Page 42 of Fallen Angel

She uses one hand to touch Greta, and the other on her clit. Then Irene takes over, using both hands and her mouth to bring Violet to the edge. Still, she tries to focus on Greta, who clenches her thighs against Violet’s hand, fucking her fingers.

Violet licks Greta’s clit, and she yells out, “Don’t stop,” in her thick accent. It jars Violet, breaking her fantasy that she’s sucking off the woman she dreams about, reminding her that she’s instead in a crappy apartment building filled with a bunch of people high on molly. Mallory would never be in this situation.

And because of this, even when Irene plays her pussy like a violin, even as she herself tastes Greta’s orgasm, even when they’re all satiated and both women gaze at her with adoration and tell her she’s the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen, touched, or tasted, Violet feels nothing.

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?”