Fallen Angel (Club Burlesque) by Logan Belle

remarkably attractive and maybe even edgy. But in the burlesque world, she was plain and demure. Even her tagline, the Burlesque Ballerina, suggested rarification or reserve, not raw sexuality. On the one hand, this was distinctive and as much a trademark as Violet’s trademark combat boots and body ink. But sometimes she felt like a part of her was still holding back, one foot in the real world in case she did not “make it” in burlesque—although by most standards she had already arrived with her steady gig at the Blue Angel, mentions in New York magazine and the Village Voice , and a thousand “friends” on Facebook and almost as many Twitter followers. But she wondered if she had the drive to become as big as Bette Noir or as buzzed about as Violet. And if Allison was right—that her life in burlesque would be the death of her relationship with Alec . . . well, that wasn’t a trade she was willing to make.
    She dabbed a little Tarte Flush on her cheeks and headed back to the table, where Violet and Alec were locked in conversation like guided missiles. She pushed back the swell of annoyance in her gut and took her seat.
    “Let’s get out of here,” Violet said, casually putting her hand on Mallory’s knee like she was a possessive girlfriend. Mallory bristled.
    “We just got here,” she said.
    “I got word of a pop-up at the Plaza. It’s one of Mischa Galit’s events. I say we blow out of here and check it out.”
    Mallory had heard about Mischa Galit. He was a twentythree-year-old former DJ who had declared the New York velvet rope and bottle service club scene over, and, tapping into a network of tastemakers and beautiful people, had created an underground roving party scene of “pop-up” parties. They were in different locations every night, anywhere from a candlelit, abandoned building in China town to an art deco loft apartment in Soho to a suite at a five-star hotel. Mallory hated to admit it, but Violet had piqued her interest.
    “That could be cool,” Alec said.
    “Fine. Let’s go,” Mallory said.
    Violet smiled. “Done. There’s just one thing: you need a hat to get in.”
    “What kind of hat?”
    Violet shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”
    “So we have to go back to our apartments, find hats, and meet out again?” Mallory said.
    “No, of course not. We can stop by Village Costume. It’s just a few blocks away. And then we head uptown,” Violet said.
    “Is it open this late?”
    “It’s always open late on weekends. You’d be surprised how many people need a last-minute costume on a Saturday night.”
    “I find that hard to believe,” said Mallory.
    “My roommate at NYU used to work there. She told me that costumes increase your chance of getting laid by sixty percent.”
    “That’s ridiculous,” said Mallory.
    “Really?” said Violet. “You think Halloween is so popular for the free candy?”

8
    M allory had not been to the Plaza Hotel since she was six years old and her mother took her to show her where “Eloise” lived. Now, twenty years later, she was wearing a fedora and following her heavily tattooed, bleached blond, pirate hatwearing nemesis into the side of the building and the entrance to the now private residences. People had been outraged in 2002 when the famous hotel was purchased for over seven hundred million dollars and a plan was announced to convert it to a private apartment building. Mallory agreed with the outrage, but in the end some of the rooms were declared interior landmarks, and many were kept as hotel rooms. The new owners restored and maintained the regal elegance that had made the Plaza Hotel one of the most famous hotels in the world for over a century.
    A white-gloved door attendant showed them to the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor. When the gilded door slid closed, Violet said,“One more thing—you have to have a tattoo.”
    Mallory and Alec looked at each other.
    “Mallory doesn’t have a tattoo, Violet. You