Page 65 of Fallen Angel

“My role would be in whatever capacity I’m needed,” Alec says. “My boss, Billy, is a part of this. It all happened in a very sketchy way. I don’t want anything to do with him so I’m thinking my days at the magazine are numbered.”

Justin stands up. He helps Martha to her feet.

“Well, you’ve given us a lot to think about,” he says.

They promise to get back to them soon.

Violet is in a rage. And this is even before she reaches the Gruff offices only to find that Billy’s out at a photo shoot. But that, at least, explains why her calls are going straight to voicemail.

Billy’s receptionist offers to take a message for “Mr. Barton.” He’s a skinny young fuckboy.

“Yes,” she says. “This is the message: You get a hold of Mr. Barton, and you tell him that his personal photographer is waiting in his office to see him.”

She walks past the desk to Billy’s closed office, reaching for the door handle.

“Excuse me, you can’t go in there,” the receptionist calls out.

Violet turns around. “Mr. Barton asked me here to blow him. Under his desk.”

That shuts him up.

She closes the door behind her, sits behind his desk, and waits for Billy to get his ass back to the office. Plenty of time for her to stew over the backstabbing move Billy just tried to make: An hour ago, a reporter from the Post called to verify the spelling of her legal name. And when she asked why he wanted to know, he asked her to confirm that she’s buying the Blue Angel. She denied it, but the damage is done: Someone leaked the news. But who even knows about it to leak it, and why? Billy is the only person who ticks both boxes: He certainly knows about it, and if the deal falls through he’s off the hook for the money.

He must really think she’s an idiot.

She’s so furious, she’s tempted to just sell his sex photos now and be done with it. But she still wants a burlesque club, and she wants Billy’s social circle to be a part of it. She can’t kill the golden goose just yet. Unless he leaves her no choice.

“Violet, I can’t work like this!” Billy storms into his office and slams the door shut behind him. “I was at a very important cover shoot. If I can’t work, I can’t make money, and if I can’t make money, I can’t fund your little vanity project that’s going to cost a fortune.”

Violet stands up and rounds the desk to face him up close. So close she can smell he’s just been fucking. Yeah, some cover shoot.

“Unless there is no—how did you put it—vanity project? What if, for example, Agnes backs out of the deal because she read about it in the New York Post and suddenly the anonymous buyer isn’t so anonymous and she kills the deal? What then?”

Billy turns paler. Or maybe he’s always been that horrifically pasty and she never noticed.

“Why would that happen?”

“Um, because you leaked this to the tabloids? You’d better fix this, Billy. Get the sale closed before the press runs the story.” God, she could just smack him. But she won’t give him the satisfaction. “Why would you do this? Are you so averse to making some money together? Or maybe you subconsciously do want those photos of yourself out there, and I’m just part of your little self-sabotage game.”

“I’m tired of being threatened, Violet,” he says.

“But what about Tyler? Don’t be a selfish asshole, Billy.” She walks to the door but turns before opening to repeat, “Fix this.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Mallory brings Alec to the West Village to meet Carmel the tattoo artist. He’s been curious about the place since she mentioned it the day of their pitch to the Baxters.

Yesterday, Martha gave them their answer: Yes, they’re in. She’ll make a competing offer on the Blue Angel. Alec now wants to get his first tattoo to celebrate.

“Isn’t it premature?” Mallory said.

“Maybe. But it feels right.”

But things don’t feel right to Mallory. She hasn’t been able to get in touch with Agnes since the Baxters’s good news. All messages go undelivered, and her phone calls go straight to voicemail. Bette tried to talk to her face-to-face, but the Blue Angel was closed, the door locked. Neither knows where she lives; it’s almost impossible to imagine Agnes’s life outside of the Blue Angel.

“Welcome!” Carmel says to them, kissing her on the cheek like she’s a long-lost friend. She can’t believe she actually remembers her. Or maybe Carmel’s just pretending. She doesn’t really care either way. Something about the woman is enchanting. She has a certain glow, like celebrity yoga instructors.

The place feels a lot different than the first time Mallory’d seen it. In the daylight, corners that seemed moody and mysterious in the dim glow of night now reveal clean bare space. The gothic furniture appears more worn and welcoming. Even the ink bottles seem to catch the sunlight and radiate like stained glass.