Chapter Two
That dress is worth losing your head over. And I don’t mean the one on my neck,” Alec says with a smile.
Mallory searches for something clever to say in French. But she can only come up with merde. That’s the thing about Alec—when he’s close to her, she can’t think for shit.
“You’re early.”
“I know, I know. Where’s the guillotine when you need it, right?” He grins at her, his sexy smile with the slight gap between his front teeth, the dimple on the right, and two days’ worth of scruff that she can’t look at without imagining how it feels between her legs.
“I thought the door was locked,” Agnes mutters. “I’m going to take care of that. Don’t want any more surprises.”
She leaves them alone in the room.
“Let me help you take that off,” Alec says. “Come over here where there’s more light.”
He steers her to the back of the room, where there’s obviously less light. He kisses her, and she opens her mouth to him, her stomach doing the little flip it always does still, five years into their relationship.
“We should get out of here,” she says, ready to skip dinner and go straight to their apartment.
He unlaces the corset, then traces the line of her spine with his finger. “What’s the rush?”
They share a smile and duck behind the hanging black sheet that serves as a makeshift dressing area.
Alec stands behind her, finishing the job of freeing her body from the corset.
He gently pulls it off and sets it aside, then reaches around to cup her breasts with both hands.
His index fingers play gently with her nipples, and her breath quickens.
Even after six years together, the sex is still thrilling and unpredictable.
“Don’t we have dinner reservations?” she says haltingly, her body arching back to meet his erection pressing against her ass.
He rubs it against her, and she reaches behind to trace the length of him over his pants.
He groans, grinding against her with enough pressure that she needs to reach forward and steady herself on a wooden stool covered with discarded costumes.
Alec traces the edge of her panties, then slips a finger inside her, perfectly slowly.
“Yes,” she breathes, and he moves it in and out, in and out, the pressure growing slightly with each stroke.
He touches her clit, barely rubbing her.
Her heart beats fast, her mind entering that fugue state that only he can send her in, better than any drug.
She arches her back, and he dips his finger inside her again.
She knows she’s going to come but doesn’t want to—she’d rather save it for later where she can be truly uninhibited.
“Don’t think so much,” Alec says, knowing her too well. After all these years, he still knows how to thrill her, to keep her slightly off-balance.
And then she lets herself go, her pussy shuddering against his hand in waves that force a loud moan from her lips.
He kisses the back of her neck, and when she turns around, he cups her face in his hands. Her mind is already switching back to logic mode, worrying about whether Agnes heard them.
“We should get out of here,” she whispers, looking into his eyes. They’re bewitching, a beautiful, dark ocean blue—and nothing makes her feel sexier than them focused on her. The gaze of a rapt burlesque audience is nothing compared to a single look from Alec.
“Okay, birthday girl. Let’s go.”
He takes her by the hand and leads her through the halls toward the dark mainstage room.
She wonders why he didn’t just go out the side exit; she doesn’t even know where the light switches are in this room.
But she does know the space itself by heart: a long bar alongside one wall, and the rest of the space filled with tables and chairs in view of the stage.
It’s hard to believe that this time last year, she’d yet to step foot in the place. Now it’s her second home.
Really, she’s a different person than she was one year ago.
And it’s all thanks to this place, the Blue Angel.
She’d been living a life of caution, of people-pleasing—everyone but herself.
Worst of all, she’d been insecure in her relationship with Alec.
But ultimately she realized the problem wasn’t in her relationship—it was her disconnection from her true self.
Burlesque helped her find her way back to that.
She stumbles over a chair in the dark. And then the lights turn on.
“Surprise!”
“Happy birthday!”
Mallory gasps. She’s surrounded by her friends and Blue Angel colleagues.
The room is filled with the sound of champagne corks popping.
A cascade of balloons in blush, gold, and black frame the stage curtain, and a glittering Happy Birthday banner hangs under the spotlight.
She notices some decorative props that she’s featured in past acts: a feather fan, a giant champagne glass, a boa arranged artfully—a shrine to her persona, Moxie.
