Page 54 of Fallen Angel

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The cab drops Poppy off at the corner of 57th and Sixth. She walks west, looking for the address Violet texted to her: The Cellar. A lashing wind blurs her vision, but she finally spots a discreet, subterranean entrance. It’s easy to miss, but she has a feeling no one who’s actively looking for it would give up.

She knows she should leave. It’s not too late to turn around, end this madness once and for all. A security camera turns its roving eye on her.

She looks around for a cab, but they’re all occupied. Poppy, a strong believer in signs, decides this means she should continue into The Cellar. So she descends the stairs and presses the button on the intercom. She’s promptly buzzed inside.

The entrance vestibule is dark and spartan, the floor littered with Chinese take-out menus. She steps over them to the single elevator bank. Violet instructed her to take it to the fifth floor. Only in New York would a place called The Cellar be located on one of the top floors of a building.

The elevator is small and rickety and she feels claustrophobic. It rattles its way up to the S&M den, and she tentatively steps out.

A crystal chandelier hangs over an elegant mahogany desk. Seated at this desk is a young woman with thick auburn hair cascading over her shoulders, wire-rimmed glasses, and ghostly skin. She’s dressed in a Victorian-style black blouse, the rest of her outfit obscured by the desk.

“Can I help you?” the woman asks.

“I’m here to see Violet.”

“Mistress Violet? Okay, your name?”

“Um, Poppy.”

The woman picks up a desk landline to announce her arrival.

“That will be three hundred dollars. We take cash and all major credit cards.”

Poppy stares at the woman in disbelief. This is too much, even for Violet. She expects Poppy to pay for it?

“I think there must be some mistake,” Poppy said.

“I’m certain there is not. That’s the rate for a one-hour session with Miss Violet. Nonnegotiable.”

Poppy knows this is the time to leave—the line in the sand that she should not—could not—cross. And yet, somewhere behind the reception desk, behind curtains and no doubt many locked doors, Violet is waiting for her.

She hands over her American Express card.

Violet is waiting for Poppy behind the curtain.

But it’s a Violet that Poppy barely recognizes. She’s dressed in a dark pink latex nurse’s costume, with red latex gloves up to her elbow, and an old-fashioned nurse’s hat affixed to her head.

“Hello, Ms. LaRue,” Violet says with odd formality. “Did you pay with the receptionist? I don’t take insurance.”

“What? Um, yeah.” Poppy tries to ignore the nervous squirming in her gut, the nudge that there’s still time to leave. But she just spent three hundred dollars.

“Right this way.”

Violet leads her down a narrow hallway lined with closed doors. Despite the preponderance of rooms, it’s completely silent. All she hears is the click of Violet’s stiletto heels on the stone floor. She wonders if the rooms are soundproofed, and this again makes her think to leave. And again, she does not.

At the end of the hall, Violet opens a door.

“After you,” she says.

Poppy steps inside and is immediately met with an antiseptic scent. The room looks like a medical examination room. Specifically, it resembles the room at her gynecologist’s office, complete with a table and foot stirrups, an anatomy chart of the female reproductive system, and a tray full of exam gloves, lube, and some very official-looking instruments.

“I … I think I should leave,” Poppy stammers.

“Don’t be silly.” Violet hands her a pink paper gown. “Put this on, open in the front.”

Poppy can’t believe the situation she’s in, and is both freaked out and oddly turned on. This is what she wanted, isn’t it? The unpredictable. The dangerous.