Page 8 of Fallen Angel

“Can you believe Jarod Marks is in the audience tonight?” Poppy says, stretching her long coltish legs. “He’s probably the biggest celebrity I’ve ever seen here. Although I heard it was crazy here back in the nineties …”

If Jarod Marks is in the audience, it’s suddenly not a mystery why Violet volunteered to do the tip jar: It’s the perfect way to meet him.

What an operator. Maybe there’s no need for drinks after all.

Chapter Six

Violet can’t believe how easily Mallory gives up the tip jar. What kind of career strategy is that? Clearly, she didn’t learn a thing from her former mentor, Bette Noire.

Now Bette—there’s someone who knows how to play the fame game. She made a name for herself at the Blue Angel, but really hit the stratosphere when she became the arm candy of a global pop star named Zebra. The two of them were photographed everywhere, and Bette became world famous. Well, Violet is watching, Violet is taking notes, and Violet has even bigger plans for herself. Anyone can fuck a celebrity. That’s the easy part.

Violet squints at the audience, trying to spot the movie star in the audience as she gyrates through her performance to the song “Erection” by The Faint. It’s impossible to see with the stage light in her eyes. Some of the girls like that—makes it easier for them to show their pussy without looking someone in the eye. Violet thinks they’re the pussies. But not her. No, she likes being watched—way, way more than she likes being fucked.

Violet exits the stage to applause, foot stomping, and whistling. She always takes particular pride in being the showstopper—the final performer. It guarantees she’ll be the one the guys are thinking about later that night as they fondle their still-hard dicks. She’s the one all the luscious lesbos will be imagining when they eat each other out. They’re the ones she’s really performing for.

At some point, between the end of her set and the beginning of her tip jar duty, they sniffed out the celebrity in their midst. Now Jarod Marks is surrounded by audience members gravitating closer to him while pretending not to notice him. It’s very New York.

So Violet simply stands by the door, wearing only combat boots and a black thong. A few people begin to trickle out, stuffing singles and the occasional five in the jar. Cheap bastards, she thinks.

Then she has a terrible thought: What if Jarod Marks doesn’t tip? Can she still go through with it if he falls into the “cheap bastard” category? She has no problem being a starfucker (literally)—except if someone exhibits her pet peeve behavior: cheapness.

Did Bette Noire worry about things like this? No, of course not. If she got hung up on the details, she wouldn’t have managed to fuck her way to a six-figure Dolce & Gabbana contract.

But Violet has nothing to worry about. By the time Jarod Marks reaches the door, he’s holding a bunch of hundreds.

“Great show,” he says to her. His persona seems a little dimmer in real life. She has to remind herself of seeing him in his last movie, the one about the six college kids trapped on a beach along with a drug cartel. On film, he got her wet. In person, she’s not so sure.

But she has to admit that Jarod is handsome in the way most movie stars aren’t. For one thing, he’s actually tall. Much taller than her, which always gets her a little hot.

“Thanks,” she says, meeting his eyes. To his credit, they’re focused on her face.

“We’re going to catch another show—wanna come with?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I have to change …”

“I’ll wait for you out front. Black Escalade. Take your time.”

She pretends to think about it for a beat. Consider it. Thirty seconds later, she says, “Okay.”

After every show, the performers go out to celebrate at a nearby bar. But since it’s Mallory’s birthday, she and Alec go straight home for their own little private party—the best kind ever since meeting him her third year at Penn. It happened by accident, at the library during exams. She thought he was so cute and played it coy, not offering her number. And he didn’t ask. She was disappointed, and returned to that same study area in the library every day for a week before she saw him again. This time, he told her he wanted to ask her out that very first day. But he’d been seeing someone and wanted to end it first.

“So … you’ve been avoiding the library? That seems a little extreme,” she said.

“I never use the library except for exam week.”

“But you’re here now,” she said.

“Exactly.” They locked eyes, and she felt something churn deep inside of her.

Later that night, they went for cheesesteaks on South Street. They’ve been together ever since.

Tonight, naked in bed under the covers, they talk about the night, sharing gossip and evaluating the performances—Mallory’s included. Then Alec says, “By the way, I think you have a new fan at the club.” His hand trails her body from shoulder to hip.

“Oh yeah?” she says.

He nods. “I see Violet watching your every move.”

Mallory noticed that, too. Her theory is that Violet is simply fascinated by Mallory’s connection to Bette. But she doesn’t want to talk about Violet right now. She doesn’t want to talk at all.