Chapter Thirty-Eight
Valentine’s Day falls on a Wednesday night. Poppy has never been more excited to have a date. Unfortunately, because she’s performing at the Blue Angel, the only thing she and Patricia have time for is a quickie.
“I wish I could take you out for dinner,” Patricia says from between her legs.
“Aren’t you happy to eat in?” Poppy jokes. She’s never considered herself a humorous person, but Patricia brings out the best in her. It’s like she’s finally in on the secret everyone else knows: love. It’s the world’s best drug.
“I could eat you all night,” Patricia says, licking her clit. Poppy reaches out and cups her breast, then leans down to kiss her.
“I have to get to the club,” she says.
“So unfair.”
“Think of it this way: I’ll be dancing just for you. And think of how hot it will be to come back here and fuck me after.”
“I’d rather skip straight to the fucking you part of the evening.”
Poppy pulls herself off the couch and collects her costume and handbag.
“Don’t forget to pick up Alec on your way to the show,” she says. “I don’t want him bailing on this. It’s important that he be there. Okay?”
“I won’t forget,” Patricia says unenthusiastically, still sitting on the floor. “By the way—I meant what I said that first night together.”
“What’s that?”
“That I’m a one-pussy type of gal. Do you think you can handle that?”
Poppy bends down and kisses her on the mouth, tasting herself on her lips.
“I can handle it, all right,” she whispers. “And I can’t wait until you handle me later.”
Mallory’s hands tremble as she brushes one more layer of pink glitter over her eyelids. Her cheeks are fully rouged, her mouth is painted red and topped with a layer of red glitter. If she weren’t vibrating with nerves, she would feel beautiful.
She steps back from the mirror to make sure her costume is on perfectly.
Agnes made her preview it for her and clucked her approval.
How could she not? It’s stunning—a white satin corset top with a short, full skirt created from layers of red feathers.
She accents it with thigh-high white stockings, long white gloves, five-inch red patent leather heels, and red feathers that look like wings but are detachable fans.
Underneath it all, she wears a red thong and red sequined heart-shaped pasties.
And the centerpiece: red satin pointe shoes that she’ll change into during the show.
She’s only had a few days to break them in, but they’ll be fine for the four-minute performance.
Bette is generously letting Mallory reuse the Baxter party choreography. Her choreography.
“It’s yours now. My gift to you, Moxie.”
Bette hasn’t just given her a routine; she’s given her a chance to become a better version of herself.
It’s been confusing, and she lost someone important along the way.
But standing there now, dressed in a costume, waiting to dance in front of a roomful of strangers, she has no doubt she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
Thinking of Bette, grateful for the unexpected friendship that changed her life, she chose to rework some of the choreography to fit a new song: “All the Things She Said” by t.A.T.u.
“You look hot,” Poppy says from behind her. She’s wearing a sexy nurse costume for her performance to Ke$ha’s “Your Love Is My Drug.”
“Thanks,” Mallory says, surprised. She still doesn’t understand—or completely trust—the turnaround in her attitude toward her.
Now that Bette’s gone, it seems Poppy’s her biggest supporter.
She’ll never understand why she tried to sabotage her in the first place, but if she wants a truce, Mallory’s willing to give it a try.
For all the trouble Poppy caused her, she ultimately did her a favor.
Mallory probably wouldn’t be here tonight if the law firm hadn’t fired her.
Kitty Klitty’s number begins to wind down, and Mallory’s pulse races. When the stage is cleared, Rude Ralph appears to introduce the next act.
Deep breath: It’s showtime.
“Please welcome the brassiest, ballsiest, hottest redhead since Jessica Rabbit. Please give it up for … Moxie!”
Mallory waits for the stage to go dark, then emerges from behind the curtain. She feels like she’s going to have a heart attack. Focus, she tells herself, trying to summon the calm she felt at the Baxter party. But she can’t.
The music begins and she pirouettes onto the stage.
She peels off one glove, and the audience howls.
The energy at the Baxter party had been so different than the club energy, and she’d missed the raucous enthusiasm.
The crowd’s cheers fuel her through the next series of turns, where she removes one wing, waving it open and closed teasingly against her chest as she unties her corset.
When it’s loose, she holds the corset out to the audience, then tosses it aside to howls and hoots.
She moves the fan to reveal her tasseled breasts and she shimmies, eliciting loud whistles.
With the tassels twirling, the room erupts. And she’s in a groove.
Mallory sits in the chair center stage near her carefully placed toe shoes, slowly removing her high heels with exaggerated movements. Then she carefully steps into her ballet shoes, taking a moment to caress her legs with the ribbons.
She stands from the chair and launches into a series of cha?né turns to the front of the stage. It’s been so long since she danced in front of an audience; the feeling of movement in the pointe shoes, combined with the music and the air kissing her bare skin, nearly brings tears to her eyes.
The audience is loud, some stomping their feet.
With a graceful arc forward, Mallory retrieves one of the fans and covers her waist as she removes her skirt, then—with only a moment of hesitation—pulls the fan away, flashing her ass at the audience.
Adrenaline races through her, and she’s able to access a mental space free of thought, allowing her to move to the music without thinking.
Her next step is her favorite: the clamshell with the fans. As she moves into position, she finally feels confident enough to glance out at the audience.
It’s a huge mistake. Like an animal in the wild with eyes drawn to the first sign of danger, she immediately spots Alec.
She freezes. Suddenly, she can’t remember what to do with her arms. The audience claps louder, as if her stillness is simply part of the choreography.
