Naked Angel (13 page)

The woman ran one hand over her shaved, tattooed head and left her entranceway perch in a huff. The sound of Lady Gaga’s “Judas” played from deep inside the club. Gemma shifted in her heels. Her body was tired—she felt like she’d just been fucked, which she had. Hard.

It was difficult to comprehend Justin Baxter’s ardor for her. But it was always like that with men: Their want, their need was so frantic and consuming, it left no room for her to feel much of anything.

It was stifling in that entrance corridor. She had the impulse to leave and told herself she would count to sixty. She’d reached fifty-five by the time the bald girl returned.

“Follow me,” she said.

Gemma dutifully trailed her into the club. The room was loud and crowded. She noticed that people were smoking cigarettes despite the citywide ban on indoor smoking. Onstage, a woman clambered up a pole like an insect, wearing what appeared to be nothing more than a wide ace bandage wrapped around her body. Her long black hair fanned out behind her, and once she reached the top, she disengaged her legs and scissored them around the pole. Gemma stopped in her tracks, riveted.

“Who is that?” Gemma said.

“That’s Violet. You probably don’t recognize her because of the wig.”

Gemma watched Violet’s body contort into positions that would seem impossible on the ground, never mind fifteen feet in the air.

“Is that . . . considered burlesque?”

“It is in here,” said the girl. “Violet wants you to wait for her in her office. She’ll be with you in a minute.”

They looped around the back of the room and then down a flight of stairs to a small room. Gemma sat on a red leather couch that faced a glass desk. The desk held only a Mac laptop and a stack of magazines.

The bald girl left her alone.

Gemma realized she was hungry. Skipping dinner probably hadn’t been the best idea. But she had known what Justin wanted, and her goal had been to get him more invested in her, not to have a long, drawn-out date.

She checked her BlackBerry, then reapplied her lipstick even though it was still fresh from when she’d dressed at Justin’s. Nervous and increasingly uncomfortable, she wondered if she should leave.

The door opened and closed just as quickly. Violet Offender leaned against the door as if holding off a tornado.

“What a fucking night,” she said, walking to the chair behind the glass desk. Her body was slick with sweat and shiny with glitter. She wore a long, white T-shirt so thin it was sheer. Her bare breasts and black lace panties were clearly visible through it. On her feet she wore four-inch heels with wide straps and lots of buckles. Gemma recognized them from Jimmy Choo’s latest collection. She’d wanted a pair herself, but of course could not afford them.
Burlesque must pay from the other side of the desk
.

“Did you get to see any of the show?” Violet asked, putting her feet up on the desk. The T-shirt hiked up to her waist, and Gemma couldn’t help admiring her long, tanned legs with toned thighs, and her obviously taut stomach. And then, her glance sweeping upward, Gemma took in the swell of Violet’s high, pert but round breasts.

From across the desk, Violet’s wide green eyes appraised Gemma right back. Gemma felt terribly pale and terribly British. An hour ago it had seemed obvious why Justin Baxter should lust for her with such intensity. Now, she wondered how a man could want anyone but Violet Offender. She seemed, at that moment, to be the epitome of feminine allure.

“Yes,” Gemma said. “I . . . saw you.”

“What’d ya think?”

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” Gemma said.

Violent nodded as if hearing something profound. “Exactly,” she said. “That’s where you come in.”

“I don’t follow,” Gemma said.

“Did you see what I was wearing?”

“Yes.”

“What was it?”

“A. . .dress? A dress that looked like a bandage wrapped around your body.”

“Close: It
was
a bandage wrapped around my body. Now, don’t you think a performance of that caliber deserves a more sophisticated costume?”

“Um, yeah?”

“So that’s why I called you here. I saw photos of costumes you’ve done for The Painted Lady. I want you to stop working for them and work for me. Exclusively.”

“Well, I’m afraid that’s not possible. I don’t work for The Painted Lady. I work for Agnes, and she gives me the assignments.”

“Oh, well then this should be easier than I thought. I know that old bat is cheap as hell. I’ll pay you more.”

“It’s not that simple. I’m also doing some side work for Justin Baxter. And he might be putting me on retainer.”

“How convenient. Are you fucking him?”

Gemma blanched. “Of course not,” she said.

“Yeah, right,” said Violet. “So what’s the guy you’re
not
fucking offering to pay to keep you on retainer? ’Cause let me tell you, I don’t care how great you’re blowing him, it’s his wife who holds the purse strings.”

“Justin made the offer, not his wife.”

“I’m sure he did. I’m just saying, no matter how pussy-whipped you’ve got him, he can only pay you what Martha lets him pay you.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Fine. See for yourself. Let me know what he offers you. In the meantime, at the very least, I need you to do our costumes for the Las Vegas Burlesque Festival.”

“I’m already working on that for Justin.”

“I’m sure. What’s The Painted Lady doing for their theme?”

“I don’t think I should discuss that with you.”

“You’ll just have to make sure ours is better.”

“I’m not working with you, Violet. Working exclusively for The Painted Lady means no outside work—not even for the Vegas Burlesque Fest.”

Violet leaned back in her chair, stretching. Gemma watched Violet’s hard nipples strain against the sheer fabric.

“Are you from London?” Violet asked.

“No,” said Gemma.

“But you are from England, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to call you London,” said Violet. “That okay with you?”

“Certainly not,” Gemma said.

“So tell me, London: Have you ever been dominated?” Violet said.

“Excuse me?”

“Have you ever been tied up? Blindfolded?”

Gemma said nothing. She simply stared at Violet blankly.

“Is that a yes?” said Violet.

“No. It’s . . . no.”

“You’ve never been whipped?”

“Lord, no!” said Gemma.

