Page 10 of Slow Burn

The shower curtain rattled back. Velvet turned her head and glared through a wet curtain of hair at the suit—what the hell was her name—who held out a towel.

“Bitch,” Velvet said hoarsely. The suit’s smile was bone-thin, her brown eyes amused. She wasn’t wearing the glasses anymore, probably didn’t even need them, more stage dressing.

“Dry off. I’ll get you some clothes.”

“I don’t wear suits,” Velvet snapped; her voice sounded almost normal again. “Don’t bring me a goddamn Hillary Clinton suit.”

The suit shrugged and walked out of the bath-room, shutting the door behind her. Velvet sat down on the toilet and toweled her hair without much enthusiasm.

“Hey, get me a drink while you’re out there!” she yelled. That was habit; she wasn’t even really thirsty. She raked her toes through thick gray carpet; her skin looked blue. She shivered and stood up to dry off. When she was done, she turned and looked in the mirror.

Her hair was a curly wet mess. Her chin looked raw where she’d scraped it open. Red patches on her knees, on the palms of her hands—how the hell would she explain it to—

“To Ming,” she said aloud to her own pale scared reflection. “Oh, Jesus, I forgot. Iforgot.”

Ming didn’t like girls who forgot. Velvet swallowed and tried a smile; it trembled and looked pasty and unnatural.

“Carpet burns. They’re carpet burns. He was—ah—Jesus. Jesus.”

She wrapped the towel around her body and sank back on the toilet, knees apart, staring down at the floor. Whosis, the guy with the hair, he was a clean housekeeper. No bugs caught in the carpet. No mold in the corners.

The door swung open, and the suit pushed an arm-load of clothes at her. Velvet took them to keep from getting hit in the face, and by the time she’d dropped them on the floor, the door was shut again. She picked up the shirt with two fingers and examined it. She’d look like shit in black. Well, at least it had buttons—she could leave it open to the bra line—

Oh, yeah, speaking of that, no way was she wearing a Girl Scout Wonder Bra. She tossed it in the corner and looked at the underwear.

Hopeless. Jesus.

The blue jeans were good; she slipped them on and zipped them up and inspected the results. Okay. A little loose, but not enough to worry about. She tried teasing her hair out but it was just a mass of tangles. No makeup, of course, just guy stuff—she sniffed the bottle of aftershave, dabbed a smear in the hollow of her neck.

The door opened, and the suit looked in. Superior little bitch; Velvet figured the jeans and shirt were from a Salvation Army sack in the back of her closet. She wouldn’t give the good stuff to a hooker.

“Drink?” Velvet asked, and leaned toward the mirror to look at her chin. “Ow. Shit.”

Cold pressure on her arm. Velvet looked down to find a glass of what was either water or vodka; she took it and sipped.

Not water. She emptied it in a gulp.

When she wandered out, dragging her torn dress and soggy mink, the suit was sitting on a peach-colored sofa, pretending to read a magazine. She had a glass in front of her, too, primly half-full. Velvet saw the bottle of Stoli on the kitchen bar and headed for it, poured herself a tall refill.

“Feeling better?” The suit pretended to care. Velvet just drank. The warmth spread through her and triggered an earthquake in her stomach; she swallowed two or three times.

“Yeah.” Her voice sounded softer than she meant it to, smeared by the drinks. “What’s it to you?”

“I don’t want to haul your dead butt back out to the street.” That had the ring of truth. Velvet picked up the Stoli bottle, plopped herself in a big fat chair, and put her feet up on the coffee table. She raised the bottle vaguely in the suit’s direction.

“Cheers.” She drank, a swallow of liquid ice. “Where’s your buddies?”

“Gone.” The thief drank a little sip of what looked like Scotch. The taste of smoke shot through Velvet’s mouth, and her throat spasmed. “You could at least say thank you.”

Velvet stared at her, then looked away. Whoever the guy with the hair was, he had nice digs; she liked the pictures on the wall. The TV looked like fun.

The vodka picked her up on a big cold wave, and she shut her eyes. The world felt like it was sliding to the right; she leaned left to balance.

“Thanks,” she said huskily. “For the—thing on the street. I think.”

“You think?” the suit snorted. A picture popped into Velvet’s head, a fat metal robot, waving accordion arms.

Robby. The suit’s name was Robby. Velvet celebrated with another mouthful of Stoli.

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