Chapter One
Mallory likes to think she’s good in bed. At least, she’s never had any complaints. But then, a few weeks ago, her boyfriend said, “Ever think about trying something new?”
Mallory’s response was, “Sure. Like … what?”
They’ve been together for four years, since they were in college. She loves Alec, and she knows he loves her. There’s no doubt they’ll be together forever—that he’s the one. Which is why it was so surprising when he said, “Like bringing another woman into it? Just for fun.”
Another woman? Just for fun?
Mallory is rarely stumped for words. She was captain of the debate team in high school and college. She’s a lawyer. (Well, almost a lawyer.) But she’d just sat there, speechless. Finally, she said, “Actually, no.”
“No, you’re not up for it?”
“No, I’ve never thought about it.”
Clearly, that conversation was her cue to start.
So that’s what she’s doing: thinking about it.
Instead of working. Even though she’s sitting at her desk on the fifteenth floor of the law firm Reed, Warner, Hardy, Lutz, and Capel—known within the industry simply as Reed Warner.
Even though it’s eight at night on her birthday.
But she failed her first attempt at the bar exam and feels the need to prove herself. And tonight, that means drafting a motion for her boss, Patricia.
Her desk phone rings, startling her.
“Mallory Dale,” she says.
The deep baritone of her favorite security guard says, “This is Tom at the front desk. There’s an Alec Martin here to see you.”
Alec? She told him she couldn’t go out tonight. And because she knew none of her friends would put up with that, she turned off her cell phone.
“Can you put him on the phone, please?”
She stands and turns to look out her office window at the Empire State Building while she waits to hear his voice. The truth is, a part of her had hoped he’d stop by. The one thing about Alec is that he always shows up.
“Mal, get your coat. I’ve got a cab waiting outside.”
“Alec, I can’t.”
“It’s your twenty-fifth birthday. Do you really want to spend it in the office?”
No. She doesn’t.
In the cab, he holds her hand, ignores his buzzing cell phone, and refuses to tell her where they’re going.
“I don’t like surprises,” Mallory says. But then, she also can’t say no to Alec.
The first thing Mallory noticed about Alec when they met in college, at the Penn library, was his hair.
It’s the type of thick, dark, glossy hair usually reserved for actors or aristocrats.
The second thing was that he was extremely tall.
The third was his eyes: a deep, dark blue-green.
He was striking. And it took her a few weeks of dating to get used to his intense, masculine beauty.
And every so often, like tonight, it hits her anew with fresh intensity.
“It’s your birthday! What’s a birthday without a surprise?” He winks at her, and she can’t resist smiling back.
And why shouldn’t she smile? They’ve finally moved in together after two years of dating long-distance while she finished law school. She has a good job at a midsize firm. And Alec is taking her out for a night on the town, in her new city, just the two of them.
Except … the dark location doesn’t seem to be a romantic restaurant. The cab drops them off at a barely marked building off Bowery.
A woman with a clipboard greets them inside the door. She has a butterfly tattoo on her neck and a perfect face. Behind her, a blue velvet curtain conceals the rest of the club.
“Alec Martin and Mallory Dale. We’re on the list,” Alec says, taking Mallory’s hand.
Beyond the curtain is a large room with a bar on one side and the center is filled with tables and chairs facing a stage.
Mallory spots a topless woman sitting at the bar wearing only a garter belt, black seamed stockings, and red patent leather stilettos.
She’s talking to a man dressed for a rodeo and carrying a bullwhip.
“What the hell is this place?” Mallory says.
“It’s the Blue Angel. A burlesque club.” Alec smiles like he just presented her with a diamond.
Burlesque is the topic of the article Alec’s writing for Gruff, the lad lit, pop culture magazine he works for. Mallory is starting to resent Alec’s job. It’s consumed their nightlife, and now she sees where he got the idea in his head for a three-way: hanging out at places like this.
He steers her to a table close to the stage.
The room is packed, but the table has a Reserved placard on it.
Of course. Everything is VIP when Gruff magazine is involved.
The owner of Gruff is a rich kid named Billy Barton.
Alec met Billy thanks to the long tentacles of the Penn alumni network.
