Page 26 of Fallen Angel

“What kind of bad things?” Mallory says, her heart beating fast.

“Just dark energy shit. Trust me, she’s bad news.”

“I believe you,” Mallory says.

She just found out the hard way.

Violet waits behind the stage wearing a long brunette wig, cropped leather jacket, and thigh-high, six-inch heeled biker boots.

She peeks out from behind the stage curtain at the audience. The Blue Angel is packed. Monday night is a surprisingly popular one at the club—the “weekend extender,” they call it. Lots of single guys and women who can’t face their empty apartments alone after a weekend of partying. It’s a good night for the performers because the tips are always generous; people are so damned grateful to escape themselves.

Mallory never works on Monday nights, but Violet couldn’t help hoping maybe tonight would be the exception. It’s a very strange feeling for her, but she’s been impatient to see her again. Saturday night only confirmed what Violet sensed from the first time she saw Mallory: She’s the hottest thing walking. Her body, her attitude—even her pathetic attachment to her boyfriend—all turn Violet on. Still, she thought that once she fucked her she’d get it out of her system—“one and done,” as Violet likes to say. But no. Mallory is the rare person who leaves Violet wanting more.

The old lady rounds the corner holding a piece of paper.

“Violet, this is the order. No changes this time: Poppy closes and you open.”

Violet hates going first. The crowd is always overeager for the first performer, like an annoying puppy. But at the same time, no one ever remembers the first performer after an entire show. How’s she going to grow her following when they treat her like the warm-up act?

Unfortunately, fucking Jarod Marks hadn’t increased her exposure; the paparazzi didn’t catch her leaving the club with him or leaving his hotel. And he hadn’t tried to contact her or return to the club. It’s her own fault—she had held back in fucking him. If she had unleashed Mistress Violet on his skinny ass, he would have been back for more. Any woman can give a man pleasure. But few can inflict pain.

Still, Jarod hadn’t been a total waste of time. It gave her the excuse to invite Mallory to the screening. Violet commends herself for playing things exactly right. Sure, the party at the Plaza gave her the perfect opening—literally. But even without it, Violet had every intention of fucking Mallory that night. And Violet always gets what she wants.

Except the chance to close the show.

When the curtain rises, she’s in a foul mood. The White Zombie song “More Human Than Human” cranks over the sound system. Tonight’s choreography is perfect for venting her frustration. It’s aggressive and somewhat hostile, and she’s sure Agnes will hate it.

She instinctively peeks to her right, stage side, and catches Agnes watching with her eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. In contrast—almost comedically so—Poppy looks on with obvious awe. For the first time, Violet considers fucking her. But no, she’s actually not interested. There’s only one Blue Angel pussy she wants, and now that she’d had a taste she has every intention of going back for more.

After her performance, Agnes is waiting for her in the corridor between the stage and the dressing room.

“I told you we do burlesque here, not stripping,” Agnes says.

“That was burlesque.”

“Not by Blue Angel standards.”

“Get with the times, Agnes. No one wants to see fat chicks waving around a bunch of feathers to ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend.’ That’s why people come here as a warm-up before going to the real party at the Slit.”

“Then perhaps that is where you belong. One more show like that and you’re out.”

“I’m the best performer you’ve got and you know it,” Violet says.

Agnes crosses her arms, a stubborn little grin on her face.

“I’ve seen dozens of you come and go. And every one of you thinks you’re something special. The truth is you’re all replaceable.”

That’s what Agnes says, but what Violet hears is You’re worthless.

It takes a lot of restraint not to slap her smug old face. Instead, she’ll do something better: She will leave. And she’ll take Mallory with her.

Chapter Fourteen

Mallory forgets sometimes that Bette’s become famous. But when they go to grab a quick dinner in the East Village, she draws so much attention Mallory can’t really talk to her about anything real. So instead of going out to a club after as planned, they go back to Mallory’s apartment, where their evening activity will be Bette helping her to dye her hair.

“You really shouldn’t use box color. It’s very damaging.”

“I don’t have the patience to wait for an appointment,” Mallory says.