Chapter Twenty-One
The Blue Angel is dark tonight. But Mallory follows the heavy scent of cigarette smoke to find Agnes in her office.
The light in the room is dim, and Agnes is wearing glasses with thick lenses. Surrounded by reams of fabric, two sewing machines, and an industrial-grade steamer, she looks like an owl, or a wizard out of Harry Potter.
It’s strange for Mallory to be in that space in her plain work clothes, but the simple skirt and blouse remind her of why she’s there. The demure outfit keeps her grounded in the future that awaits outside the doors of the Blue Angel.
“You’re not here to complain about me firing Violet, I hope. There’s nothing to discuss.”
What? Mallory’s shocked. She’d known Agnes would be angry but hadn’t expected this.
“I didn’t know you fired her. When did this happen?”
“And I fired Irene. The stagehand? She helped create that shameful exhibition.” She looks up at her. “If you know anyone looking for a job I’m hiring.”
This is bad timing. How is Mallory supposed to quit when Agnes just lost a performer and a stage designer.
It feels like she’s abandoning her. But she can hear her parents voices in her head, pushing her to be responsible.
Pushing her to achieve. That’s the way she’d been raised, and if her life is messy now, well—that’s what she gets for trying to do things her own way.
Surely, if she just acts more responsibly, if she plays by the rules, her life will make sense again.
“I don’t know anyone looking for a job. But … I do need to talk to you.”
“Yes. That’s evident. Why else would you be sitting here?” She’s back to her sewing. The machine hums loudly and Mallory has to talk over it.
“Right. Okay, well the thing is, the tabloids printed a photo of me leaving the club with Bette, and now my boss knows I moonlight here, and he’s not happy about it. I mean, to be fair, I do understand.”
“Ha!” Agnes barks out, startling her. Mallory stops talking and just looks at her. Agnes, incredibly, is laughing to herself.
“Anges, what I’m trying to say is—”
“Moxie, if you’re quitting, then so be it. You’re talented, so that is a tragedy. But life is full of tragedy.” Her Polish accent sounds heavier than ever.
“I don’t want to leave you in a bad position. Coming here tonight—I didn’t know you’re already down a performer.”
“Does that knowledge change anything?”
“No,” Mallory admits.
Agnes takes her foot off the sewing machine pedal, and the room is suddenly very quiet.
“Moxie,” she says, looking her right in the eyes.
Mallory wishes she’d stop using her stage name.
It only makes her feel worse. Maybe that’s the point.
“Burlesque is like love. It only works if your heart is in it.”
The words make her think of Alec, and she has to concentrate hard to fight back tears.
“Everything is changing,” Agnes says, with a sigh so deep Mallory knows it has nothing to do with her resignation.
“There was a time when women came to burlesque because they had nothing else—no means to support themselves. I remember watching little children in the dressing room while their mothers performed to make twenty dollars. And it was their lifeblood, their community. Now … nothing. It’s everyone for themselves. ”
Mallory wants to take it all back, to tell her she’s not quitting. Because the truth is, the Blue Angel gave her the best version of herself she’s ever known. And even though it’s scary, and maybe there’s no road map, maybe it’s worth sticking with.
Her phone rings. She’s certain it’s Alec, asking her where she went. Asking her to come back. But it’s not. It’s her boss. Her other boss.
“Gavin?” she says.
“Hey, Mallory. I’m sorry to call so late.”
“It’s not a problem,” she says, uncomfortable under Agnes’s watchful eye.
“I’m trying to find the folder with the most recent depositions for Klein and they’re not here. I just checked your desk and I can’t find it. Do you have any idea where to find it?”
“It should be on my desk. Are you sure …” Her heart starts pounding.
“I don’t see it,” he says.
And then she remembers: She never took the Klein v. Klein files out of her briefcase. “Oh my god, Gavin. I’m so sorry. It’s in my bag. It was a total accident. Do you need it now? I can jump in a cab.” She says it not really expecting him to take her up on the offer, but he says he’d appreciate it.
She ends the call, thinking that it was a sign. A sign for her to stick with her decision and make some serious changes.
As soon as that psycho Violet leaves the club, Billy Barton walks half a block west to the male grooming salon, Sugar. It’s owned and operated by his first male lover, Harvey Hixenbaugh. It’s the place where he knows he’ll find Tyler.
Billy met Harvey, twenty years his senior, at the legendary meatpacking restaurant Florent after a night of clubbing senior year in high school.
Billy had planned to wait until he was safely at college to act on his homosexuality, but that changed with Harvey, who proved to be the perfect partner in exploring a side of himself he couldn’t admit to his conservative friends and family.
It was a glorious six-month affair, an endless loop of nightlife that introduced him to the artists and tastemakers who set the tone of fashion, music, and film. The experience inspired him to try to make a name for himself in that world, and he did.
But now this mess with Violet.
Billy rings the bell at Sugar, and one of Harvey’s twink assistants lets him in.
The salon is like a private club: All the top male models, actors, and porn stars go to Harvey for sugaring—a lot like waxing but better.
Achieving the perfect sugar-based paste is a skill, and Harvey charges an arm and a leg—no pun intended—for his expertise and services.
It’s still impossible to get an appointment without a referral.
Billy referred Tyler, and still he had to take a late-night time slot.
“Billy, you couldn’t stay away from him, eh? Oh, young love. I miss it,” Harvey says. “But if you were hoping for a show, you’re a few minutes too late. We’re all finished.”
