Page 64 of Slow Burn

“No. Got any aspirin?”

“Bathroom.”

She tried to get up. She managed to get about two inches off the bed. The resulting fall back to the mattress made her think her brain might actually explode, but it only throbbed until her teeth rattled. Scotch. She knew better than to get drunk on Scotch.

“Uh, could you …” The question died under the weight of Robby’s stare. “No. Didn’t think so.”

Somehow, once she’d got her feet under her, the room stopped swaying like a rope bridge and just felt like a tilt-a-whirl instead. Not so bad. She kept both hands pressed against the hallway on the way to the bathroom, averted her eyes from lemon yellow and cheery day-glo orange, and dug aspirin out of a cabinet. She swallowed four of them dry, found vitamin C capsules, and swallowed them, too.

As she stood slumped and miserable, staring at her bruised swollen face in the mirror, Robby appeared in the doorway and handed her a frosty glass of orange juice.

“There’s coffee on the counter,” she said. “Turn the pot off when you’ve had enough. Unplug it, too. And wash out the pot, just water, no soap.”

Nodding seemed to still be a risky proposition, so Velvet waggled her hand in agreement. Funny, it had ink stains on it. She blinked and finally remembered jotting the address on it.

The paper. Oh, God, she hadn’t meant to tell himallof it, surely she hadn’t—God. Oh, God.

No telling what she’d done. Told the story on nationwide TV. Screwed her way across Dallas. Who knew?

She tossed back a mouthful of orange juice and gagged, but Robby was still watching, so she kept drinking, and drinking, until all she got was a frothy mouthful of pale bubbles. Robby took the glass back.

“Thanks.” The word came out rough around the edges, not quite the way she’d meant it, but Robby nodded and went away. “Where’re you working?”

“Hockey game,” Robby called. “Good business, especially around the beer lines. Lots of flush people at hockey games for some reason. Sports events are always good.”

“Good in my line of work, too,” Velvet managed to say, and sat down on the toilet. Mercifully, the lid was down. “Guys are always horny after a good game.”

Robby came back from the kitchen. This time, she was holding a steaming cup of coffee. Velvet wrapped chilled hands around it and sighed in gratitude; the steam cushioned the ache a little, made her feel a little more normal.

“Does it ever bother you?” Robby asked. Velvet met her eyes. After a long uncomfortable silence, Robby turned away. “Sorry. Not a very polite question, I suppose.”

“No,” Velvet agreed, and sipped coffee. It was bitter and hot and tasted like the bottom of a grease pit, and she didn’t care at all. “It’s not a very polite question.”

She waited in the bathroom until she heard the door shut, wandered out to check the locks, eased herself carefully down on the sofa. The leather was as cold as ice, but warmed up quickly.

She went to sleep, curled up under a clown-red afghan with bright yellow fringe, with the TV on ESPN as she waited for the hockey game to start. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep—long enough that there were guys fighting on the ice on TV—when a volley of knocks on the door woke her up. She came bolt upright, and met the wall of her hangover with bruising force.

It’s that guy. The suit. Jesus, what do I do?

She hit the mute button on the TV and huddled under the afghan. The knocking continued. After it got quiet again, she ventured over to the door and looked through the peephole.

“Well, well, well,” she murmured, and flipped the deadbolts, tossed her hair back over her shoulders, and opened the door. She clung to it in what she hoped looked like a sexy way, instead of a way to stay upright.

Mr. College-Prep-School-Dimple-In-The-Chin-Not-Lenny-Fucking-Bradshaw stared at her with those big soft eyes. She batted her eyelashes at him—it still hurt—and said, “Hi, Lenny. Come on inside.”

He hesitated only a couple of seconds, giving her exposed legs a wide glance. She locked all three deadbolts behind him, making sure he got a good view of her butt.

“Uh, Velvet, I didn’t know you’d be—”

“No, of course you didn’t. I told you about Robby, didn’t I? You must have come by to see her, not me.” She kept smiling. “Have a seat.”

He did, perching uneasily in the magenta chair. She offered coffee. He refused. She sucked on what was left in her cup—cool, getting cold—and watched him watch her. Little prick. Lying little sonofabitch.

“When’s my story coming out?” she asked. He shrugged.

“Editors. You know.”

“Uh-huh. So, what’d you want to talk to Robby about?”

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