Mallory posed in the darkness, facing Scarlett and hearing the whispers and rustling of the audience. The curtain pulled back to reveal a makeshift forest—Agnes and Kitty’s handiwork of small fake Christmas trees and cardboard roses painted glow-in-the-dark white and red.
The foreboding opening strings of “I Think That I Would Die” filled the stage, and Mallory felt a tremor of delicious anticipation. No matter what else was going on in her life, the rustling and murmurs of a live audience waiting in the dark, giddy with expectation, would never fail to make her feel alive and powerful.
Mallory and Scarlett moved into their choreography, skipping around the flowers in a circle. Scarlett’s costume was a mirror image of Mallory’s, except her bustier and boots were red, her hot pants were black, and she wore a long, cherrycolored wig. They both carried wicker baskets full of flowers, and Mallory carried a baby doll wrapped in a blanket. Eric lurked off to the side of the stage in his bear costume, waiting for his cue. When Courtney Love’s mournful lyrics began, he moved into the open so the audience could see him, and he inched closer to Mallory and Scarlett, the unsuspecting Snow White and Rose Red. Then he snatched the doll from Mallory’s arms—and removed her corset in the process—and retreated back into the shadows of side stage.
Mallory felt the hot stage lights on her bare skin and heard the roar of the audience at the sight of her breasts, covered only with small pasties over her nipples. She felt the audience’s energy, and the heaviness of her mood finally lifted. She wished that she were not sharing the stage with Scarlett, because she had the urge to peel away the rest of her costume, to reveal her body to the audience as quickly as possible so she could feed on their excitement and adoration. This, performing, was the closest she had ever gotten to taking drugs, and she needed a dose that night more than ever.
Scarlett was busy following the script of their carefully paced disrobing and removed her bustier to offer it to the freshly bared Snow White, who demurred. As the chorus began with the rousing “Rose white, rose red . . . ,” Snow White and Rose Red danced around the stage, “searching” for the bear, all the while shedding clothes. When they were down to their G-strings and boots, jumping up and down frantically, the tassels on their pasties twirling in unison, the audience roared their approval.
While Mallory had liked the idea of the act when they planned and choreographed it, as she went through motions, it felt forced and unsatisfying. She didn’t fall into the groove she had felt the night of the Marie Antoinette performance, and although the audience didn’t seem to know the difference, she did.
Eric reappeared on stage, and Rose Red and Snow White removed their shiny boots and, to rousing applause, hammered the “bear” with their shoes until he relinquished the baby and retreated, in defeat, back into the depths of the forest. Snow White and Rose Red bent over to retrieve their baskets, giving the audience a good long look at their asses, bare except for their floss-thin G-strings. The shouting and clapping reached a fever pitch, and Mallory and Scarlett, nude and barefoot, their respective white and red tassels twirling in triumph, skipped back amongst the flowers.
Mallory didn’t experience her usual post-performance high. In fact, she felt like she had bombed.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Kitty Klitty said, when she confided this to her, near tears as she took off her fake eyelashes. “You’re always the best one.”
“Well, thanks, Kitty. But I don’t think that’s true, and it’s certainly not true tonight.”
“At least you’re not getting fired,” she said.
“What does that mean?”
“While you were onstage, Agnes came in and told Violet to pack her stuff and get out.”
Mallory looked around the room. She had noticed Violet wasn’t there, but it wasn’t unusual for the girls to filter out to the club after their set.
“She fired her?”
Kitty nodded, and then asked, “Is Bette really in the audience?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you guys coming out with us? We’re going to Elixir.”
“I don’t know, Kitty. I think Bette wants to keep a low profile. Everything’s different for her now that she’s with Zebra. She can’t go anywhere without the paparazzi stalking her, and I think she wants a quiet night for a change.”
Kitty looked crestfallen, but Mallory was too distracted to try to promise to get Bette to meet up with her one night before she left town again. Instead, she went looking for Agnes and found her in her office.
“Agnes? I’m going to meet Bette outside. I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
Agnes turned to her, a bitter expression on her face.
“They liked it. I’ve never heard them applaud like that.”
“Who? Liked what?” Mallory said, although she was fairly certain she knew what Agnes was referring to.
“Violet’s stripper dance.”
“Oh, well, they don’t know, Agnes. I mean, it’s all just entertainment to them. You can’t expect the audience to be offended that someone doesn’t do classic burlesque.”
“Offended? They don’t even want burlesque. I think now they want to see strippers but to feel better about themselves to call it burlesque. The closer to stripping, the happier they are.” She shook her head. “My day is past.”
