Page 31 of Slow Burn

Her fantasy of revenge was sweet enough to drown her fear. She even had the courage to smile at him, and saw he was surprised.

“Perhaps,” she said, forcing her voice low in her throat where it purred and vibrated, “you would allow me to do you some service. It would be my pleasure.”

Close, so close; she saw it in his eyes. He was aroused and ready to agree.

“A fine offer,” he said, and stood aside as he opened the door. “I expect you’d make an exquisite servant.”

Her fear returned with the force of a tidal wave, slamming aside her fantasies in favor of red memories, old terrors. She hoped her smile remained enigmatic, and bowed.

As she walked slowly away down the cool paneled hallway, she thought,no master. Never again. Not at any price.

If Velvet was the price of retaining her freedom, she would flay the stupid girl and present the man her skin.

Chapter Twelve

Velvet

Velvet stared into the mirror and probed a blue green bruise on her cheek, winced when pain spread like waves in a waterbed. The bruise was bad—half her face—but her eye looked worse. She was starring in a movie. Blood Eyes of the Zombie Hooker. A straight-to-video release.

Outside the bathroom, she heard Robby and Jim talking, a smear of quiet hissing voices. He was trying to talk her out of something. Jesus, she’d only been around a couple of times, and she already knew that was the way those two went. Boring as shit.

She probed her teeth with her tongue, found one a little loose, and pushed on it with her finger. She didn’t think it would come out, but this seemed like a good time to take advantage of Ming’s free dentist. One good shot of novacaine and she’d never feel anything anyway—better to do it when her face was already busted up. More efficient.

Robby had left her an ice pack. She picked up the plastic baggie and weighed it in her palm. The ice cubes slid greasily from one side to the other.

“Now, this will sting a little,” she told her reflection, and put the ice pack on her eye. The shock almost made her pass out, and she braced herself with white knuckles on the counter. “Oh, shit, son-ofabitch—oh,man, I broke a nail.”

Nope, not just one—she spread her scraped fingers wide and counted three, no four, that were trashed beyond repair. The pain from her face retreated under pressure of this new disaster. She’d just paid Mary Ellen Davis fifty goddamn dollars for a manicure, with the special polish, and now—

Now—

She met her own eyes in the mirror and what she saw there scared the shit out of her—just another pathetic stupid hooker with glitter nails and neon bruises and wounded eyes. Wounded eyes.

Same old shit, Velvet.

She sat down on the toilet and tried to let the tears come, but instead of tears there was only pain, and under the pain an ache that went way down to her bones. Pathetic. Totally pathetic. What was she so proud of? That she’d taken her beating like a pro? That she’d proved to herself, one more time, that she was exactly what everybody thought she was? Who the fuck did that jerk think he was, anyway? Beating on her like that? She’d show him something—stomp on his balls, snap his kneecaps, watch him piss his Armani suit and scream—

The tears came suddenly and hard, spilling down her cheeks, warm under the ice pack.

Somebody knocked on the door—a polite knock, respectful. Velvet sat up and wiped at her face with a torn sleeve, cleared her throat, and yelled, “Yeah, what?”

Robby eased the door open a couple of inches and looked inside.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Go where?”

After a moment of what looked like second thought, Robby said, “My apartment. You can stay there until tomorrow.”

“No shit?” Velvet gave her a narrow look, or as narrow as she could with one eye swelled shut. “I ain’t working, you know.”

“What?”

“No freebies.”

Robby’s face went stiff.

“That’s not what I meant,” she sputtered. Velvet shrugged. “It’s not!”

---