Page 10 of Fallen Angel

A car service picks up Poppy LaRue after the show to take her home, paid for by her girlfriend’s law firm. She has no interest in going home early, but Patricia works such long hours during the week she needs Friday nights to recover. After the rush of the show, it’s hugely anticlimactic to just turn around and go back home to the Upper East Side. But it beats taking the subway.

Be careful what you wish for—isn’t that the saying? It’s so true! A year ago, all she wanted was for someone to adore her the way Alec and Mallory adore each other. And when she least expected it, in a way she least expected—it happened: Patricia Loomis, a buttoned-up corporate lawyer eight years her senior showed up at the club. Poppy was sure their hookup would just be a one-night thing. After all, they had nothing in common. And Patricia, with her lackluster yellow-brown hair, stout physique, and terrible style, is not Poppy’s type. But the first night they had sex (at Patricia’s gorgeous apartment) they experienced an intense connection. And for a while, that connection burned intensely enough to keep Poppy’s attention. A few months ago, she moved into Patrica’s apartment. But now they’re officially domesticated, and Poppy is getting bored.

She slips her key into the lock and steps into a dark foyer. The entire apartment is dark, and this annoys her. She knew Patricia didn’t want to go out, but was it too much to ask that she at least be awake?

Patricia isn’t a creative person, but she values quality and hired a decorator for her apartment. The living room features a low, angular sofa in charcoal velvet. It’s paired with a lacquered coffee table topped with a black-and-white vase, a brass bowl, and a stack of art books. Graphic prints in stark navy, slate, and metallics decorate the walls. The overhead lighting includes a nickel Sputnik chandelier and, on the console, a pair of Jonathan Adler’s signature Greek key lamps in glossy black with crisp white shades.

The dining nook features a round glass table with a chunky pedestal base and Adler’s leather dining chairs in deep espresso. Or, as Poppy would say, brown. A full wet bar is stocked with cut-crystal decanters and bottles of good bourbon.

It’s a beautiful home. But lately, it feels like a gilded cage.

Poppy slips quietly into the bedroom, trying to placate herself. It’s not fair for her to get upset with Patricia. She works really hard, and that’s why they’re able to live in a luxury apartment within walking distance to the Met. Before Patricia, Poppy knew nothing about the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Or about art, for that matter. But Patricia went to Harvard, and reads the New Yorker, and speaks French. So really, who is Poppy to be bored? She’s lucky Patricia isn’t bored with her.

Patricia is under the covers, snoring softly. Poppy pads to the bathroom and quietly closes the door.

Her body aches from performing under the hot stage lights, glitter still clinging stubbornly to her collarbone, to the curve of her thigh. She turns on the shower, and steam fills the room. With practiced motions, she peels away her false lashes, wipes off the layers of blush and highlight powder, watching her reflection soften back into someone bare and vulnerable. But she’s not thinking about herself, or about Patricia. As always, when she strips off her clothes and is confronted with her naked, yearning body, her mind fills with images of Violet. The memory of her leaning against the dressing room wall, quietly observing, like an animal looking for prey. Her musky perfume cuts through the usual backstage scent of powder and sweat. Just thinking about it gives her goose bumps. She closes her eyes, letting the steam curl around her like a lover’s breath, images of Violet’s performance flashing like a strobe in her mind.

The hot shower water rushes over her, and she presses one hand against the tiled wall for balance while touching her breasts with the other. Her breathing grows shallow, and she moves her hand down, down, down. She rubs her clit, the sound of her moans muffled by running water. When she’s spent, she turns off the faucet and wraps a towel around herself, shivering.

What is she going to do?

Chapter Eight

Violet is a visual person. She’s seen a lot of beauty in her twenty-five years, including her own reflection greeting her in the mirror every morning. She’s difficult to impress. And still, Jarod’s 2,500-square-foot triplex suite at the Hotel on Rivington makes her gasp: Floor-to-ceiling glass walls. A panoramic view of the city. White, glass, dark wood, and steel, it’s elegant, masculine, and very, very hot.

“What do you want to drink?” Jarod asks.

“Champagne,” she says, without hesitation. She only drinks champagne. In fact, she only drinks carbonated beverages, period. Sometimes she even brushes her teeth with sparkling water. Another girl at the Blue Angel, Poppy, shares her affinity for bubbles. Poppy has gorgeous long legs, and Violet thinks about fucking her, but apparently she’s in a committed relationship with an unattractive corporate lawyer.

Jarod opens a bottle of Krug and pours her a glass.

“Ready for the tour?” he says. Violet does want a tour—is in fact dying to see the place. But she doesn’t want to become any more impressed. That would mean giving up too much power. She sips her Krug. It’s crisp and delicious.

“Why don’t you just make yourself comfortable and point me to the bathroom?” she says.

“Come here for a sec. Check this out.”

Reluctantly, Violet lets him steer her to a home theater, complete with a DVD library of what seems to be hundreds of films.

Now this is impressive. She loves movies. She bends down to check out the classics section. “Oh look—they have Blue Angel.” She pulls out the plastic case.

“Who’s in that?” Jarod says, taking it from her hands, no doubt wondering if it’s something his agent should have gotten him a part in.

“You’ve never heard of this movie?” she sneers. “Marlene Dietrich is the star. It’s the favorite film of my boss, the old lady who owns the club. Her inspiration.”

The film is German and from the 1930s, about a guy who falls in love with a beautiful cabaret performer named Lola Lola. He’s a very rigid and in-control guy, but Lola Lola awakens a mad passion that ultimately destroys him. That’s the thing about passion—it feels amazing but will kill you in the end. Better to feel nothing.

She thinks about her own Lola Lola but doesn’t want to get distracted.

“You here to talk about movies? Or to fuck a movie star?” Jarod says.

“I guess you’ll just have to wait to find out,” she says. “Where’s the bathroom?”

He tosses the DVD onto a chair.

“You are insanely hot,” he says, moving closer to her with a smile. He slips his hand under her top, running his thumb over her nipple. It’s not particularly erotic.

I’m hooking up with Jarod Marks, she reminds herself, trying to get into it.