Chapter Thirty-One
The Baxters live in a glass luxury tower in NoHo.
Their triplex apartment is the site of legendary parties filled with New York City’s beautiful people and always a few surprises.
Mallory has also heard rumors about more exclusive gatherings limited to just three guests: Martha, Justin, and a gorgeous third party in their bedroom.
But she doesn’t know if that’s true and really, has no intention of finding out.
The elevator opens directly into a loftlike room where light is the true art.
Floor-to-ceiling steel-framed windows stretch across the walls, their black mullions cutting clean lines against the pale limestone floors.
A low-slung Cassina sofa anchors the living room, flanked by a geometric coffee table.
Unlike the Baxters themselves, the palette of the place is understated: bone, smoke, black, and the faint shimmer of brushed steel.
Martha is sitting in an armchair flanked by two impressive pieces of art: a massive Agnes Martin grid in muted gray and a Donald Judd wall sculpture. She beckons them toward her. In her right hand, she clutches an elegant wooden cane.
“Forgive me for not getting up,” she says.
“Martha’s having some problems with her hip,” Justin says. Mallory is happy to keep her distance; even though she showered at the hotel—if you can call it that—she’s paranoid she still smells like sex.
She and Alec sit side-by-side on one of the low, pale couches. A young, brunette woman who looks like a supermodel offers them coffee or hibiscus tea. Mallory, in dire need of caffeine, orders coffee.
They all make small talk until the coffee arrives, served on a literal silver platter. Then Justin says, “So what brings you two here today?”
“Yes, I love spontaneity,” Martha says. “I’m just not used to see you two in the daylight.”
Mallory and Alec exchange a look. She nods—he should be the one to tell them.
She just has a feeling they’ll take Alec more seriously.
It’s not fair, but she suspects that once someone sees her take her clothes off onstage, they automatically detract a dozen IQ points.
The favor they’re about to ask for is too big not to be strategic about the messenger: Alec gets top billing in this particular show.
“Agnes is selling the Blue Angel,” he says.
Justin and Martha exchange a glance.
“That’s surprising,” says Justin.
“How unfortunate,” says Martha. “She’s probably losing money. It’s a tough business.”
The notion of losing money, of the club being a bad business model, is not a good start to their pitch. But Agnes didn’t create a sex toy empire by neglecting thoughts of the bottom line.
“I don’t think Agnes would sell solely for financial reasons,” Mallory says. “She’s devoted too much of herself to that place. It means something to her. And it means something to us. And we’re afraid the buyer will destroy it.”
“Who’s the buyer?”
“The newest performer. Violet Offender,” Mallory says.
“The dominatrix?” Justin says. Of course he knows about that.
“Yes. And Billy Barton is bankrolling her.”
Justin and Martha process this silently.
“Well, this is surprising,” Martha finally says. “But again, it must be a sort of sinking-ship situation.”
“I disagree,” Mallory says. “I think she’s become disillusioned with the scene. We’ve all let her down.” She turns to Alec for help.
“Regardless of Agnes’s motivation in selling—and we can all agree she wouldn’t do so without a personal reason—this is a bad move,” he says. “Violet will ruin the Blue Angel. She’s been so damaging and disruptive just as an employee, never mind as a boss. We don’t want to let that happen.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear all this,” Justin says. “We’ll reach out to Agnes and see if she needs anything.”
Alec nods. “We were hoping you’d feel that way. Because Mallory and I know how you two feel about burlesque—”
“And art in general,” Mallory adds.
Martha looks at them more closely, eyes narrowed. “You two didn’t come here just to give us this news, did you?”
Mallory knows it’s Alec’s cue to talk, to give them his pitch.
But then she thinks of the resigned look on Agnes’s face when she quit, and she thinks back to the first night she stepped inside the front door of the Blue Angel.
She’d felt so free that night. It was the tiniest crack that allowed a whole new version of herself to break through.
And she says, “That’s true. We didn’t come here just to deliver the news: we’re here to do something about it.
We want to know if you’ll make a counteroffer. Buy it out from under Violet.”
Justin turns to Martha, deferring to her. It is, after all, her fortune.
Martha stands gingerly, bad hip be damned.
She walks to one of the windows and looks down below at Bond Street.