“Don’t say that, Agnes. We have a full house every night. If people wanted stripping they could go anywhere else. Or they could go to the Slit to see something raunchier. But they don’t. They come here.”
“For how much longer?” She waved Mallory away. “Go meet your friend. I will come say hello.”
“Okay. We’ll wait for you outside.”
But waiting outside proved impossible; when she met Bette at the front of the club as planned, Bette told her they couldn’t leave.
“The sidewalk is literally jammed with photographers,” she said.
“What do we do? Wait it out inside?”
“They won’t leave until I leave.”
“So what do we do?” Mallory repeated.
“We need a cab. Or a car.”
“I have an idea.” She texted Justin Baxter, asking if he could call a car for them. He said they were welcome to use his to get home—his driver was waiting for him and Martha around the corner and could take Mallory and Bette instead.
“I didn’t think it would be like this here,” Bette said. “LA, yes—but this was my last bastion of sanity.”
“Well, not anymore.”
Mallory saw Agnes making her way toward them.
“Welcome back, my bright star,” said Agnes.
“Hey, great to see you,” Bette said, letting the older woman hug her.
“The world is treating you well?” Agnes said.
“I can’t complain,” said Bette. “Except I do miss my old home base.”
“You’re welcome here any time. Just forewarn me next time so I can get security. These people are animals.”
“Did you have a problem?”
“I had to lock the door! It’s illegal but what can I do? They would have marched in here with their cameras. . . . I would have to call police but then, who knows what problems. So next time, tell me first, okay?” She patted Bette’s cheeks like she was a wayward grandchild.
Mallory’s phone beeped.
“The car’s outside. Let’s go. Thanks, Agnes. I might take you up on a little guest appearance sooner than you think.”
Bette took Mallory’s hand, pulling her through the throng outside the door. It was a terrifying crush of bodies and cameras, creating a feeling so claustrophobic Mallory almost started hyperventilating. She realized the images of paparazzi ambushes on TV did not do justice to how terrifying the experience felt. Every instinct in her body turned to fight or flight, but she couldn’t do either; she had to follow Bette’s lead until the Town Car door was safety closed on them.
“What a nightmare! How do you live with that?”
“It’s not always that bad, and Zebra has a tight security team. I didn’t realize it would be like this even without her with me. Sorry about that.”
“It’s not your fault. But we’re lucky Justin and Martha lent us the car.”
“I guess I was deluding myself to think we could walk around and talk for a little bit.”
“So where to?” Mallory said.
“The Standard,” Bette told the driver.
“Just like old times,” Mallory smiled.
“Oh yeah? Is that an invitation?” Bette said.
“Very funny. You’re practically a married woman these days,” Mallory said.
“No,” Bette said. “I’m not.”
“What do you mean? Did something happen with Zebra?”
“I’ll tell you at the hotel.” She pointed discreetly at the driver. “I’ve been in enough tabloids this year to become paranoid.”
“Wow. Your secrets are worth money.”
“Every inch of me is worth money,” Bette said. “And I’m just getting started.”
12
V
iolet didn’t know what disgusted her more: getting fired after putting on the best performance of the night if not the history of the club, or the rabid throng of paparazzi waiting outside for Bette Noir. Who cared about her? So she was banging Zebra. Big deal—Violet had fucked the shit out of Ryan Ellison, and she didn’t make it into one tabloid. Hadn’t even gotten a mention on a stupid gossip blog.
Her phone rang. When she saw the incoming number, she felt a surge of hope that the night could turn around yet. At the very least she could take out her aggression.
“Mistress Violet,” she said.
“It’s Billy. I know this is last minute, but are you free?”
“No. I’m quite expensive.”
“You know what I mean. Are you available?”
“Now?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Where?”
“My apartment. But the thing is I have a . . . friend with me. Can you handle that?”
“I can handle anything. But since I’m doing you a favor tonight, I have a little favor I want to ask you.”
“Name it.”
“Not now. Another time.”
“So we’ll see you within the hour?”
“I don’t have my equipment with me.”
“We have everything you need.”
Yes, you do
, Violet thought.
You just don’t know it yet.
Mallory curled up on the couch in Bette’s suite at the Standard.
“So what happened?” she said.
Bette poured herself vodka.
“It’s my fault,” she said. She looked younger and more vulnerable than Mallory had ever seen her, her face clear of makeup, her pale skin stark against her black hair. “I fucked it up.”
“I doubt that,” Mallory said. And she wasn’t just saying it to make Bette feel better; Bette had always displayed a cool, rational mind when it came to relationships and sex.
“No. I did. I need a cigarette,” she announced, pulling a pack out of her Chloé bag.
