Chapter Seven
Violet washes off some of her body glitter and changes into jeans and a simple black tank top, taking her time, delighting in the knowledge that she’s keeping movie star Jarod Marks waiting.
When she emerges from the Blue Angel she immediately spots the Cadillac Escalade with tinted windows. The driver, a beefy guy with a crew cut, gets out and opens the rear door for her. She slides in beside Jarod.
“Hey,” Jarod says. He’s vaping and offers her a hit.
“No, thanks. So where are we going?”
“I’m meeting some buddies at the Slit.”
The Slit is an edgier scene than the Blue Angel, complete with velvet rope at the front door, bouncers, and a dress code.
It calls itself burlesque, but really it’s a high-end sex club.
Some of the acts are borderline misogynist: girls sticking knives in their pussies or getting tied up and whipped by guys calling them whores.
“I’ll pass,” she says, pretending to reach for the door. She has no patience for sitting in an audience while other women are the center of attention.
“You don’t wanna go?” He looks genuinely baffled.
“No,” she says. “I don’t.”
Jarod cocks his handsome, famous head to one side, striking a pose that has the ability to launch a film franchise.
“But if you’re in the mood for another show tonight, I can suggest a better one. Very exclusive. Very, very exclusive.”
They exchange a look. It takes a minute, but Jarod’s million-dollar brown eyes narrow with understanding.
“Back to the Rivington,” he tells the driver.
A car service picks up Poppy LaRue after the show to take her home, paid for by her girlfriend’s law firm.
She has no interest in going home early, but Patricia works such long hours during the week she needs Friday nights to recover.
After the rush of the show, it’s hugely anticlimactic to just turn around and go back home to the Upper East Side. But it beats taking the subway.
Be careful what you wish for—isn’t that the saying?
It’s so true! A year ago, all she wanted was for someone to adore her the way Alec and Mallory adore each other.
And when she least expected it, in a way she least expected—it happened: Patricia Loomis, a buttoned-up corporate lawyer eight years her senior showed up at the club.
Poppy was sure their hookup would just be a one-night thing.
After all, they had nothing in common. And Patricia, with her lackluster yellow-brown hair, stout physique, and terrible style, is not Poppy’s type.
But the first night they had sex (at Patricia’s gorgeous apartment) they experienced an intense connection.
And for a while, that connection burned intensely enough to keep Poppy’s attention.
A few months ago, she moved into Patrica’s apartment.
But now they’re officially domesticated, and Poppy is getting bored.
She slips her key into the lock and steps into a dark foyer. The entire apartment is dark, and this annoys her. She knew Patricia didn’t want to go out, but was it too much to ask that she at least be awake?
Patricia isn’t a creative person, but she values quality and hired a decorator for her apartment.
The living room features a low, angular sofa in charcoal velvet.
It’s paired with a lacquered coffee table topped with a black-and-white vase, a brass bowl, and a stack of art books.
Graphic prints in stark navy, slate, and metallics decorate the walls.
The overhead lighting includes a nickel Sputnik chandelier and, on the console, a pair of Jonathan Adler’s signature Greek key lamps in glossy black with crisp white shades.
The dining nook features a round glass table with a chunky pedestal base and Adler’s leather dining chairs in deep espresso. Or, as Poppy would say, brown. A full wet bar is stocked with cut-crystal decanters and bottles of good bourbon.
It’s a beautiful home. But lately, it feels like a gilded cage.
Poppy slips quietly into the bedroom, trying to placate herself.
It’s not fair for her to get upset with Patricia.
She works really hard, and that’s why they’re able to live in a luxury apartment within walking distance to the Met.
Before Patricia, Poppy knew nothing about the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Or about art, for that matter. But Patricia went to Harvard, and reads the New Yorker, and speaks French.
So really, who is Poppy to be bored? She’s lucky Patricia isn’t bored with her.
Patricia is under the covers, snoring softly. Poppy pads to the bathroom and quietly closes the door.
Her body aches from performing under the hot stage lights, glitter still clinging stubbornly to her collarbone, to the curve of her thigh.
She turns on the shower, and steam fills the room.
With practiced motions, she peels away her false lashes, wipes off the layers of blush and highlight powder, watching her reflection soften back into someone bare and vulnerable.
But she’s not thinking about herself, or about Patricia.
As always, when she strips off her clothes and is confronted with her naked, yearning body, her mind fills with images of Violet.
The memory of her leaning against the dressing room wall, quietly observing, like an animal looking for prey.
Her musky perfume cuts through the usual backstage scent of powder and sweat.
Just thinking about it gives her goose bumps.
She closes her eyes, letting the steam curl around her like a lover’s breath, images of Violet’s performance flashing like a strobe in her mind.
The hot shower water rushes over her, and she presses one hand against the tiled wall for balance while touching her breasts with the other.
Her breathing grows shallow, and she moves her hand down, down, down.
She rubs her clit, the sound of her moans muffled by running water.
When she’s spent, she turns off the faucet and wraps a towel around herself, shivering.
What is she going to do?