pulled out her BlackBerry and texted Alec.

Coast is clear. I’m in the last stall.

She unlocked the door, wearing only her bra and underwear. The whole situation made her uneasy—what if someone came in before Alec got there? And what did he think they could get away with doing in that small space, with anyone able to walk in and hear them or worse, notice the two sets of legs under the door!

And yet, she felt incredibly turned on. She pressed her hand between her legs, testing the waters. She was wet already.

Someone came into the room, and she tensed, holding the stall door closed.

“It’s me,” he said, knocking lightly. She stood and opened it. The way he looked at her made all the unease worth it. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he said.

She put her arms around him, and they kissed. It was confusing to her that twenty minutes ago he was kissing Bette, but she tried to keep her mind blank. She felt how hard he was through his pants, and she rubbed her pelvis against him. He cupped her ass, then slipped one finger inside her from behind. He worked it in and out, and she moaned a little, knowing she could come just standing there like that.

“Take these off,” he said.

After she pulled down her panties, her hand fumbled with his belt, and he helped her get his pants off. She took his cock into her hand, stroking it firmly and rubbing her thumb gently over the tip.

“Hold on,” he said, and took her blouse off the hook, spreading it out over the closed toilet seat. He eased her back so she sat on it, and he stood erect before her. She took his hard cock into her mouth, using her tongue and her lips the way he liked. He thrust gently, and she held his ass, pulling him to her. He wound his fingers through her hair.

And then the door to the bathroom opened. Someone entered the stall next to theirs.

Mallory pulled away from him and looked up. He shook his head and mouthed, “It’s okay.” But she couldn’t continue.

He pulled her to her feet.

“Turn around,” he whispered.

Alec bent her over, and she braced herself with her hands on the toilet seat. He ran his hands down her back, over her ass, and then started rubbing her clit while he moved one finger inside her. Mallory bit her lip so she wouldn’t moan.

The person in the next stall began to pee. Mallory wanted to stop, to just wait until she left, but Alec was already easing his hard cock inside her. He slid in and out slowly, the way that he knew always brought her to the brink of coming. Then he gave her one hard thrust and stayed inside her and she came instantly, and—to her horror—loudly. She had lost track of whether or not the person was still in the next stall. Would she tell someone who worked at the club what was going on in the bathroom? She had visions of the management calling the police, who would put them under arrest for lewd conduct, or indecent exposure . . . or both.

She could tell by the steady, hard rhythm of Alec’s thrusting that he was close to coming. Usually, she could climax at the end, too. He was the first lover she’d ever had who made her come again and again, easily two or three times when they had sex. But she was too distracted with thoughts about what the stranger in the bathroom might be hearing or doing.