Darkest Fire (26 page)

Authors: Tawny Taylor

Tags: #Paranormal, #BDSM

BOOK: Darkest Fire

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“What are you thinking? This is not a circus!” Agnes fumed in her thick Polish accent. Agnieszka Wieczorek, former Warsaw ballerina turned proprietress of the Blue Angel, did not take kindly to broken rules.

“Of course it is,” Bette said, calmly lighting a cigarette. “Why else do you think these people come here?” Bette walked past her without another word, into the dressing room. She closed the door with a sharp slam.

Who else but Bette Noir could get away with that?

“I need to get my shoes out of there,” Poppy said. Agnes mumbled something in her native tongue and waved vaguely in the direction of the closed door with disgust.

Poppy waited until she was out of sight, then rapped lightly on the dressing room door.

“Fuck off,” Bette said.

“It’s Poppy.” She took Bette’s silence as an invitation to enter. When she’d started at the Blue Angel six months ago, she would never have followed Bette Noir into a room if she was in a snit. But she’d finally gotten close enough to feel comfortable; she only hoped she could get a lot closer. She’d never been with a woman before, but she knew Bette only liked girls, and, if that’s what it took to get Bette to take her under her wing and show her the ropes, she had no problem with it.

“I don’t think Agnes’s really mad at you,” Poppy said. She paused in front of the mirror and couldn’t help admiring herself. She’d recently cut her white-blond hair into a chin-length bob, much like Bette’s black one. They were both fair skinned and blue-eyed, although Poppy was a few inches taller. She’d always liked being five nine, but ever since meeting Bette she wished she were a bit shorter. Everything about Bette seemed more perfect, more right for burlesque, more special. Regardless of the height difference, with the black/blond bob thing going on Poppy liked to think they were like photo negatives of each other. More and more, she imagined what it would be like to be in bed with Bette, her lovelier twin.

“I don’t really care,” Bette said, looking up from her iPhone, fixing Poppy with her unnerving cat-eyed glare. “I’m not working here to make one hundred and fifty dollars a night for the rest of my life. Do you know who that was at that table?”

“The girl you pulled onstage? No—is she an actress?”

“Not her! The guy in the stupid suspenders.”

Poppy was the one who felt stupid. Was he an actor? She’d barely even noticed him. She decided it was best to say nothing. She knew Bette was going to tell her, regardless.

“It was Billy Barton,” Bette said. When Poppy still showed no sign of recognition, Bette sighed in exasperation. “The owner of
Gruff
magazine. You know
Gruff,
right? They have that annual “Hot” issue. I think it was Megan Fox on the cover last year.”

“Oh, yeah—sure. I read it all the time,” Poppy lied.

“Well, the publisher was here—tonight! That’s a big deal, Poppy. If the magazine writes about the club, we could get some industry people in here. Not just these horny NYU kids.”

“Cool. So . . . do you want to get a drink?”

Bette turned abruptly in her seat, looking at Poppy closely. She eyed her up and down, her gaze lingering at her chest. Poppy, wearing a pink satin robe over her pasties and G-string, felt more naked than she had onstage in front of fifty strangers. She forced herself to stand still.

Bette stood so they were almost face to face. She reached out and slipped her hand under the robe, cupping Poppy’s breast. Poppy couldn’t even breathe. After months of being ignored, then barely getting conversation out of Bette . . . this! Poppy had never been so invisible to another human being.

But not anymore.

“Take these off,” Bette said, her thumb brushing over the red sequined flowers hiding Poppy’s nipples. Bette sat back in her seat, content to be the audience, while Poppy slowly removed her pasties. In the background, Poppy could hear the chords of “Fever” by Peggy Lee; it was Cookies ’n Cream’s number—the final act. Usually, Bette closed the show. But she and Cookie had made some crazy bet, and Cookie won. They wouldn’t even tell Poppy what the bet had been about. She felt like such an outsider, and wondered when that would change. How long would she have to be at the Blue Angel before she understood the place? Before Agnes spoke to her? Before the customers shouted her name? A year? Two?

But none of that mattered right now. All that mattered was that her robe was on the floor, her pasties were in her hand, and Bette was staring at her bare breasts.

Poppy decided to be proactive. That was her new mantra, proactive. She’d heard it on
Oprah,
or read it in
Cosmo
. Or someplace important like that. Don’t wait for things to come to you.

She stepped forward, her eyes locked with Bette’s. It was disturbing to admit it, but she was, for once in her life, faced with someone hotter than herself.

“I’m not really in the mood to drink tonight,” said Bette.

She turned back to her iPhone.

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