Page 47 of Fallen Angel

She lingers for a few seconds, feeling like there must be something more to say.

But there isn’t. At least, not tonight. But once she reaches the street, debating if she should take the subway or a cab, she changes her mind about going home.

She can’t face Alec after all.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Mallory walks down a quiet block in the West Village, a jewel of a street with a sense of privacy and old-world charm. The windows in each house glow from within. She’d always wondered what it’s like to live in one of these historic buildings.

When she locates the town house at the address Bette sent her, she finds an unlocked iron gate in front of wide stone steps. She takes the stairs quickly, the wind whipping at her back. She hears the music of Swedish House Mafia pulsing loudly through walls that probably date back to the nineteenth century. She’s afraid no one will hear her ring the bell.

But then the front door opens and out walks a man dressed in a full electric blue spandex bodysuit. It’s unclear if this is a costume or his typical evening attire.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for a friend,” she says, then describes Bette and asks if he’s seen her.

“Yeah, she just sat for her appointment,” he says.

“What appointment?”

The man looks at her like she’s either on drugs or messing with him—possibly both.

“It’s a tattoo parlor, so why don’t you take a wild guess?”

He brushes past her.

Mallory walks inside. The walls are a patchwork of hand-painted murals, old concert posters, and framed sketches. A velvet chaise and a scattering of mismatched chairs serve as both waiting area and hangout space. Incense smolders from a chipped ceramic bowl on a mantel lined with colorful ink bottles.

“Can I help you?”

A woman about her own age with long brown hair is tending to someone at an ink station that blends seamlessly into the bohemian clutter. The reclining client chair is facing away from her, but Mallory recognizes Bette’s long legs stretched out and the black Prada combat boots on her feet.

“Oh, hi. I’m here for—”

“Moxie,” Bette calls out from the chair. “Come over here. Meet Carmel.”

The tattoo artist waves her over. “Welcome to my little studio.”

Carmel is surprisingly free of any tattoos or body art. She’s dressed in a long denim skirt and a sweatshirt, and her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail.

Mallory thanks her, apologizes for crashing the session, and sits on a stool Carmel pulls over.

Bette sighs with impatience. Her T-shirt features a graphic of Vivienne Westwood’s iconic celestial orb. Her black jeans are pulled down to expose one hip for Carmel to work on.

“What’s the new tattoo?” Mallory says.

“Don’t try to change the subject. What the hell happened? Why did you quit?”

Mallory takes a deep breath. Where to even start? “How did you hear about it so fast? I literally just spoke to Agnes tonight.”

“Agnes called me.”

“She did ?”

Bette nods. “So you know she took it hard.”

Mallory wheels the stool closer to Bette’s chair. “My boss saw the photo of us in the Post. I know the publicity is great for you—as it would be for anyone else at the club. But not me. And it makes me realize burlesque just isn’t compatible with my life as a whole.”

Bette makes a scoffing sound. “Your life as a whole? Don’t give me that shit. This is me you’re talking to. What’s this really about? You and Alec?”