Fallen Angel (The Burlesque Trilogy #2)

Chapter One

Whoever said rules were meant to be broken clearly had never been in a relationship. Because for the past year, ever since they committed to monogamy, Mallory and her boyfriend have really been clicking.

If only the city itself would become so manageable. She’s late for a costume fitting and now her cab is stuck in traffic near Union Square. She wishes she could call her boss at the club, but Agnes never uses her phone. A former Warsaw ballerina, Agnes seems to still exist in the last century.

Mallory tilts her face near the window, trying in vain to find a lingering hint of autumn light.

Fixing her makeup after dark is a challenge.

She’s tried all the expert advice for an easy day-to-evening makeup routine, but none seem to work for someone going from paralegal by day to burlesque dancer at night.

But aside from the fitting, this evening is all play, no work: Her boyfriend Alec is taking her out for an early birthday dinner. Her actual birthday is Friday night but she’ll be busy performing; birthday or not, the show must go on.

Friday night is more than just her birthday; it’s the one-year anniversary of the night that changed her life. The night Alec took her to her first burlesque show at the Blue Angel.

That’s where she’s headed now. In twelve months, she’s gone from bewildered audience member to lead performer. Tonight, a Tuesday, it’s dark.

“Late, late!” Agnes scolds, ushering Mallory in the side door. “I tell myself, Moxie is never late. And yet—you are.”

Moxie is her stage name. They all have one. Even though she’s been at the club for a year now, she still doesn’t know a lot of their real names. It’s freeing to have a place to go at night where you can leave the real world behind in every way.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Alec: change of plan. Instead of meeting at the restaurant, he’ll swing by the club to pick her up.

“I’m really sorry,” Mallory says, following Agnes through the labyrinth of dark hallways to her office and costume studio. “But I still have a day job.”

“What does that mean?” Agnes says, her Polish accent thick and her attitude even thicker.

She’s wearing her usual plain black dress, her long white hair in a single braid.

“Day job? When I started out my career I sometimes only ate one meal a week. You girls have no sense of sacrifice.” Agnes draws deeply on her cigarette, the no-smoking ordinances be damned.

“What if this doesn’t fit and I have adjustments and no time? ”

“When has anything not fit? You’re a genius.” Flattery gets you everywhere with Agnes.

“Yes, this is true,” she says, placated.

A corner of the backstage area, wood-planked and poorly lit, serves as the makeshift dressing room.

Like the chaotic backstage of a fashion show, clothes are scattered everywhere, compacts and stray lipstick tubes and stockings of every color.

In one corner a black sheet is thumbtacked diagonally to make a private area, but no one bothers to use it.

And nearby, a signed print from this season’s Dolce & Gabbana ad campaign featuring the club’s own Bette Noire.

A former Blue Angel performer, Bette Noire, is the subject of persistent tabloid scrutiny ever since her whirlwind romance with a world-famous pop star turned her into an overnight celebrity.

“What music are you using for this performance?” Agnes asks, even though she never recognizes the names of pop songs. At least, she pretends not to.

“It’s the song ‘Heads Will Roll,’” Mallory says, not bothering to tell her it’s by the band the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs. Agnes is brilliant, but English is her second (or fourth) language, and saying nonsensical things like yeah, yeah, yeah offends her because she doesn’t understand it.

The biggest challenge in burlesque is coming up with fresh concepts for performances.

For this week’s show, Mallory was inspired by the Sofia Coppola film Marie Antoinette.

She asked Agnes for a French Revolution corset dress.

Agnes’s burlesque costumes are special because her years as a performer herself gave her a deep understanding of how clothing and body movement work together.

She knows exactly where the seams have to go for easy removal, and she knows exactly how fabric responds to motion.

And then, there are the details for when a dancer’s clothes come off: For tomorrow night’s show, her pasties are decorated in the colors of the French flag.

She can’t wait to look out at the audience and share a wink with her boyfriend.

Maybe she’ll even wear her towering, blonde Marie Antoinette wig later that night when they fuck.

After all, one of Alec’s favorite sayings is the rallying cry of the youth revolt in France in the spring of 1968—Vivre sans contrainte et jouir sans entrave.

Live without limit and enjoy without restraint—with the word enjoy serving as a double entendre for come.

It was this philosophy that emboldened her to quit her law career before it even began.

And she hasn’t looked back or regretted the decision for even a minute.

“You girls and your terrible music,” Agnes says.

Mallory sheds her skirt and tank top. “Did you know that Christian Louboutin made a pair of limited-edition Marie Antoinette heels?” she says to get her off the negative topic of music.

“They cost six thousand dollars. Only three dozen pairs were made and they all sold. Six thousand dollars for a pair of shoes!”

“What color?”

“What?”

“What color were the shoes?”

“Oh! Yellow, I think.”

Agnes waves her hand in dismissal. “I wouldn’t spend a dime on yellow anything. I make your dress a proper color.”

She unzips a garment bag and Mallory catches a glimpse of blue satin. Agnes removes the dress and presents it to Mallory with a flourish.

“Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Mallory says. Louboutin shoes be damned—Agnes’s dress is the greatest homage to the queen she can imagine.

The bustier of baby blue satin is threaded with white lace and five delicate, pink velvet bows from the décolletage to the waist. The back of the dress is nearly floor length, with a shorter bustle in the front that brushes her mid-thigh.

She’ll pair the dress with a baby blue garter belt and white thigh-high stockings.

“It’s perfect,” Mallory breathes, stepping inside the dress.

“Pull this side seam, off it comes,” Agnes says, appraising her clinically. “But rehearse that on your own time.”

A low whistle comes from the doorway: Alec has arrived.