Chapter Twenty-Three
Mallory walks down a quiet block in the West Village, a jewel of a street with a sense of privacy and old-world charm. The windows in each house glow from within. She’d always wondered what it’s like to live in one of these historic buildings.
When she locates the town house at the address Bette sent her, she finds an unlocked iron gate in front of wide stone steps.
She takes the stairs quickly, the wind whipping at her back.
She hears the music of Swedish House Mafia pulsing loudly through walls that probably date back to the nineteenth century.
She’s afraid no one will hear her ring the bell.
But then the front door opens and out walks a man dressed in a full electric blue spandex bodysuit. It’s unclear if this is a costume or his typical evening attire.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a friend,” she says, then describes Bette and asks if he’s seen her.
“Yeah, she just sat for her appointment,” he says.
“What appointment?”
The man looks at her like she’s either on drugs or messing with him—possibly both.
“It’s a tattoo parlor, so why don’t you take a wild guess?”
He brushes past her.
Mallory walks inside. The walls are a patchwork of hand-painted murals, old concert posters, and framed sketches.
A velvet chaise and a scattering of mismatched chairs serve as both waiting area and hangout space.
Incense smolders from a chipped ceramic bowl on a mantel lined with colorful ink bottles.
“Can I help you?”
A woman about her own age with long brown hair is tending to someone at an ink station that blends seamlessly into the bohemian clutter. The reclining client chair is facing away from her, but Mallory recognizes Bette’s long legs stretched out and the black Prada combat boots on her feet.
“Oh, hi. I’m here for—”
“Moxie,” Bette calls out from the chair. “Come over here. Meet Carmel.”
The tattoo artist waves her over. “Welcome to my little studio.”
Carmel is surprisingly free of any tattoos or body art. She’s dressed in a long denim skirt and a sweatshirt, and her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail.
Mallory thanks her, apologizes for crashing the session, and sits on a stool Carmel pulls over.
Bette sighs with impatience. Her T-shirt features a graphic of Vivienne Westwood’s iconic celestial orb. Her black jeans are pulled down to expose one hip for Carmel to work on.
“What’s the new tattoo?” Mallory says.
“Don’t try to change the subject. What the hell happened? Why did you quit?”
Mallory takes a deep breath. Where to even start? “How did you hear about it so fast? I literally just spoke to Agnes tonight.”
“Agnes called me.”
“She did ?”
Bette nods. “So you know she took it hard.”
Mallory wheels the stool closer to Bette’s chair. “My boss saw the photo of us in the Post. I know the publicity is great for you—as it would be for anyone else at the club. But not me. And it makes me realize burlesque just isn’t compatible with my life as a whole.”
Bette makes a scoffing sound. “Your life as a whole? Don’t give me that shit. This is me you’re talking to. What’s this really about? You and Alec?”
“This has nothing to do with Alec,” Mallory says. “But yeah, I’m making some changes there, too.”
“You mean you’re quitting him, too.”
Mallory crosses her arms. “Why are you being like this?”
Bette sighs. “I’m sorry. Look, I just don’t want you to make a decision you regret. Plus, you’ve been down this road before.”
“That’s true. And I can’t take it anymore. There must be something more normal and balanced out there.”
“Right. The perfect relationship. Did you ride here on a unicorn?”
Mallory doesn’t have the energy to explain it to her.
And really, she doesn’t have to. She stands up to leave and catches sight of a framed Varga girl sketch hanging on the wall.
Instantly, she’s back at that Plaza Hotel party.
And it hurts. Even in her extremely tired state, the pain is a live wire.
She really believed she and Alec would end up together. She wants to say this to Bette, but she knows if she puts it into words she’ll start to cry. So instead she asks, “How do you decide on something as permanent as a tattoo?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one quitting the Blue Angel. That seems pretty permanent.”
Mallory watches the needle working the ink into Bette’s hip, the loud humming of the instrument filling the room. “That looks really painful.”
“I’m willing to suffer for art,” Bette says. “Since you’re not, I guess you’re right to quit. And as your friend, I hope you figure out what really matters to you.”
Mallory knows she’s giving her tough love because she cares about her. But it feels cold, and feels like just more judgment from a friend.
Whatever is happening in her life, she’s going to have to figure it out on her own.
Mallory is so exhausted by the time she gets home, her hands fumble with the lock and key. Alec opens the door for her. She doesn’t want to see him—not after what happened with Gavin. Now it feels wrong.
“I hope you weren’t waiting up for me,” she says. He’s changed into his sleep T-shirt and boxers. But she can tell he’s been awake this entire time.
“Of course I was,” he says. “I love you, Mallory. We can figure this out.”
Would he feel the same if he knew what she’d been doing tonight? She doubts it.
“I’m sorry, Alec. I think this is the right thing to do.”
“Really?” He takes her handbag, sets it on the end table, and turns back to pull her close. Against her better judgment, she breathes in his delicious scent, and even now, it’s enough to make her swoon.
He kisses her, and she doesn’t resist. The feel of his mouth against hers is as natural as breathing.
And when his hand reaches under her shirt to gently trace her nipple over her bra, he ignites the nerve endings that somehow connect her breasts to her pussy.
As if knowing she’s already throbbing, Alec unzips her skirt.
She wants his fingers inside her so urgently, she nearly tears her skirt in her rush to take it off.
Alec gently rotates her and then, from behind, skims her clit with his finger before pressing it inside her, then out again, rubbing her outer lips with her own wetness.
“God, Alec,” she says softly, leaning back against him. But no, this is a bad idea. She steps away, turning to face him. “This isn’t the answer.”
“You’re right,” he says. “It isn’t the answer. But I still want to make you come. At least one last time.”
The words sound outrageous coming from his lips—how could it be the last time? But that’s what a breakup means. And it’s the right thing to do—isn’t it? She can’t think straight with her pussy throbbing like a second pulse.
They move to the couch. She lies back against the cushions, closing her eyes as Alec’s face moves between her legs.
The soft lapping of his tongue sends ripples of pleasure through her.
At the same time, he presses a finger deep inside, eliciting a sharp burst of pleasure so intense it’s almost pain.
“Alec!” she cries out. He slips his finger in and out slowly and rhythmically.
Her pussy shudders against his fingers, and she grabs his wrist, clenching her legs as if she’s fucking his hand.
This would usually be the time when he would take off his pants, his cock throbbing and ready for her, and she would come again as he entered her.
But not tonight.
Alec pulls back. She wants to throw herself against him, to tell him forget everything she said earlier that night.
It’s all so confusing. But then she thinks about what happened with Gavin, and how that’s a red flag.
If her relationship with Alec were healthy, she never would have crossed that line.
Kissing Gavin Stone tonight wasn’t about Gavin Stone: It was about not Alec. It was about distance from Alec.
“I think you should go,” she says.
He considers this, then says, “I’ll go to a hotel tomorrow night. Okay? We’ll take it from there.”
She appreciates the compromise, but she knows that if she spends even one more night under the same roof, she’ll second-guess every decision she’s made tonight.
So she’ll leave.