Seduction of Moxie (7 page)

The terrier continued to dream, his paws jerking unconsciously and his breathing ragged.

“No, don’t try and talk me out of it,” Violet said. “I know you think I can’t get serious with anyone, but this jane’s different. She sings in that provocative voice and then smiles at me like she’s an ingénue. She goes out of her way to tell me she’s not interested by making up a husband and then hits me with that sockdollager of a kiss.”

She picked up the business card for the thirtieth time and started flipping it over in her hands. On one side it read Cotton G. McCann, Professional Entertainment Agent, Twelve Years Experience. On the other side, Moxie had written her address and a phone number. GRamercy 5-9881.

“Well, Clitty, she’s not heard the last of us.”

*

Moxie tried to open the apartment door as quietly as she could, in hopes that Irene was distracted and she could slip in unnoticed. She peeked around the edge of the door and saw her roommate sitting on the sofa holding a book and now staring at her.

“Jeepers, Moxie. Where have you been all night?”

She sighed in resignation and entered the room fully, shutting the door behind her. “Hey, Irene.”

“You look terrible.”

“I guess that stands to reason. I feel terrible.” She sat next to Irene on the couch forlornly.

“What happened? Were you hit by a freight train?”

Moxie rubbed her forehead with her hand. “I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean? You can’t remember?”

“I remember
some
of it,” she said, feeling defensive.

Irene eagerly curled her legs up under her on the sofa and got comfortable. “Well, start at the beginning and I bet it’ll all come back to you.”

“A group of people were in the club—a couple of Broadway actresses and their friend—and they invited me out for drinks with them.”

“And you went? But you don’t drink.” The volume of her voice rose shrilly.

“Shh,” Moxie hissed, putting her finger to her mouth and wincing.

“Oh, you went.” Irene rolled her eyes. “You
definitely
went. Who were the actresses?”

“Violet London and Wil Skoog.”

“Never heard of them. What are they in?”

Moxie squinted as she tried to remember the name of the play. “Um…
Scandals and Lies.
”

It was apparent from Irene’s expression that she was not familiar with it. “So where did you go?”

“A thousand places, it seemed. We drank champagne at the Luna. We had absinthe at some speakeasy, where Violet and Wil got into a fight with a lady critic. Then we took a cab to some place in Harlem called a buffet flat, where I drank sidecars, sang with a man in a dress, taunted a douchebag, and watched a fella smoke cigars with his ass.”

Irene seemed stricken mute for a moment, and her mouth hung open. “Wait, you’re saying there’s more that you
can’t
remember? Those are just some random highlights?”

Moxie considered exactly how she wanted to say this. “I think I slept with Violet.” Irene sat agog and blinked, but said nothing, her face unreadable. When at least a minute of silence passed, Moxie felt compelled to say something else. “Are you okay?”

“You slept with a woman?”

“Maybe?” she replied timidly.

“You aren’t certain?”

“I don’t remember doing anything with her—well, besides dancing.”

Irene appeared confused. “So what makes you think anything else happened?”

“Waking up undressed in her bed, with this note.”

Irene took the paper and read it, her lips moving ever so slightly. When she reached the part about the kiss, her eyes opened as big as dinner plates—titillated dinner plates—and her hand flew over her mouth. “Hotchy botchy!” She looked back at Moxie as though she had just suddenly remembered she was there. “Oh, sorry. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Moxie closed her eyes to think. “Taking a taxi with Violet after the others all left to go home.”

“Did you have clothes on in the taxi?”

“Of course I did. What kind of question is that?”

“I’m trying to piece it together deductively, like Nancy Drew would. So you remember being dressed in a cab with this Violet woman.”

“Yes.”

“Was she dressed too?”

“Yes.”

“Was her tongue in your mouth?”

Moxie scowled. “No.” A glimpse of her wrapping her arms around Violet’s neck and beckoning her to come closer flickered into her mind, then disappeared again. Had that actually happened? Or had she dreamed it? “Well, not in the taxi.”

“But it did happen somewhere?”

“Um…I’m not sure. It seems like I kissed her. We were on the bed, I think.”

Irene’s eyebrows arched and she fanned herself with the letter. “My goodness. So, how was it?”

