Page 66 of Fallen Angel

They join Carmel, holding her sketchbook, on one of the couches. While she and Alec confer over the image, Mallory is intrigued by the leather albums of Carmel’s work on a nearby brass coffee table. She pulls one onto her lap and begins flipping through it.

“So you wanted the hair a little longer,” Carmel says. “Is this more what you had in mind?”

“Let’s see what Mallory thinks.”

She looks up and he passes her a piece of onion paper with a full-color sketch: a Varga-style burlesque dancer in a blue corset and fishnet stockings. The woman is in profile, her hands behind her back, in which Carmel has created a large blue ostrich feather fan that looks like wings. Mallory knows she’s never seen this particular image before, but it’s still somehow familiar to her.

And then she realizes why.

“Is that … me?” she says.

“Yeah. What do you think?” Alec says.

“You’re getting a tattoo of me on your arm?”

“Yes. If it’s okay with you.”

“I mean, I’m flattered.” She looks more closely at the sketch. “But maybe her hair should be a little more—”

“Mal,” he says. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. Remember? But I do want it to be meaningful. I want to be able to look at it forever.”

Alec never fails to surprise her with romantic gestures. But this is a big one. She kisses him, thinking maybe they can take a little detour to that seedy hotel on the way home. She doesn’t know if she can make it all the way uptown after this.

“I remember you from the other night with Bette,” Carmel says. “And she said you’re a performer, too?”

Is she a performer? No. She’d traded in her pasties for paperwork. Goodbye Moxie, hello Mallory the manager.

“Not anymore,” she says.

Alec looks at her sharply.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t know if I want to be running a place and also perform there. Wouldn’t that be weird?”

If they really do take control of the club, she’s prepared to be a strictly behind-the-scenes person. Maybe that’s the way it was meant to be in the first place. It’s the perfect blending of the art and the office. It’s where she probably belongs. But it sure felt great to be “Moxie” for a while. And now, her moxie will be immortalized on Alec’s shoulder.

Mallory sits on a rolling stool to watch Carmel work her magic. The buzz of the instrument becomes ambient noise, and if Alec is in any pain he shows no sign of it. Carmel’s brow furrows in concentration as she meticulously details the long plumes of feathers in the dancer’s fan. She only lifts the needle occasionally to wipe away blood and see if Alec needs a break.

When the blue angel Varga girl is almost complete, Carmel turns to her and says, “Are you ready to finish her off for me?”

“What?”

Alec turns to her and smiles. “I asked Carmel if you could do the last mark of the tattoo.”

“You guys are crazy,” Mallory says with a nervous laugh.

“I really want you to do it—to know that you marked me outside as permanently as you marked me on the inside.”

Alec. He’ll never stop surprising her. At least, she hopes not.

“I don’t know if I can.” As soon as she says it, she realizes that’s always her first response. I don’t know if I can. But every time she tries, she does whatever she sets her mind to. Maybe it’s time to start recognizing that.

“Here, I’ll show you the part that has to be filled in,” Carmel says. Mallory leans down close to look over her shoulder. “Just this dot at the top of the plume. It’s a circle—you won’t mess it up.”

“It’s really okay for me to do this?”

“Technically, no,” Carmel says. “Rihanna’s tattoo artist lost his license for letting her tattoo someone. Paparazzi snapped a photo of it. But I think we’re safe.” She gives a little wink.