Can she just end the performance? Just let the music play out to her standing frozen like a seminude statue? The audience wouldn’t know the difference. But Agnes would. And she can’t let her down.
But what’s he doing here? How is this even happening? The first time she stepped out as a stage kitten, she saw her boss. Now, her first performance at the club and her boyfriend—no, ex-boyfriend who blames the Blue Angel for their breakup—is watching.
Who will show up next to see her take off her clothes? Her grandmother?
She dares another glance at Alec. He looks so handsome in his navy blue sweater, the one that makes his eyes look like the color of magic.
And then he winks at her.
It’s like a switch is flipped; she starts moving, opening and closing the fans around her body in the clamshell formation. Taking a deep breath, absorbing the pulsating chorus of the song, she reminds herself not to rush and again recalls the languid grace of the Ms. Tickle’s performance.
The music builds toward its finish. She turns in a pirouette and then, facing the audience, she twirls the tassels and arches her back with her arms stretched out overhead.
She shimmies forward, and with an elegant sweep to the floor she retrieves the bow and arrow.
She turns her back to the audience, shakes her ass, then turns back to the crowd and draws back the bow, pointing the arrow straight at Alec.
The stage lights go dark, the crowd cheers wildly, and it takes all her effort to catch her breath and make her way back to the dressing room.
“That was amazing!” Kitty Klitty says.
“Thanks,” Mallory says, sitting down in the nearest chair. Her legs are trembling. Poppy’s music begins. She’d planned on slipping out into the audience to watch her perform, but now she doesn’t want to leave the sanctuary of the dressing room. Why is Alec here? What does it mean?
Agnes enters the room and summons Kitty to help her in the music booth.
She doesn’t give Mallory any indication whether she’s pleased with her performance.
She doesn’t even look in her direction. She hadn’t realized until that moment, yearning for a clue from Agnes’s dark flashing eyes, how much she wants not only her approval, but an invitation to return to the stage.
How long had her frozen moment actually been? Maybe no one noticed.
“And would it kill you girls to use classic burlesque music for a change? I can’t imagine Gypsy Rose Lee performing to this garbage,” Agnes says before marching out.
Mallory pulls her jeans out of her bag and checks her phone. She has a text from Bette.
I snuck in to watch. A star is born. Xo B
Mallory smiles. Maybe Agnes liked the performance, maybe she didn’t.
At the very least, Bette approves. That’s enough; even if she never sets foot on a stage again, she at least gave one good burlesque performance in her life.
It’s something she can cross off her bucket list, even though she’d never realized it was on it.
She’s only twenty-five years old, but somehow she’d thought she had her future all figured out.
Now she’s starting to realize she has no idea what life has in store for her.
The thought is thrilling and terrifying at the same time.
But whatever happens next, she wants Alec to be a part of it.
There’s no hair color, no burlesque performance, no new person in her life who will ever distract her long enough to change that fact.
She wipes off as much body glitter as she can manage, and changes into jeans and a black turtleneck. She stuffs her costume into her bag and doesn’t waste time washing off her stage makeup. She pulls on her coat and grabs her handbag, barely hearing Kitty call after her.
The club has emptied out. She’d been nervous about facing Alec, but now that he’s gone she’s disappointed.
Outside, Bette paces along the curb talking on her phone.
She’s a striking figure in a fuchsia faux-fur coat and platform boots, catching the eye of even the most stoic passersby. She spots Mallory and ends the call.
“I’m so fucking proud of you,” she says, hugging her. “Did you love it?”
Mallory smiles. “I loved it.” And she has since her first moment on the Blue Angel stage. That was never a question. “But did you see me freeze up for a few seconds?”
“Yeah, I did. But I doubt anyone else knew it wasn’t planned. What happened?”
“I looked out at the audience and saw Alec.”
Bette glances around. “Where’s he now?”
“I don’t know. Bette, tonight was incredible. But I want him back more than I want anything else.”
The door to the club opens behind her and she moves aside. A gaggle of drunk women stumble out. And behind them, Alec. He’s holding long-stemmed white roses wrapped in a red bow.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
He hands her the flowers and her eyes tear up. He reaches out and touches her hair. “Jesus. That’s not a wig?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s all me.”
“It’s hot,” he says, smiling the devilish smile she’s missed so much.
“I’ll give you two some privacy,” Bette says, sauntering off down the street.
Mallory watches her go.
“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” Alec says.
She turns back to him. “There’s nothing between us to interrupt. I wish you’d believe me.”
“I don’t want to talk about that now. I just want to tell you … you were amazing in there. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
She doesn’t know what to say. The most she’d ever hoped for was that he’d merely accept her becoming a performer. She never imagined he’d actually praise her—look at her with something like admiration.
“I see why you’re into this place, Mal. You look like you belong up there. You look like … someone else.”
They lock eyes, and she says the first thing that comes to mind.
“I’m not someone else! I’m the same person you love. And I want to have this with you—not alone.”
She steps closer to him but he shrinks back.
“It’s not just the dancing. You slept with someone else. I don’t know how to get past that.”
She knows this. It’s exactly what she told Bette. She turns away, looking down the street, where Bette stands once again talking on her phone.
“I have an idea,” she says.
She hails a cab.
“You’re leaving?” he says.
“We’re leaving.”
He opens the car door for her and she slides in, telling the driver, “We’re going to Canal Street. But first, we’re picking up that woman in the pink fur coat.”