Page 28 of Fallen Angel

“Not really. But I have no real reason to be upset. He told me he’s going to interview Emma Holland, and of course he is—that’s why he’s out there. It’s his job. But it feels shitty.”

“Why? Don’t you trust him?”

“I don’t know. No. Okay, no, I don’t. I don’t even trust that we’re in agreement over what I should be trusting him with.” Hearing the words come out of her mouth, Mallory’s eyes fill with tears. “That’s a big problem, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” says Bette.

Mallory’s phone rings again.

“Speak of the devil—again.”

“It’s Alec?” Bette says.

“No. Violet.”

“Let it go to voicemail,” Bette says. And she does.

When the phone is finally silent, they both look at it like it’s a grenade that landed in the middle of the bathroom.

“Be careful with her,” Bette says.

Mallory nods. She will.

Violet turns off her phone in a cold fury.

She’d been unable to resist the urge to call Mallory, and now she’s shown her hand—her weakness. Mallory either didn’t take the call or missed the call. She’ll never know which one.

The thought makes her toss her phone to the floor, where it clatters and gets the attention of everyone in the dressing room. They all stare at her for a second, then return to changing and texting and getting ready for the next phase of their night. All except Poppy, who still can’t seem to take her eyes off her.

Violet pulls on her jeans and well-worn combat boots, throws her bag over her shoulder, and strides to the exit. As she passes Poppy, she says, “Come with me.”

During the long cab ride to her apartment in Brooklyn, Violet soothes herself by imagining all of the degrading things she will do to Poppy. She starts by blindfolding her with a spare set of stockings from her costume bag as soon as they reach the Williamsburg Bridge.

“You don’t get to see where I live,” she announces. Poppy doesn’t protest.

Violet’s apartment is on the top floor of a brownstone that once housed a famous poet. At least, that’s what the person who rented her the space told her. When the cab deposits them at the address, Violet gets out first and walks around to open the door for Poppy and guide her up the wide cement stairs. Poppy, wearing high heels, leans into her so she doesn’t stumble.

Inside, Violet helps Poppy off with her coat, tossing it on the floor and leading her to the bedroom, where she ties her, still blindfolded, to the wrought-iron headboard.

Poppy’s breathing is heavy. Violet doesn’t know if it’s the exertion from four flights of stairs in heels, or nerves, or excitement. Or all three. Nor does she really care.

“I like that you’re quiet,” Violet says, looking through her closet for some clothing to inspire her. Each session as a dominatrix is as much a performance as the one she gives on the Blue Angel stage. In some ways, even more so. “Conversation can be so tedious.”

She strips off the clothes she saves for wearing only after a show, the same old jeans and a shirt she’d had so long she didn’t care if they’re ruined with glitter or if they get lost or stolen backstage. Also, sometimes she likes moving through the world dressed like a civilian. She feels like a ghost, almost invisible.

Almost.

Violet changes into a crotchless leather catsuit and thigh-high patent leather boots. She rifles through her drawer of masks and decides on a Victorian studded favorite of hers that she’d bought at a fetish shop on West 22nd Street.

A quick perusal of her supply shelf yields a strong leather blindfold to replace the stockings. And as a bonus, switching the blindfold will give Poppy the chance to see her costumed as Mistress Violet; she wants Poppy to have an accurate mental image while she’s being defiled.

She strides over to the bed and unties Poppy’s arms.

“Sit up,” she says. Poppy obeys immediately. Violet bends forward, untying the stockings.

She steps back so Poppy can get a good look at her. The expression on her face is the perfect blend of awe and trepidation. Violet secures the leather blindfold in place and instructs her to lie back down. She ties her arms again, this time with her highest-quality bondage rope that’s unlikely to leave marks.

“I need to get something from the other room. Don’t move an inch while I’m gone. Not even a single finger.”