“Actually, I need to talk to Tyler. To both of you.”
Tyler looks confused. “Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not.” Then, to Harvey, he says, “Can we talk in your office?”
“Does this involve me? Good lord, what could it be this time. I’m finally clean and sober, so I think I’d remember if I’d done something to merit a talk,” Harvey says.
“No—it has nothing to do with you, but I’m thinking you might be the voice of reason. Because I have a serious decision to make.”
“This way, kids.”
Billy and Tyler follow him to his office and sit on the couch under a Jackson Pollock—a gift from one of Harvey’s clients. Harvey sits behind his immaculate glass desk.
“What’s going on?”
“I told you that I spent some time at The Cellar. But then I got worried about being recognized, so I found someone who would make house calls.”
At this point, Tyler is looking a bit flushed and he’s bouncing his crossed leg up and down. Billy takes his hand.
“I wanted to bring Tyler into it—he said he was game because it was important to me. So she came over last week and did a session with the two of us.”
“Sounds good to me.” Harvey smiles.
“It was good. Until she showed me this.”
Billy slides a photo across the desk to Harvey.
“What is it?” Tyler says.
Harvey looks at it for less than two seconds and shakes his head. “What does she want?”
“What is it?” Tyler repeats, with more of an edge than Billy’s ever heard from him. Harvey passes him the photo. Tyler examines it and a vein visibly throbs in his neck. “Jesus, Billy! What the fuck is this? I can’t have this floating around. My agent is negotiating my new Burberry contract!”
“I know, I know,” Billy says, squeezing his hand. “I’m going to deal with this.” To Harvey, he says, “She wants me to bankroll a club for her.”
“She wants cash?”
“Not just cash. She wants me to be a partner in a club with her—she wants my money to back it, but she also wants me involved to use my connections to get the right people in the door.”
“What kind of club? Like Tejune?” Harvey asks.
“No. A burlesque club. Like the Slit.”
The three men sit in contemplation.
“That photo cannot get out,” Tyler finally says. “It’ll ruin my career. Not to mention my parents … oh my god.”
“First of all, it won’t ruin your career,” Harvey says. “This isn’t the 1980s. It’ll might even help your career. You, on the other hand—” He looks at Billy. “You are on the cusp of being a major player. Being gay is one thing, but this is not the most flattering expression of your sexuality.”
“I know.” Billy puts his head in his hands.
“I don’t think you have much choice except to play ball.
At least for a while. In a year or so, you might be able to risk shaking her off.
Or maybe you’ll find something to twist her arm with.
Either way, get the money together, hire someone to deal with the logistics, and buy some time until the day when Billy Barton is a media mogul too big to be pushed from the throne. ”
Billy nods. “Thanks, Harvey. I needed to hear your voice of reason. Because my impulse is to tell her to fuck off. That’s what I want to do.”
Tyler pulls his hand away and looks at him beseechingly, his big, heavily lashed brown eyes turned into pools of anxiety.
And Billy knows there’s nothing to do but give Violet what she wants.
He was willing to risk his reputation. But he’s not willing to risk his relationship with Tyler.
And if Billy were responsible for him getting publicly humiliated, he’d never forgive him.
“There’s no other way, is there?” Billy says with resignation.
“Not right now.”
He turns to Tyler, reaches for his hand, and winks.
“So I guess it’s time to play ball. And god knows I hate sports.”
Tyler visibly exhales.
“Well, then,” Harvey says. “My work here is done. Don’t fret, boys. Everyone playing in the big leagues takes a hit every once and a while. Now, you two don’t have to leave. But it’s time for my next appointment.”
Tyler stands up to leave, but Billy signals for him to hold back a minute. Then, when Harvey is gone, he locks the door.
“Come on, no messing around. This is serious,” Tyler says.
“I know it is,” Billy says. “And I’m gonna suck your cock so good you’ll forget all about this.
” He drops to his knees and unzips Tyler’s jeans, reaching into his underwear for his cock.
Billy is only his second male lover, and usually a little verbal foreplay is enough to get him hard as a rock. But not tonight.
Not one to be easily deterred, Billy pulls Tyler’s pants and underwear down to the floor.
He presses his face to Tyler’s balls, inhaling their slightly sweet smell and licking them softly.
He strokes Tyler’s flaccid cock until it swells in his hand.
Tyler shifts in his seat, and Billy cups both hands under his ass, taking his increasingly engorged cock fully into his mouth.
He massages the outside of Tyler’s anus with his index finger, rubbing in small, firm circles until he elicits a moan.
Then he uses his free hand to once again work Tyler’s shaft, up and down in tandem with his lips and tongue.
Tyler had said he gave the best blowjobs he ever had—better than all the girls in his high school.
This is interesting to Billy, because what Tyler doesn’t know is that he was the first man Billy had ever sucked off.
Tyler’s beauty moves him to do things he’d never wanted to do before.
Billy takes great pride in the new dimensions of his sexuality that he’s discovered with his young lover, and every time Tyler shoots a load in his mouth it’s like a prize.
He presses his finger inside Tyler’s ass, just enough to tease him toward coming. Tyler moans, and Billy probes deeper.
He needs to remind Tyler that he can take care of him both in the bedroom and out.
Billy feels the muscle tighten in Tyler’s upper thighs and groin, and he quickens the strokes of his hand and tongue accordingly. Tyler shouts and bucks against Billy’s mouth, coming in warm spurts that Billy greedily swallows.
Yes, he’ll take care of this. All of it.