She turns to Alec.
“You didn’t!” Mallory doesn’t like surprises. But she likes this one.
He kisses her. “I knew it would be hard to compete with last year’s birthday. But I had to try.”
The room glows with amber light from strings of decorative, vintage Edison bulbs, and all the tables are covered in blue velvet with mismatched brass candlesticks.
Once she greets the first rush of friends, Alec helps her make her way to the bar, where the usual beer and wine menu has been upgraded with cocktails like Velvet Kick, Corset Martini, and Peep Show Spritz.
A three-tiered cake is decorated with edible glitter and topped with a big, sparkling rhinestone 26.
The Blue Angel is the place that made her rethink the woman she wanted to be. There’s no better place to celebrate the new year of her life. And she loves Alec for knowing that.
She loves Alec, period.
In the middle of the packed room, Mallory feels a cool hand on her arm.
“It’s the birthday girl!”
She turns to see the notorious art patron Martha Pike and her husband, Justin Baxter.
“I’m so glad you’re both here,” Mallory says.
Justin and Martha are incredibly rich thanks to Martha’s sex toy empire.
Her claim to fame is the Pike Kegel Ball, a device to strengthen and tighten the vagina.
While Martha didn’t invent Kegel exercises, she is the first to make it trendy—with the accessories to match.
Her handsome husband, Justin, is a connoisseur of burlesque.
Their private parties are a coveted invite on both coasts, known for private performances by edgy and up-and-coming dancers.
Last year, Mallory had to step in suddenly for her friend Bette Noire at one of these parties.
Bette was her friend, her favorite partner in crime, and her burlesque mentor.
And standing in for her that night launched Mallory’s career.
But the downside is that she rarely gets to see Bette these days. She’s become too famous.
“Hi, doll,” Justin says, hugging her warmly.
“You look gorgeous, as always,” Martha says with a smile.
Unfortunately, Mallory can’t return the compliment, as much as she would like to.
Martha is short and stout, with limp brown hair that always seems to be in need of a good shampoo.
Her skin is sun-damaged and grotesquely tan year-round.
She’s always dressed in something shapeless and colorless—her wardrobe seems to be a dozen shades of gray and putty.
In an absurd contrast, her husband is movie-star handsome and wearing an expensive suit.
When she first met them, she thought their relationship was purely a business transaction: He lived off her fortune, and she was squired around town by a hot piece of man-candy.
But the more she sees of them, she realizes they truly enjoy each other’s company and share a love of fine art, food, partying, and subversive sexuality.
“What’s new in the world of vaginal optimization?” Mallory asks Martha.
“Funny you should ask: I come bearing gifts,” Martha says, bending over with an effort that looks laborious to hunt for something on the floor. “Ah, here it is.” She straightens up and hands Mallory a pink gift bag that’s surprisingly heavy.
“What is this?”
“Open it,” Martha says gleefully.
Mallory lifts the weighty cardboard box out of the bag and opens it to find a glass pot filled with what appears to be green jelly.
“Apple jam?” she says.
“No! It’s for your vagina,” Martha says.
Mallory looks at her blankly, then examines the pot. The label on it reads Prom Night Deux.
“You coat the inside of your vagina with it, it makes it slick and tight—and presto, you’re a prom night virgin again,” Justin said.
“Wow. This is really … inventive,” Mallory says.
“Not everyone makes the effort to Kegel,” Martha explains. “Or their muscles are so far gone, it doesn’t work. Regardless, I’ve come up with a quick fix. It’s not even on the market yet. I’m giving you a preview. Or, a pre-slather.”
“Um, thanks.”
Poppy LaRue rushes over.
“Happy birthday, Moxie!”
Her friendship with Poppy started out toxic but has come a long way.
Poppy is a tall, pretty Southern belle who had started at the Blue Angel just before Mallory.
