Excerpt of Fallen Angel by Logan Belle

"Late, late! Late, late late," Agnes yelled, ushering Mallory in the side door that circumvented the front of the club. "I’ve been asking everyone, where’s Moxie? Where’s Moxie. And no one knows!"

Moxie was her stage name – they all had one. Alec said her choice in name was sexy and spunky, just like she was.

She could hear him already on stage, the host of the evening, warming up the crowd with his usual biting pop commentary laced with double entendres. He was a great writer – the Bill Maher of Burlesque, Mallory always said. Back when she was speaking to him.

Last year, his "day job," Gruff magazine, assigned him a story about the growing burlesque scene in New York . He became fascinated with the subculture, and brought Mallory to her first show on her birthday. Before she could say "shake your ass," she had abandoned her plans to become a lawyer and, instead, auditioned for a place on the Blue Angel stage. Now, a year later, she was one of the top draws at the club. And Alec had made a place for himself as occasional MC and sometimes producer.

"Sorry – I’m half dressed." Mallory pointed feebly to her stockings.

"What does that mean?" Agnes said, her Polish accent thick and her attitude even thicker. "Half dressed, undressed, late is late. You have to try costume on and what if it doesn’t fit?" Agnes drew fitfully on her cigarette, the no smoking ordinances be damned.

"You’ve been making costumes for me for a year – when has anything not fit? You’re a genius!" Flattery got you everywhere with Agnes.

"Yes, this is true."

A corner of the backstage area, wood-planked and poorly lit, was the makeshift dressing room. Like the chaotic backstage of a fashion show, clothes were scattered everywhere, compacts and stray lipstick tubes and stockings of every color, and no one had any privacy. In one corner was a black sheet thumb-tacked diagonally to make a closed space, but no one bothered to use it. Next to it was a signed copy of a photo from this season’s Dolce & Gabana ad campaign that was plastered all over New York, a campaign featuring Bette Noir. Last year, Bette was just another girl performing on the Blue Angel stage. But then she started dating a pop star, Us Weekly featured her on the cover twice, and the next thing everyone knew she had an agent, a cameo in an indie film, and then the national Dolce & Gabana print campaign. Needless to say, she hadn’t been back to the Angel since the first Us cover.

Mallory shed her skirt and tank top, avoiding Agnes’s disapproving gaze. "You know, Christian Louboutin made a pair of limited edition Marie Antoinette heels," she said. "They were incredible – only 36 pairs and they were all sold. Six thousand dollars for a pair of shoes.

"What color?"

"Yellow, I think."

Agnes waved her hand in dismissal. "I wouldn’t pay six dollars for yellow shoes. I make your dress a proper color!"

Behind her, Agnes removed a pouf of the palest blue satin from her garment bag. She shook it out in front of Mallory with a flourish.

"Oh my god. It’s gorgeous!" Louboutin shoes be damned – Agnes’s dress was the greatest homage to the Queen she could imagine. The bustier was baby blue satin threaded with white lace and five delicate, pink velvet bows from the décolletage to the waist. The back of the dress was nearly floor length, and supported by the mini-corset it would be full in the back, with a shorter bustle in the front that brushed her mid-thigh. She would pair the dress with baby blue garter belt and white thigh-high stockings.

"It’s perfect," Mallory breathed, stepping inside the dress.

"Pull this side seam, off it comes," Agnes said, appraising her clinically. "It fits. You find someone to lace up the back. I can’t be bothered when you show up so late."

She shuffled away, on the lookout for any girls who might be goofing off with a smoke outside or one too many pre-show shots of vodka instead of getting ready to perform. She was like a bizarro-world dorm mother.

Mallory was happy to have the dressing room to herself – a rarity. The universe was rewarding her for being late.

"That dress is worth losing your head over. And I don’t mean the one on my shoulders."

Mallory turned around, searching for the French phrase for fuck off. But she could only come up with merde. That was the thing about Alec – when he was close to her, she couldn’t think for shit.

"I know, I know – where’s the guillotine when you need it, right?" He grinned at her, his sexy smile with the slight gap between his front teeth, the dimple on the right, and two days worth of scruff that she couldn’t look at without imagining how it felt between her legs.

It was difficult for her not to smile back at him. But she didn’t.

"I’m late so just…go."

"I’ll help you with the back. Come over here where there’s more light."

He steered her to the back of the room, where it was obviously darker.

"Stop it, Alec. I don’t have time for joking around."

He pulled the corset tight with the first band of ribbon in the back, then traced the line of her spine with his finger. "I’m not joking."

He pressed her forward to the black sheet, the make- shift dressing room.

From the stage, she heard the first chords of "Mercy" by Duffy. That meant Cookies N’Cream was on stage – a petite, pretty redhead with the hips of a ten year old boy and the double-D breasts she bought when she still worked at Goldman Sachs.

Only two performances to go before it was her turn.

"Finish tying this thing," Mallory said. But Alec’s fingers moved away from the dress to her ribcage, and forward still until he cupped her breasts with both hands. His index fingers played gently with her nipples, and her breath quickened despite herself.

"I need to get dressed," she said feebly, her body automatically arching back to meet his erection pressing against her ass. He rubbed it against her, and she reached behind to press her palm against the length of him. He pushed her hand away, maneuvering her slightly off balance so she was forced to reach forward and steady herself on a wooden stool covered with weeks worth of odds and ends of discarded clothes.

He traced the edge of her panties, then slipped a finger inside her, perfectly slowly.

"Yes," she breathed, and he moved it in and out, in and out, the pressure growing slightly with each stroke.

"I don’t know why you’re so upset with me," he breathed, his face against her own. "Regardless of what you think, I only have eyes for you. And I definitely only have this for you." He took her hand and pressed it against his cock, hard in his pants.

"Sometimes you make that very difficult to believe," she said.

"You’re crazy," He pressed a finger against her clit, barely rubbing her. She felt her heart racing, her mind entering that fugue state that only he could send her in. She arched herself against him, and he dipped his finger inside her again. She knew she was going to come, but didn’t want to – didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. She made a feeble attempt to pull his hand away.

"Sometimes I think you like fighting just so we can make up," he said, and then she came, her pussy shuddering against him in waves that made her moan much too loudly.

He pulled up her underwear and kissed her neck.

"Come here," he turned her around and cupped her face in his hands. Her mind was already switching back to logic mode, worrying about the cum on her costume, the time she had left before going on stage, whether anyone had heard them.

"I have to get ready," she said.

"Look at me," he said. She did. His eyes were so beautiful, green and gold and blue. She loved his eyes, and nothing made her feel sexier than having his eyes focused on her. The gaze of a thrilled audience was nothing compared to a single look from Alec.

"Alec…"

"We are great," he said. "That’s all you need to think about."

He kissed her, and she opened her mouth to him, her stomach doing the little flip it always did, still, five years into their relationship.

He smacked her playfully on the ass.

"Are we cool?" he said.

"It’s not that simple."

"I think it should be."

The first chords of "Heads Will Roll" played over the sound system: Showtime.