“Since when do you smoke?”
“Since the Paris leg of Zebra’s tour.”
“You’re going to wreck your perfect skin.”
“I’ll quit in a year.”
“Why a year?”
“That’s the time I’m allotting myself to get over Zebra.”
“That’s too much time. You know the formula: it takes half the time you were with someone for you to get over the breakup. You were together less than a year, so in five months or so you should be in good shape.” Mallory smiled warmly at her and patted her arm. “Besides, things probably aren’t really over. Maybe you guys just hit a rough patch and it will work out.”
Bette shook her head, leaning back into the folds of the thick, white couch cushions.
“I blew it. I tried to make it into something it wasn’t. A bush league mistake.” She tapped her cigarette into a wide shallow glass. “It started out great—the sex was phenomenal; we talked all the time about art and music and dance. She was fascinated by burlesque, and you know I performed at some of her shows. We were like this creative, singular organism. We fucked and performed and dressed up and partied. But I got so wrapped up in her and wanting to be around her as much as possible that I stopped working at building myself. I didn’t practice; I stopped thinking of acts; I stopped paying attention to new music because everything was about Zebra. And before I knew it, she was the only artist in the room, and I was just another hangeron, like the stylists and backup dancers and makeup artists and designers. She totally lost interest in me. And the more I sensed her losing interest in me, the harder I clung to her. It was a vicious cycle. I can’t even blame her for losing interest in me. I wasn’t even interesting to myself.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“It wasn’t me! I’m telling you, love is a dangerous drug. Worse than coke. The highs are high, but you can’t maintain it. You keep trying to, and it just makes things crash that much faster.”
“I think ideally love is supposed to mellow into something sustainable.”
“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”
“Not so well, actually.” Mallory told Bette about her suspicion that Alec was attracted to Violet, and the ill-fated night out for the three of them.
“That chick is bad news. Alec should know better. And you should have known better than to hang out with her. So where do things stand with you and Alec?”
“He left for LA the night after the Plaza, and I haven’t heard from him since. I don’t know if he’s hurt, angry, trying to figure things out—or maybe he’s not thinking about me at all. Maybe he’s partying with Kendall James and has decided our relationship isn’t worth the trouble.”
“I doubt it. That guy loves you.”
“I messed things up.”
“Yeah, maybe. But he’s fucked things up in the past and you forgave him. Now it’s his turn.”
“Maybe. Or all this messing up and forgiveness—or not—is a sign that the relationship just fundamentally doesn’t work. We met when we were twenty-one-years-old. How often do those types of relationships really go the distance? And I’m not talking about people who stay in miserable marriages. I mean really work—like, people stay happy together.”
“I don’t know. But I think it’s too soon for you to give up. Unless you want to.”
“Why would I want to?”
Bette shrugged. “Do you have your eye on someone else?”
“No!” Mallory said defensively.
“There’s no other guy?”
“No! Except sometimes I fantasize about my boss.”
“The lawyer?”
“Yes. It’s not just that he’s gorgeous—which he is. Or that he’s extremely smart and good at what he does . . .”
“Uh-oh,” Bette said.
“No, it’s not those things. It’s more that when I’m with him, I don’t have all the baggage of my relationship with Alec. It’s like Gavin—that’s his name—sees me through fresh eyes, and that lets me see myself that way, too. There’s so much intensity with Alec, and as much as I love him I’m just exhausted from it. With Gavin, I can imagine how an adult relationship should be.”
“Be careful, Mallory. You know what they say—the grass is always greener. You and Alec have something together. Don’t let it go so easily.”
“It’s not my choice right now—to let it go or not. I don’t know if Alec wants to be together anymore, either. And I’m just trying to see the possibility that it’s not the worst thing in the world instead of curling up in a ball like I did the last time we broke up. I guess I have a lot to figure out.”
“I’m sorry. For what it’s worth, I think he really loves you.”
“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean we’ll make each other happy in the long run. And I don’t know what to do about it except take a step back.”
“That makes two of us. But I’m going to try to forget about Zebra—which, considering she is on the cover of every magazine, playing over the sound system of every store I walk into, and permeating every corner of pop culture, will mean I basically have to move to another continent. Or planet.”
“I think you need to focus on yourself. Do a show at the Blue Angel. Agnes would love it. And you need to remember that you’re a star in your own right.”
“If there’s one thing that being with Zebra confirmed, it’s that I want real success. I want that level not just of fame, but of influence. I just have to figure out how to get to the next level.”
“I know you’re hurting now, but being with her did help you get exposure. And in the beginning, that’s what you told me you wanted, remember?”