With every second that ticks by, Mallory feels more certain the answer will be no.
They’ve overstepped; partying with the Baxters is one thing but a financial investment, a business venture, is a whole other relationship.
Martha turns, leaning on the cane that makes her look much older than her years.
“It’s an interesting proposition. But I’m about to launch Prom Night Deux and I simply don’t have the time for another endeavor.”
Justin nods, standing up to join her and help her back to her seat.
“Mallory, Alec, thank you for thinking of us,” he says. “But you know, it’s not always a good thing to turn play into work.”
Mallory tries not to show her disappointment; she’d hoped that even if Martha didn’t jump at the idea, Justin would.
“On the other hand,” Alec says. “If you do what you love you never work a day in your life. Isn’t that the saying? You two throw the best parties in town. Why not make some money off that flare for nightlife?”
“I’ll do all the work,” Mallory says quickly. “I’ll run the whole operation.
Justin and Martha look at one another.
“You’d be willing to make it your full-time job?” Martha says.
“If I was paid a salary, yes.” She hadn’t thought this part through entirely, but now that it was presented to her, she thinks it sounds like a dream. She’d rather be managing a burlesque club than a law office.
“What about you, Alec? What would be your role in all this?”
“My role would be in whatever capacity I’m needed,” Alec says. “My boss, Billy, is a part of this. It all happened in a very sketchy way. I don’t want anything to do with him so I’m thinking my days at the magazine are numbered.”
Justin stands up. He helps Martha to her feet.
“Well, you’ve given us a lot to think about,” he says.
They promise to get back to them soon.
Violet is in a rage. And this is even before she reaches the Gruff offices only to find that Billy’s out at a photo shoot. But that, at least, explains why her calls are going straight to voicemail.
Billy’s receptionist offers to take a message for “Mr. Barton.” He’s a skinny young fuckboy.
“Yes,” she says. “This is the message: You get a hold of Mr. Barton, and you tell him that his personal photographer is waiting in his office to see him.”
She walks past the desk to Billy’s closed office, reaching for the door handle.
“Excuse me, you can’t go in there,” the receptionist calls out.
Violet turns around. “Mr. Barton asked me here to blow him. Under his desk.”
That shuts him up.
She closes the door behind her, sits behind his desk, and waits for Billy to get his ass back to the office.
Plenty of time for her to stew over the backstabbing move Billy just tried to make: An hour ago, a reporter from the Post called to verify the spelling of her legal name.
And when she asked why he wanted to know, he asked her to confirm that she’s buying the Blue Angel.
She denied it, but the damage is done: Someone leaked the news.
But who even knows about it to leak it, and why?
Billy is the only person who ticks both boxes: He certainly knows about it, and if the deal falls through he’s off the hook for the money.
He must really think she’s an idiot.
She’s so furious, she’s tempted to just sell his sex photos now and be done with it. But she still wants a burlesque club, and she wants Billy’s social circle to be a part of it. She can’t kill the golden goose just yet. Unless he leaves her no choice.
“Violet, I can’t work like this!” Billy storms into his office and slams the door shut behind him. “I was at a very important cover shoot. If I can’t work, I can’t make money, and if I can’t make money, I can’t fund your little vanity project that’s going to cost a fortune.”
Violet stands up and rounds the desk to face him up close. So close she can smell he’s just been fucking. Yeah, some cover shoot.
“Unless there is no—how did you put it—vanity project? What if, for example, Agnes backs out of the deal because she read about it in the New York Post and suddenly the anonymous buyer isn’t so anonymous and she kills the deal? What then?”
Billy turns paler. Or maybe he’s always been that horrifically pasty and she never noticed.
“Why would that happen?”
“Um, because you leaked this to the tabloids? You’d better fix this, Billy.
Get the sale closed before the press runs the story.
” God, she could just smack him. But she won’t give him the satisfaction.
“Why would you do this? Are you so averse to making some money together? Or maybe you subconsciously do want those photos of yourself out there, and I’m just part of your little self-sabotage game. ”
“I’m tired of being threatened, Violet,” he says.
“But what about Tyler? Don’t be a selfish asshole, Billy.” She walks to the door but turns before opening to repeat, “Fix this.”