Moxie shook her head and ran her hands through her hair. “Considering how blotto I was, I’m figuring it was horrible for her. No wonder she got on that train without even trying to wake me.”

Irene cleared her throat. “I meant how it was for you. What was it like?”

“Oh.” Moxie stopped to consider that question.

“As in, if you hadn’t been lit, do you think that you would’ve…you know…done it? If you saw her again, what would happen?”

“Are you asking me if I’m a lesbian?”

Irene tried unsuccessfully to look nonchalant. “Nancy Drew would recommend that we stick to the known facts.”

Moxie sank into the back of sofa, dejected. “Besides, she left this morning for Hollywood. I’ll probably never see her again.”

“Hollywood? As in, to make movies?”

“Yes.” Moxie wished her mouth didn’t taste like wallpaper paste. She pondered why that might be and if she had performed some sordid sex act that had that effect.

“You got nookie from a movie star?” Irene’s face lit up.

Moxie was confounded. “Does that change something?”

“You bet your Sapphic ass it does. Now we know a star.”

“We?”

“Sure. I mean, why shouldn’t something good come of last night?”

“And what
good
are you referring to?”

“Well, everyone in the city says you need to know someone to get a break. Now we do.”

Moxie massaged her temples in pain and frustration. “Irene, I need a bath and some time for my head to stop pounding. It would be nice in the meantime if you could stop plotting how to turn my drunken night of lesbian sex with a stranger to your advantage.”

“Sorry.”

“I doubt Nancy Drew would do that.”

“Like in
The Midnight Muff Caper
?”

Moxie groaned and reclined slowly into the sofa cushions. “Remind me to sock you in the jaw when I’m feeling better.”

*

As Moxie started to sing “What’ll I Do?” into the microphone, she couldn’t help but think of the dance she had shared with Violet as this song played just two nights before. She tried to focus on the lyrics, the low murmur of soft conversation coming from the crowd, the piano—anything besides that provocative memory that gave her a rush of adrenaline.

As she struggled to get past the sad sentiment of love lost, her stomach lurched when she recalled moving slowly against Violet’s body. She shut her eyes tight as her mind again wandered to what their night of intimacy must have entailed.

Lyrics, for God’s sake—focus on the lyrics. You’re performing, after all.

She opened her eyes to look at the patrons. A few tables back she spied Julian, seated with a rather attractive-looking fellow. He nodded at her in recognition and sipped his drink.

When the song ended, the applause was generous.

“Thanks so much,” she said. “I’ll be back for more soon.” She took a few more bows and headed over to Julian’s table.

“Hey there, hotsy,” he said affably as he motioned for her to join them. “Get that extra set that you wanted?” He motioned for her to sit.

“I did, yes. Just today, actually.” She pulled up a chair. “I’m up to three a night now.”

“Well, Violet must have more pull than I thought. Gary, this is Moxie, singer extraordinaire. This is Gary, master sodomite.”

She examined Gary as she smiled politely. “Nice to meet you.” He had chestnut hair and wore spectacles, and his jaw was prominent and chiseled.

“Enchanted,” he replied, flashing his perfect white teeth.

Moxie thought she saw Julian’s chest swell a bit with pride—having someone so clean-cut and handsome for his date. “What do you mean about Violet having pull? Are you saying she had something to do with it?”

“I know our girl had a chat with the owner about you the other night, to put in a good word. It could just be a coincidence, but I’m sure having a Broadway actress sing your praises can’t hurt. Unless, of course, that Broadway actress is Wil.” He tapped a cigarette on the back of his hand before lighting it.

She supposed she owed Violet her thanks, if only she was able to tell her. “So where
is
Wil tonight?”

“We just came from seeing her in
Scandals and Lies.
She was very nearly sober—”

“You really had to pay attention to tell that she wasn’t,” Gary added.

“And she wasn’t
completely
unintelligible.”

“Oh dear,” Moxie said, rubbing her chin. “As good as all that, huh?”

“Which was a profound improvement from last night’s show, where she shouted out the word
fuck
when she tripped over a piece of stage furniture.”

“An ottoman,” Gary said helpfully.

“Inconsequential.” Julian waved his hand. “Let us just say that she’s still settling into the role, and that may require a bit more time.”