And unlike Alec and most of their friends who’ve only been in New York a few years, Billy can open any door, pull any string, and reserve any table.
“Alec, I appreciate you pulling me away from my desk. But I really don’t want to spend my birthday fulfilling some obligation you have to Billy.”
“Mal, you’re looking at this all wrong: We’re doing something fun and interesting on your birthday that I happen to also be writing about. Wait here—I’ll get some drinks.”
He’s off to the bar before she can protest.
She looks around the club feeling self-conscious.
Her long houndstooth skirt suddenly seems as prim and conservative as a mourning cloak.
There’s a lot of leg showing in the room—bare legs, garter-belted legs, legs in fishnets and heels.
At least she’s wearing a simple black turtleneck under her blazer, so when she takes off the jacket she fits in a little better. Barely.
In a corner across the room, two women are laughing with the guy in the western getup.
One of them is wearing a faux leopard coat and Mallory has to work hard not to stare.
She’s model-gorgeous, with porcelain skin, full red lips, and straight black hair cut in a fabulous, razor-sharp bob.
As if sensing Mallory’s stare, the woman turns and regards her with pale blue eyes.
Startled, Mallory quickly looks away. But when she glances back, the woman is still watching her.
Their eyes lock, and Mallory’s stomach flutters with a thousand butterflies.
“Hey,” Alec says, sitting next to her and passing over a bottle of Stella Artois. “You’re not mad, are you?”
Mallory accepts the beer, trying to resist the urge to look back at the beautiful brunette.
“What? Oh, I don’t know. A little. Come on, Alec: You want to do research, but it’s my birthday and we’re going out, so this is what you chose to do. It has nothing to do with how I’d actually want to celebrate.”
She hates the way she sounds, but she’s worried. It’s not just about her birthday—it’s about them. The suggestion of the three-way hangs over them like a dark cloud. And she has no idea how to make it pass.
Alec takes her hand, but before he can tell her how wrong she is or whatever he’s going to say, Lady Gaga’s “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich” pulses through the room, the lights dim, and the blue stage curtain parts slowly.
Rodeo Guy steps into the spotlight, and the crowd erupts in hoots and applause.
“Ladies … and those annoying creatures you felt compelled to bring with you tonight—welcome to the Blue Angel!”
He cracks his whip, and Mallory jumps in her seat.
More hollering. Despite herself, Mallory feels a rush. The energy in the room is palpable, like a rock concert. Still, she doesn’t want to give Alec the satisfaction of smiling—because no matter what he says, this night is one hundred percent just about his story.
It’s not that she’s against doing something adventurous.
She went to a strip club in Philadelphia sophomore year of college and again, reluctantly, when she first moved to New York.
She hated both experiences. The strippers were beautiful but she felt like a perv for looking at them, even though there was nothing else to do.
And giving them money had made her feel exposed.
Both times, her friends laughed and told her to lighten up.
But she minored in women’s studies, for god’s sake!
She couldn’t just walk into a club and check her mind at the door.
Now she dreads that feeling of not knowing where to look or what to do with her hands, the sense of being embarrassed by just being in the room.
And so when the first woman appears onstage, Mallory pretends to be busy with her beer.
But the crowd is raucous and exuberant, and she’s painfully aware that she’s the only person in the club not making some sort of noise.
Alec, especially, is yelling and clapping.
He looks over at her only briefly and winks.
Mallory turns to watch the stage when the song “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” pumps into the room on the sound system.
Stage lights bathe the performer in fuchsia.
She’s blonde and dressed in a surprising amount of clothes: thigh-high pink patent leather boots with a platform heel, a white corset, long white gloves, and in each hand, gigantic fans made out of pink and white feathers.
She waves the fans around so that sometimes they conceal her face and most of her body.
Other times, she simply covers her body and looks out at the audience with a sly smile.
When the hooting and hollering reaches a peak, she tosses the fans aside, stands with her feet squarely apart, and leisurely tugs off one glove.
The crowd roars as if she’d flashed her bare breasts.
Mallory wonders if women get completely naked in these shows.
She wishes she knew what to expect. But maybe not knowing is part of the fun.