Chapter Twenty
Violet uses Billy Barton’s name to get past the velvet rope at The Standard. Whoever says there’s no shortcut to success is an idiot. And probably not successful.
She called Billy from her apartment an hour ago—at the same time her performance would have begun at the Blue Angel if she hadn’t been fired.
He didn’t sound very happy to hear from her; when he’s with one his celebrity friends, he doesn’t like being reminded of his dirty little secret.
But she insisted that he meet her and he reluctantly agreed.
She makes her way through the buzzing, shadowy entranceway to an elevator, waiting alongside people she knows are vaguely famous but whom she can’t identify because of their bland, generic attractiveness.
She can tell they’re checking her out and wondering who she is.
They think she’s someone, that much is clear from the way they’re pretending not to look at her.
When they reach the club on the top floor, she finds Billy at a table in the back talking to a female hip-hop artist. He shoos her away as soon as Violet appears. She’s fascinated by how different he is at the club, in his element—Billy Barton, arbiter of cool. Oh, if these people only knew!
She slides across the banquet to face him.
“You didn’t want to introduce me to your friend?”
He glances around in discomfort. “Why are you here?”
Violet looks around for a cocktail server. It takes her only a second to get someone’s attention, and she orders a bottle of Krug. On Billy’s tab.
“This is unprofessional,” he says in a low voice.
“Actually, Billy, I’m the ultimate professional. In fact, no one is more aware of your tastes and proclivities than I am.” He squirms noticeably. “And while I find you physically abhorrent, we do share one common interest.”
Billy’s face is bright red. Violet doesn’t know if he’s going to slap her or have a heart attack. Maybe both. But after a few seconds pass, he simply says, “And what’s that?”
“Burlesque, of course.”
His shoulders drop half an inch as he lets down a bit of his guard.
“What do you want, Violet?”
The impatience in his voice is insulting. This makes what she’s about to say so much more pleasurable.
“I want to open my own burlesque club. Something like the Slit, but more exclusive.”
“Great,” his says blandly. “Sounds good. Go for it.”
“I intend to. But I’m not here for your cheerleading.”
He leans forward and says quietly. “Then why the fuck are you here, Violet? Because I feel like we’ve been talking for too long and I still have no idea.”
She smiles. “I need you to bankroll it. We’d be partners.”
He looks at her like he’s not quite sure what she just said. And then he processes it and shakes his head slowly.
“Violet, I have no interest in owning a burlesque club. They aren’t exactly cash cows. And besides, I’m putting everything I have into keeping Gruff afloat. Do you have any idea how difficult the magazine market is right now? The last thing I want is a vanity project on the side.”
Violet nods. “All you need to do is write a few checks. I’ll run the day-to-day, recruit the talent, the PR people.
You can use your contacts in the press to make sure the club opens as the biggest thing to hit Manhattan since Studio 54.
Or you can choose to be a silent partner and just let me worry about making it a success. ”
“I just told you, I don’t have the cash flow to open a club right now. Even if I wanted to, which I do not.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Billy. But unfortunately for you, I’m not willing to take no for an answer.” Adrenaline rushes through her like a building orgasm.
“Look,” he says, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know what kind of fantasy you live in. But out here, in the real world, people like you don’t tell people like me what to do.”
She slides three photographs of his session with Tyler across the table. Billy glances at them, then turns pale.
“Are you out of your mind?” he whispers, grabbing them and crumpling them on his lap.
“I’ve actually given this a lot of thought,” she says calmly.
“The burlesque scene is getting crowded. I’d say the last thing downtown needs is another one—and I’m only looking at Manhattan.
None of this Brooklyn hipster shit. So the obvious move is to buy an existing club that’s doing well and take it over.
Maybe give it a little makeover, put our own stamp on it.
Get rid of the dead weight, out with the old, in with the new and all that. ”
Billy is looking around the room like he’s afraid there’s a sniper in the crowd. She follows his gaze and spots her stagehand friend, Irene, at the bar. Violet thinks Irene has a body that belongs on stage, not behind the scenes. Maybe she can do something about that.
