Page 41 of Fallen Angel

She slides three photographs of his session with Tyler across the table. Billy glances at them, then turns pale.

“Are you out of your mind?” he whispers, grabbing them and crumpling them on his lap.

“I’ve actually given this a lot of thought,” she says calmly. “The burlesque scene is getting crowded. I’d say the last thing downtown needs is another one—and I’m only looking at Manhattan. None of this Brooklyn hipster shit. So the obvious move is to buy an existing club that’s doing well and take it over. Maybe give it a little makeover, put our own stamp on it. Get rid of the dead weight, out with the old, in with the new and all that.”

Billy is looking around the room like he’s afraid there’s a sniper in the crowd. She follows his gaze and spots her stagehand friend, Irene, at the bar. Violet thinks Irene has a body that belongs on stage, not behind the scenes. Maybe she can do something about that.

“So to get right down to it,” she says. “I want the Blue Angel.”

He looks at her. “You can’t be serious.”

“But I am. So, are you in, or are you out? And I do mean you will be out.”

Again, his face turns a shade of purple red. It’s concerning. Maybe she needs to give him some time to cool down.

“Think about it,” she says, standing up, leaning forward towards him and tapping her long nails with a click, click, click. “But don’t keep your Mistress waiting too long. You know what happens when I get impatient.”

She can imagine his hard-on underneath the table.

Violet leaves the club with Irene Cho, who lives not too far away in a shitty apartment off Avenue A.

She’d promised to take Irene out to thank her for the stage set-up the night of the Halloween show—the one that got them both fired. And she figured tonight, since she was going to take care of some business anyway, would be as good a night as any. But when she tries to say goodnight at the subway, Irene insists she come home with her.

“My girlfriend really wants to meet you,” she says.

Violet knows an invitation to a threesome when she hears one, and figures, why not? She’s still having a hard time getting her mind off of Mallory. She hadn’t expected it to be so hard to get her alone again. So tonight, any distraction is welcome.

But when they get to Irene’s place they climb six flights of stairs to a small room filled with lots of drunk and high people dancing to trance.

“This is not my scene,” Violet says. The decision to go to Irene’s place was a rare misstep. A bad one. But easily rectified: She’s outta here.

“Don’t leave,” Irene says. “The real party’s in the back. Wait here a sec—you won’t regret it.”

Violet is skeptical that anything in this place is worth the wait, except maybe Irene. She has the sense there’s some darkness to be mined there. So she gives it half a minute. And then Irene reappears, grabs her by the hand, and leads her to the bedroom. It’s dark, the only illumination a desk lamp with dark fabric covering the lampshade. It smells like cigarettes and pussy.

A strawberry-blond woman is naked and blindfolded on the bed, her hands bound behind her back.

“Your going-away present has arrived,” Irene says to Strawberry, standing at the foot of the bed.

Violet’s still not sure she’s into whatever this is, but then she takes a closer at the strawberry. Her fair, translucent-looking skin makes Violet’s pussy twitch. Aside from a smattering of freckles, she reminds her of Mallory. She wishes she had a dark wig handy.

She turns to Irene. “So what’s the deal here?”

“My girlfriend’s moving to L.A. tomorrow. I want to send her off with a bang. And thought you could help.”

“She’s into it?” Violet says.

“She’s into it. Tell her, Greta.”

Greta smiles. “Am I into it? I don’t know. Surprise me.” She has an accent. Irish? Scottish?

Violet moves closer, then reaches out and cups her breasts. Greta stirs only slightly, lips parted.

Her breasts are bigger than Moxie’s perfect proportions, but that’s an impossible standard. This woman comes close—close enough for Violet to close her eyes and take a nipple into her mouth. Close enough for her to slide her mouth down the length of her lean torso, pausing at her hips.

Violet stands back for a moment to take off her tight black jeans. The girl shifts her hips impatiently. Violet returns her attention to her, placing her hands on her thighs and gently spreading her legs.

She feels Irene move close behind her, nipples hard against her shoulder blades. Violet steps forward, then mounts the bed on her knees, ass in the air. Irene fingers her from behind and she’s good at it. Violet flicks her tongue just enough to graze Greta’s pussy.