Page 19 of Fallen Angel

“Excuse me,” he says, making a break for it. He pushes his way through a sea of Manhattan’s most fabulous. The room seems to swell, then to close in on him. By the time he reaches the elevator, he’s seeing spots in front of his eyes. He presses the button aggressively and leans against the wall to wait.

“You okay?” a voice says. He looks up, and now he’s really losing it. He’s hallucinating. But no—it’s Tyler Cassidy.

“Just need some air,” Billy says, pulling himself together. The elevator dings its arrival, and he takes off his hat.

“Same. This place is too much.”

They step into the elevator together. Billy is so rattled by the encounter with Violet, he’s completely lost his game.

“You’re the editor of Gruff, right?” Tyler says. The color of his cornflower-blue eyes is so intense, it looks photoshopped.

“Billy Barton,” he says with a smile, extending his hand.

He feels Tyler’s touch all the way down to his cock.

Together, they walk out into the chilly night. It smells like roasted chestnuts from a nearby street cart.

“The worst part is I didn’t even get to have a single drink,” Billy says. “Do you know of a decent bar around here?”

Tyler gives him a sly smile that makes him even more gorgeous.

“We’re in midtown. I think not.”

Billy might be in love.

“Good point.” He hails a cab on Fifth Avenue, and one comes screeching to a stop curbside. Billy opens the door and turns to Tyler.

“Why don’t you join me for a cocktail back at my place?”

He doesn’t have to ask twice.

Chapter Eleven

Mallory makes her way down a long hallway. A door is open to a well-lit room and, inside, a woman sits alone at a painter’s easel. Artwork is propped up all along the floor and tabletops: elaborate colored-pencil sketches of nudes, exotic birds, and gothic florals.

The artist has shoulder-length dirty-blond hair, a wide nose, and very dark and sexy brown eyes. Her arms and legs appear to be covered in splattered paint, but on closer look, Mallory realizes they’re actually tattoos.

“Hello! Come on in.” The woman gestures for Mallory to sit on the stool placed in front of the easel. “I’m Jocelyn.”

“Penelope directed me to this spot,” Mallory says. “I’m not sure why. But … I don’t want a tattoo.”

The woman smiles.

“I’m not a tattoo artist. I’m a painter. I’m here to give guests custom hand-painted faux tattoos.”

“Oh. Okay. So how does it work?”

Jocelyn looks around the room at the art, and Mallory follows her gaze. “First you need to pick an image. Either something you have in mind, or you can use my drawings and paintings for inspiration.”

Mallory likes the idea. It’s whimsical—exactly the sort of thing Julie and Alison wouldn’t understand. But, like her more normcore friends, she does have a day job. So the “tattoo” will need to either be very discreet or very temporary.

“How long will it last?”

“The paint? You can completely remove it later tonight with baby oil. Or if you want to keep it a while, just tape plastic wrap over it while you shower. If you don’t protect it from water, it’ll start to crack and wear off in a few days.”

Mallory walks around the room examining Jocelyn’s art. It’s all interesting and quite beautiful, but nothing seems like, well, her. Even temporarily. It’s incredible that people can commit to a permanent tattoo.

“I just don’t know,” she says finally. Jocelyn stands up from her perch and, hands on her hips, looks her over.