Page 34 of Fallen Angel

Now Mallory can’t bring herself to ask for time off. She doesn’t want Agnes to see that her confidence, too, is shaken. But deep down, Mallory wonders if Agnes is right: Is burlesque as they know it going to one day be extinct? If so, there’s not much Mallory can do about it. And it’s a bad feeling.

Chapter Seventeen

Violet experiences a rare post-performance sensation: satisfaction.

One of her friends on the stage crew, Irene Cho, really came through; She successfully installed the pole at the last possible moment, undetected by Agnes. And it was secure enough to facilitate her performance. It’s so rare that something meets, never mind exceeds, expectations. And sure, she’d like to stick around for a victory lap. There was no way any of the other acts would top hers. The crowd’s raucous response made her confident about that. But she wants to leave before Agnes finds her and gives her shit. She just doesn’t have the patience for that old woman bossing her around.

She changes into her street clothes and is halfway to the side exit when her phone rings from deep in her bag. From the tone, she can tell it’s her second phone, the number she uses only for her S&M clientele. So she stops in the hallway and pulls it out to answer.

“Mistress Violet,” she says.

“Hey, it’s Billy. I know this is last minute, but are you free?”

“No. I’m quite expensive.”

“You know what I mean. Are you available?”

Music from the stage is so loud she can barely hear him. It’s the Michael Jackson song “Thriller” and she wonders what decidedly unsexy performance is unfolding as she speaks.

“I am. But it’s holiday rates.”

“Fine,” he says. “My apartment. But the thing is I have a … friend with me. Can you handle that?”

“I can handle anything. For a fee.” God, it’s just too easy.

She ends the call and almost makes a clean getaway when Agnes rounds the corner and spots her. The old woman points at her, then snaps her fingers.

“There you are! Where do you think you’re going? Not until I have a word with you.”

Violet considers just turning her back and walking straight out the door but decides she wouldn’t mind a little verbal sparring to get her in the mood to beat Billy Barton’s pale ass.

“What’s on your mind, Agnes?” Violet says, stuffing her phone back in her bag.

“How dare you?” Agnes says, her mouth pursed so tightly her lips disappear.

“How dare I what? Actually entertain the audience for once?” Violet knows that provoking her is risky, but she doesn’t have patience. As far as she’s concerned, she did her job tonight, and did it well.

“That’s not how we entertain at the Blue Angel.”

Violet sighs.

“Agnes. Get with the times. You should be thanking me.”

“I will thank you. I’ll thank you to walk out that door and never come back.” She points to the exit. “You’re fired.”

Violet is in a rage by the time she reaches Billy’s apartment. How dare that old crone? Violet put on a great show and this is how Agnes repays her? It’s unthinkable that Agnes should be the gatekeeper for New York City burlesque. She’s stuck in the past. Worse than that, she’s too arrogant to accept help from someone who knows better. Who is better.

There’s only one solution, and that’s for Violet to become a gatekeeper of her own. But how? It takes money to open a club—more than she can make even as an in-demand dom. It requires the kind of money someone like her will never have. The type of money Billy Barton was born into.

In that moment, Violet recognizes the opportunity in front of her. If she has the balls to take it. And, of course, she does.

A male model opens the door to Billy’s apartment. Violet recognizes him instantly from the Burberry billboard in SoHo.

“Hey,” the guy says.

Violet shrugs off her leather coat. She wonders if he knows what’s in store for him, or if Billy has orchestrated a little midnight surprise.

“Where’s Billy?” she asks.