Free Blue Angel by Logan Belle Page A

best friend was just telling me I should invest in better underwear.”
    No! What an operator. But what was her game? Why did she want to get close to Bette? And how did she know Bette was obsessed with underwear? I mean, they all liked underwear, all bought their share of garters and thongs and the whole bit. But Bette had a collection that necessitated outside storage space.
    “Done. Have any particular place in mind?”
    “Um. Maybe La Petite Coquette?”
    Poppy and Bette exchanged a glance.
    “You can drop that kind of coin?” Poppy asked.
    “Yes,” Mallory said. “The only good thing about my job is the paycheck.”
    And the fact that you have to get back there soon
, Poppy thought to herself.
    But not soon enough.
    Mallory didn’t want to be paranoid, but she could swear Poppy was glaring at her from across the backseat of the cab. What had she done to piss the blonde off so badly?
    “Give me one good reason to stay in a job you hate,” Bette said. At the fabric store, Mallory had confided how rattled she was by her recent doubts about her legal career. Somehow, it was easier to admit this to Bette than to her closest friends—even to Alec.
    “Well, money for one thing. I need to support myself.”
    “Bullshit,” Bette said. “The most successful people are people who do what they love.”
    “Yeah, but a lot of people are broke doing what they love. That’s why they have expressions like ‘starving actor.’ And ‘golden handcuffs.’ And I went to law school. You don’t just throw that away.”
    “Ah. The psychology of previous investment,” Bette said.
    Mallory looked at her.
    “What?” Bette said. “You think I didn’t have choices to make when I decided to perform full-time? I went to Michigan. I was an English major, psych minor. I could have an office job, a steady paycheck. But once I got a taste of this life, I couldn’t go back.”
    The cab pulled up in front of the store on University Place, its hot pink awning unmistakable. Inside, Poppy picked up a pair of black lace French knickers.
    “This place is expensive,” she sniffed.
    “I know. That’s why I need my job!”
    Bette made a beeline for the back of the store, calling over her shoulder, “If you’re going to be negative, Poppy, why don’t you do us a favor and just leave?”
    Mallory cringed. Poppy looked as if she’d been slapped, and tossed the underwear on a table.
    “Fine. I will,” she said, and then, sotto voce, “Have fun spending all the money you make at your miserable job.”
    Poppy stormed out, and Mallory thought maybe she should go after her.
    “Mallory—come on back here,” Bette called. “I’m by the dressing rooms.”
    “This way,” a young salesgirl said, leading her to Bette.
    “Try these on.” Bette handed her a pile of black lace. “Oh—and these.” She added a package of thigh-high black stockings.
    “Poppy left. Maybe you were a little harsh with her?”
    “Oh, she’s such a diva. She’ll be fine. By tonight we’ll kiss and make up.”
    For most people, that expression was a cliché. Coming from Bette, Mallory suspected it was a bit more literal.
    “I’ll be right out here if you need help,” Bette said.
    She closed the curtain on the small dressing room, leaving Mallory to contemplate the pile of underwear and . . . what was that thing?
    Mallory opened the curtain.
    “What is this?”
    “You’re kidding, right?”
    “No.” It was black and had hooks like a bra, but had four straps hanging from it. It was like some strange lingerie arachnid.
    “It’s a garter! Don’t tell me you’ve never worn one before.”
    “I haven’t. And it’s really not my style.”
    “How do you keep your stockings up?”
    “I wear . . . you know, panty hose.”
    “Okay, well, that has to stop immediately. That is
not hot
.”
    She thought of Allison’s parting comment after brunch,
if your boyfriend is bringing you to burlesque clubs on your birthday . . .
    “Okay. Just . . . show me