At first, Poppy was so threatened by Mallory’s appearance on the scene and the attention Mallory got from Bette Noire that she tipped off Mallory’s law firm supervisor that she was moonlighting.
And for this little deed, Poppy was rewarded by the universe: She ended up falling in love with that supervisor, attorney Patricia Loomis.
And now Mallory and Poppy are something like friends. That’s showbiz!
The stage lights suddenly turn on. Alec takes the mic.
“Ladies, gents, lovers, dreamers, voyeurs … welcome to the glitter-drenched, sequin-studded, tassel-twirling heart of downtown debauchery—the Blue Angel. Now, tonight isn’t just any night.
Lo, tonight we gather in the spirit of celebration and seduction …
because one of our very own is turning one year hotter!
Yes, our birthday girl can shatter hearts with a wink, melt morals with a shimmy, and fill this room night after night—our very own Moxie. ”
The room erupts in applause.
“And to kick off the festivities, we have a very special guest performer, formerly of the Blue Angel—now of the world stage—the stunning, the scandalous, the often elusive and always lascivious … Bette Noire! Let the birthday debauchery begin!”
Bette? In a room full of raucous applause, Mallory claps the loudest of all.
The night Mallory first visited the Blue Angel, Bette stole the show.
Mallory will never forget the sight of her on that stage.
Tonight, as always, even among all the extravagant decorations, she’s the most compelling sight in the room: luminous pale skin, trademark black bob, and pillowy, heart-shaped lips painted a deep, matte burgundy.
She’s dressed in a floor-length red suede trench coat that must have cost a fortune.
Mallory wonders if she gets free clothes from designers now that she’s photographed everywhere she goes.
The stage is bathed in soft pink and gold light. A vintage microphone stands alone under a single spotlight. The air buzzes with anticipation. The music begins: Marilyn Monroe’s classic, sultry rendition of “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”
Bette Noire appears in a replica of Marilyn’s infamous sheer gown—skin-tone mesh embroidered with thousands of rhinestones that catch the light like champagne bubbles.
Bette’s signature dark bob is covered with a platinum-blonde wig styled in perfect 1962-era curls, and she sways her hips like she’s moving through honey.
The sight of Bette thrills Mallory—friend, mentor, and spirit guide during a time of confusion and much-needed metamorphosis. She’s missed her these past few months and wonders how Alec managed to steal her away from her globe-trotting, celebrity girlfriend.
When Bette reaches the mic, she pauses, lifts a gloved finger to her lips, and gives the audience a wink.
She lip-syncs to Marilyn’s breathy singing—but halfway through the first verse, the music takes a sharp turn into a burlesque beat.
A deep bass line kicks in. The retro birthday tune transforms into a contemporary banger.
First, a glove slides off, finger by finger, flicked into the front row.
Then the fur stole drops from her shoulders.
She drapes herself over the mic stand like a lover, letting the audience drink her in.
She removes the gown slowly, provocatively, as if she’s unveiling a state secret.
Beneath: a rhinestone corset, sequined garters, and a thong.
As she sings the final lyrics, “Happy birthday … to our Moxie,” she turns away from the audience and looks back over her shoulder, blowing a kiss.
The room erupts in applause. Mallory weaves her way through the crowd, making her way toward the exit so she can catch Bette backstage. But she gets waylaid by well-wishers, and by the time she reaches the dressing room, it’s dark and empty.
“Leaving so soon?”
It’s Alec, with two glasses of champagne. He hands one to her.
“I was trying to find Bette.” They share a smile, knowing that trying to pin down Bette Noire is like chasing butterflies. “But maybe this is better. Just you and me.”
He raises his glass in a toast. “To you, Mal. I feel lucky I met you when we were just college kids. And even luckier to know you now, to see the incredible woman you’ve become. I love you.”
Mallory feels herself tear up. There were times when she really didn’t know if she and Alec would make it. But tonight, she has a feeling she’ll never doubt it again.
“I wouldn’t be who I am here tonight, in this moment, without you.”
It’s true. And she loves him for it.