“So to get right down to it,” she says. “I want the Blue Angel.”
He looks at her. “You can’t be serious.”
“But I am. So, are you in, or are you out? And I do mean you will be out.”
Again, his face turns a shade of purple red. It’s concerning. Maybe she needs to give him some time to cool down.
“Think about it,” she says, standing up, leaning forward towards him and tapping her long nails with a click, click, click. “But don’t keep your Mistress waiting too long. You know what happens when I get impatient.”
She can imagine his hard-on underneath the table.
Violet leaves the club with Irene Cho, who lives not too far away in a shitty apartment off Avenue A.
She’d promised to take Irene out to thank her for the stage set-up the night of the Halloween show—the one that got them both fired.
And she figured tonight, since she was going to take care of some business anyway, would be as good a night as any.
But when she tries to say goodnight at the subway, Irene insists she come home with her.
“My girlfriend really wants to meet you,” she says.
Violet knows an invitation to a threesome when she hears one, and figures, why not? She’s still having a hard time getting her mind off of Mallory. She hadn’t expected it to be so hard to get her alone again. So tonight, any distraction is welcome.
But when they get to Irene’s place they climb six flights of stairs to a small room filled with lots of drunk and high people dancing to trance.
“This is not my scene,” Violet says. The decision to go to Irene’s place was a rare misstep. A bad one. But easily rectified: She’s outta here.
“Don’t leave,” Irene says. “The real party’s in the back. Wait here a sec—you won’t regret it.”
Violet is skeptical that anything in this place is worth the wait, except maybe Irene.
She has the sense there’s some darkness to be mined there.
So she gives it half a minute. And then Irene reappears, grabs her by the hand, and leads her to the bedroom.
It’s dark, the only illumination a desk lamp with dark fabric covering the lampshade. It smells like cigarettes and pussy.
A strawberry-blond woman is naked and blindfolded on the bed, her hands bound behind her back.
“Your going-away present has arrived,” Irene says to Strawberry, standing at the foot of the bed.
Violet’s still not sure she’s into whatever this is, but then she takes a closer at the strawberry. Her fair, translucent-looking skin makes Violet’s pussy twitch. Aside from a smattering of freckles, she reminds her of Mallory. She wishes she had a dark wig handy.
She turns to Irene. “So what’s the deal here?”
“My girlfriend’s moving to L.A. tomorrow. I want to send her off with a bang. And thought you could help.”
“She’s into it?” Violet says.
“She’s into it. Tell her, Greta.”
Greta smiles. “Am I into it? I don’t know. Surprise me.” She has an accent. Irish? Scottish?
Violet moves closer, then reaches out and cups her breasts. Greta stirs only slightly, lips parted.
Her breasts are bigger than Moxie’s perfect proportions, but that’s an impossible standard. This woman comes close—close enough for Violet to close her eyes and take a nipple into her mouth. Close enough for her to slide her mouth down the length of her lean torso, pausing at her hips.
Violet stands back for a moment to take off her tight black jeans. The girl shifts her hips impatiently. Violet returns her attention to her, placing her hands on her thighs and gently spreading her legs.
She feels Irene move close behind her, nipples hard against her shoulder blades. Violet steps forward, then mounts the bed on her knees, ass in the air. Irene fingers her from behind and she’s good at it. Violet flicks her tongue just enough to graze Greta’s pussy.
She uses one hand to touch Greta, and the other on her clit. Then Irene takes over, using both hands and her mouth to bring Violet to the edge. Still, she tries to focus on Greta, who clenches her thighs against Violet’s hand, fucking her fingers.
Violet licks Greta’s clit, and she yells out, “Don’t stop,” in her thick accent.
It jars Violet, breaking her fantasy that she’s sucking off the woman she dreams about, reminding her that she’s instead in a crappy apartment building filled with a bunch of people high on molly.
Mallory would never be in this situation.
And because of this, even when Irene plays her pussy like a violin, even as she herself tastes Greta’s orgasm, even when they’re all satiated and both women gaze at her with adoration and tell her she’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen, touched, or tasted, Violet feels nothing.