Violet straightened up in her chair, then leaned forward, elbows on the desk. She tapped her fingertips on her jaw. Gemma noticed her nails were painted a purple so dark it was nearly black. She wondered if she could get away with that color on her own hands.

Violet focused her eyes on her with an intensity that made Gemma squirm.

“I think you’d like it,” Violet said finally.

“Like what?”

“Being dominated.”

Gemma exhaled a nervous laugh. Violet rose from her seat and walked around to the front of the desk. She was so close Gemma could smell her. Gemma felt Violet appraising her like a piece of cattle, her eyes moving from Gemma’s feet, sweeping over her body, trying to make eye contact, which Gemma resisted. “And I’m never wrong about these things.”

Gemma found herself holding her breath. She didn’t dare look at Violet until Violet moved from her perch in front of the desk to walk past her to the front of the small office. She opened the door and held it.

“When—and not if,
when
—Justin flakes on paying you, give me a call. I’ll be waiting.”

N
adia led Max through the lobby of her building, as self-conscious as if she was sneaking a boy into her dorm. The doorman, Francisco, eyed Max warily even as he greeted Nadia with his usual, “Good evening, Ms. Grant.” Francisco had been a big fan of Jackson. They always used to talk about basketball. Nadia had never followed a professional sports team—she couldn’t name a professional athlete if her life depended on it. Not even the ones married to Kardashians.

“Do you like basketball?” she asked Max, searching for conversation as they were enveloped in the intimate space of the elevator. She tried to ignore the pain in her back, a sharp twinge on the lower right side just above her buttocks. Ever since her last injury, she felt this pain every time she exerted herself on her feet. She accepted it as part of the new reality of her life and resolved not to let it ruin her night.

“No,” he said. She took this as a positive sign. “But I do occasionally watch ice hockey.”

“Really? Why ice hockey?”

“My mother was Canadian,” he said. And something about his face looked strained when he mentioned her. She remembered him saying that his parents had been an unlikely couple, and that they never should have married. She wanted to ask him about that. “The sport is so ingrained in Canadians that I couldn’t help but inherit some of her enthusiasm for it.” He reached for Nadia’s hand.

She felt a flutter in her stomach. He was the most irresistible guy she had met in as long as she could remember. Maybe ever. Luckily, she had already made peace with the notion that she had no intention of resisting. It was time for her to get back in the game, and he was the perfect player to bring her onto the court again. Or, the ice, as the case might be.

She opened the door to the apartment, Max following closely behind her. Whenever she brought a guest to the apartment for the first time, she saw the grandness through her guest’s eyes, and was instantly compelled to explain, “It’s my great aunt’s. She’s in Paris now, and I’m taking care of it for her.”

“It’s beautiful. Really classic.”

She felt proud of the apartment and more comfortable on her own turf than she ever had felt before in Max’s presence. If it weren’t for the pain in her back, prodding her to get off her feet, she could almost have forgotten the turmoil of the past nine months.

She offered him a drink, but he said he just wanted water. He sat on the couch, prompting Twiggy to jump off in a huff.

Nadia made her way to the kitchen, and the twinge shot through her right side more deeply. She inadvertently cried out.

“What’s wrong?” Max asked, jumping up.

“Oh, nothing,” she said, hiding behind the kitchen counter as she rubbed her lower back.

“That didn’t sound like nothing,” Max said, appearing in the entranceway to the kitchen.

She forced herself to straighten up and retrieved the filtered water from the refrigerator.

“It’s not a big deal. Sometimes my back hurts after I’ve been on my feet a while.”

“You do physical therapy since the injury, right?”

“Of course.”

“Have you told them about the back pain?”

“Yes. They said it’s normal to compensate for loss of balance or strength in one area by overextending yourself in another area—usually your back. They said in time, when my leg muscles have returned to full strength, the pain will go away.”

She handed him a glass of water. He set it on the black marble countertop and put his arm around her shoulders, steering her back to the living room, where he took her by the hand and seated her on the couch.

“Lie down,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Lie down on your stomach. I’ll massage your back.”

She thought she’d gone into this evening ready to roll, but now, in the moment of truth, she froze.

“No, no—I’m fine. Really. That’s not necessary.”

“Nadia, don’t be ridiculous.”

He sat on the couch and looked at her with his big, dark eyes.

She knew that she
was
probably being ridiculous. Also overriding her reserve was the fact that she wanted him to touch her, and that compelled her to follow his direction; she stretched out on the couch in front of him, taking care that her long sundress stayed down over her legs, not hiking up, as she moved into the prone position.

She turned her face to the side, fanning her hair over her cheek so she felt less on display.

The sundress left her back bare to the middle, with thin straps. Max eased the straps over her shoulders and pulled the swath of fabric in the middle of her back down even farther so he had room to work.

He pressed both hands into her upper back, spreading his palms over her shoulder blades. She exhaled deeply, experiencing an instant release of muscle tension.

“Do you have any lotion?” he said.

“Um, yeah. I’ll get it.”

“No—stay relaxed. Just tell me where to find it.”

She directed him to the linen closet in the hallway outside the master bedroom. She was fairly certain there was an unopened container of Lubriderm from her last shopping trip to CVS. Of course, there was definitely an open moisturizer in her own bathroom, but she couldn’t recall what condition she’d left the bathroom in that morning, so she wouldn’t risk sending him in there.

He left her on the couch, and she immediately missed the warmth and gentle pressure of his hands. When he returned to smooth the moisturizer along her back, she sighed with pleasure.

“You’re good at this,” she said.

“I think you just really needed it.”

He hit a knot at the base of her neck, and she tensed as his fingers worked at it.

“Breathe through it,” he told her. His hands worked down her spine, until he pressed the base of each hand against her upper buttocks, kneading them gently, which elicited a tingling, rolling sensation of pleasure that made her squirm.