Moxie narrowed her eyes. “And is the producer willing to give her this settling-in time?”

Neither man answered right away.

“I suppose we’ll see,” Julian finally said. “You seem to have fully recovered from the other night.” He looked at Gary for a moment. “She bravely decided to go out on the town with Wil, Vi London, and myself. She was a real trouper.”

“Yes,” she said, with some degree of embarrassment. “I’m sure you’ll razz me for this, but yesterday all I managed to swallow was a handful of saltines and some water.”

Julian chuckled and shook his head. “But you’re better now?”

She knocked on the table. “It’s all silk so far.”

“Hmm, what you needed was one of Wil’s eye-openers,” Julian said. “That would have set you straight.”

“And what exactly is in her eye-opener?”

Julian began counting on his fingers. “Seltzer, lemon, sugar, and gin.”

Gary looked perplexed. “Isn’t that a gin fizz?”

“That sounds more like an eye-closer,” Moxie said.

“Well, it depends on how many you have. If you have three or less, it’s an eye-opener.”

“Tell me, Julian,” she asked cautiously. “What business are you in that you can see Wil’s play every night of the week?”

“I’m a freelance writer.” He lightly flicked the ash from his Lucky Strike.

“Which means he’s unemployed,” Gary said.

“I have a story coming out in
Harper’s
next month.” His voice dripped with smarmy defensiveness. “So I’m not unemployed. If you’re good enough at what you do, you can get by doing a ridiculously negligible amount of work.”

Gary squinted at Julian. “Says you. Sounds like laziness to me.”

Julian coughed indignantly and stared at Gary for what felt like a very long time. Finally, he turned back to Moxie. “So have you heard from our gal Vi?”

She fought to hide her sudden discomfort. “Nope. Is she in California yet?”

“I don’t think she’s due to arrive until tomorrow afternoon, but I’m sure she’ll be in touch.”

“You seem pretty sure of that.” She avoided his gaze.

“She seemed dizzy with you, darling. I’m sure you noticed. I mean, you did give her your address and phone number, after all.”

Time seemed to come to a screeching halt. “I did?”

*

Irene ran the scalding iron over the peach skirt that was stretched over the ironing board. “So then the bastard leans his chair backward and tries to grab my costume as we’re all starting the finale.”

Moxie flipped idly through a movie magazine as she listened to her roommate’s story. “No kidding? What did you do?”

“Well, I was already doing a high kick. So I just kicked a little more to the left. I got him right in the jaw.”

“Holy Toledo! What happened then?”

“He spat out a little blood and scooted his chair back. I never even missed a beat.”

“You slay me, sister,” Moxie said appreciatively. “Who knew that being a chorus girl would be such a hazardous job?”

“Well, the owner told me not to kick anyone else in the face. He said it goes against the
highbrow atmosphere
that he’s established.” She slid the skirt around on the board to iron the other side.

“Then why did he name the place Jughead’s Joint? To pull in the opera crowd?”

“And how,” Irene replied with a sigh.

There was a knock at the door, and Moxie rose to answer it, not wanting Irene to have to set the hot iron anywhere. Mrs. Bennington, the landlady, stood in the hallway looking irritated.

“Good mor—”

“You got a letter,” the woman blurted out between loud hacking. “Here.” She pushed an envelope so close to Moxie’s face that she reflexively drew back.

“Oh, um, thanks.” She took it from Mrs. Bennington, who turned and left with no further pleasantries, the sound of her wet cough echoing down the stairs.

The door shut quietly and Irene mumbled, “She’s such a people person. I can see why she chose to be a landlady. Who’s it from?” She looked over her shoulder. “Hey, Beethoven, didn’t you hear me?”

Moxie stood stunned, staring at the name in the upper corner of the envelope. “It’s from Violet.”

“Bunk,” Irene declared, carrying the iron with her to look over Moxie’s shoulder.

Moxie held the letter up to her. “See?”

Irene whistled a low tone. “Let’s give it the dust,” she said. “Open it.”

Moxie took a deep, calming breath, tore it open, and began to read silently.

“If you think you’re not going to have to read that out loud, you have another think coming, sister.”