“Yes. I remember. And you were disappointed that I wasn’t looking for my soul mate. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Maybe you instinctively knew that she was just there to serve a purpose in your life. I was being a romantic sap. But I’m done with that.”
“Now you’re a cold, hard realist?”
“I’m trying to be.”
Bette raised her glass in a toast.
A beautiful young man opened the door to Billy’s apartment. Violet recognized him instantly from the Burberry billboard in Soho.
“Hey,” the guy said.
Violet shrugged off her leather coat, revealing the steampunk princess costume she’d put back on after the show. The only thing she’d left out of the ensemble was the wig. The man—if he was even technically a man or still a boy—seemed unfazed by her dramatic attire. She wondered if he knew what was in store for him, or if Billy was orchestrating a little midnight surprise.
“Where’s Billy?
“Um, in the bedroom.”
“Why don’t you be a good little whore and wait for us on the couch.”
The boy looked like he’d been smacked. She did not, in actuality, think he was a prostitute. But he might as well get a sense of the tone of the evening. Things always went more smoothly when everyone knew the drill.
She walked into Billy’s bedroom and found him doing a line of coke.
“Great. Party favors,” she said, sitting next to him in front of the glass end table. She dipped her finger into the powder and rubbed some on her gums. “Maybe your boy toy in the other room would like to partake? We should all get in the partying mood, don’t you think?”
“Don’t worry about him,” Billy said.
“I’m not worried. I just want him to be with the program. I’m not in the mood to have to do a lot of handholding. So what did you have in mind?”
Billy hesitated for a few beats. “I want you to do the usual to me—you know, scolding, humiliation. And then for punishment I want you to force me to . . . do stuff with him.”
“Have you two fucked before?”
“I don’t know why that’s relevant,” he said.
“I need to know the dynamic between you two so I can control the room. Answer the question or I’m out of here.”
“Yes. We have.”
“Super. Where is the equipment?”
He pointed to his nightstand. She stood and collected the large black dildo, the paddle, the butt plug, and the arm restraints.
“This will be a thousand dollars,” she said. “Paid upfront.”
She strode into the living room and got the men in position: Billy Barton on all fours, and Tyler, the Burberry model, was—at her command—inserting a butt plug into Billy’s ass.
She enjoyed directing. She was like Sofia Coppola—except hot. Actually, she kind of liked Sofia Coppola’s
jolie laide
sort of attractiveness.
“You know he wants your cock in his ass, not that substitute—don’t you, Tyler?” she said.
The man-child, trying dutifully to play along, looked at her with utter shock every time she opened her mouth. He was a gorgeous specimen, with wide, muscled shoulders and the tapered, taut upper body of a swimmer. He was about six foot five inches, and had a nice big cock. When he first removed his jeans, she told him to stroke himself, and it took all of her willpower not to kneel down and take that cock into her mouth. She rarely craved cock, but when something looked perfect she had to have it. Maybe Billy’s final humiliation of the evening would be to watch Tyler fuck her instead of him. But no, that would derail the most important part of her evening—something that would cost Billy Barton much more than one thousand dollars.
“Now say thank you,” Violet said to Billy.
“Thank you, Mistress Violet.”
“Not to me, you idiot. To Tyler!”
Billy started to thank Tyler and she interrupted. “You better show your appreciation by sucking his cock. Now! Tyler, get in front of him.”
Tyler stood in front of Billy, who raised himself on his knees and eagerly placed one hand on Tyler’s thick penis, guiding it to his mouth. He took it in as far as he could, grasping Tyler’s ass with both of his hands, pulling him in a little deeper and holding him in place while his mouth worked him.
Tyler closed his eyes, moaning so quietly Violet almost didn’t hear it. She circled around the two of them, pausing occasionally to smack Billy’s ass with the paddle.
She could see that Tyler was getting so worked up he was close to coming, and she couldn’t let that happen—not yet.
“Tyler, get over here and remove this butt plug. I don’t think Billy is giving you good enough head, and he must be punished.” Tyler looked at her pleadingly, as if to say,
Don’t make us stop.
But she wasn’t there to help some stupid model get off. “Don’t make me use this on you,” she said, brandishing the paddle. She knew from a little trial run earlier in the session that Tyler did not enjoy pain—not even a little.
He obeyed her, reluctantly pulling his cock away from Billy’s hungry mouth, and circled around to where she was standing, tapping her boot with impatience, pointing at the offending butt plug, which needed immediate attention.
Tyler’s cock was reddish purple, veiny with excitement and glistening with Billy’s saliva. She was mesmerized by it, barely taking her eyes away as Tyler pulled the rubber plug from Billy’s rectum.