Page 83 of Slow Burn

“You look nice,” he said at last. “Real nice. Except for the bruises.”

“Story of my life,” she whispered. “Thank you, Paolo. Really. Thanks.”

He nodded, little delicate bobs of his head that looked crazy on a guy his size. She fingered the fringe of her leather jacket and watched him from the corner of her eye.

“You want something?” she asked. He stopped nodding. “For, you know, old times’ sake? If you want, I’ll do it.”

His head moved slowly, like it didn’t want to, until he was looking her in the eye.

“I love you,” he said. “I do. You don’t have to do anything. Just don’t go to Ming.”

Kissing him seemed like the right thing to do, so she gave him one quick moist one; he didn’t try to hang on to her when she pulled away. Instead, he reached in his pocket again.

Oh, Christ, I knew it. He’s going to HU me because he loves me.

He pulled out a piece of paper and a short stack of twenties.

“You should leave town,” he said. “I know you don’t got any money, but here’s some, about two hundred. And this guy, he wanted to hire you for a night. He said he’d pay real good. Ming told him no, because she was mad at you, but if you call I bet he’d still pay good.”

The name was Henry Parriott. It was a local phone number.

“Are you going to be okay with this?” Velvet asked. He shrugged toward his shoe tops.

“Ming wanted me to find you. I didn’t find you. It’ll be okay.” He cleared his throat, a sound like rocks grinding. “Be careful.”

“Yo, you bet. You too.” He deserved one more peck on the cheek for his money. “Hey, Paolo? I always liked it with you. Really.”

“Really?” He smiled. It shocked the hell out of her, because he had a nice smile, when he wanted to use it. “Thanks.”

He stood up and walked out. She wobbled after him on her high heels and slowed when she caught sight of Robby lying on the couch.

“It’s okay, she’s sleeping,” he said, and opened the front door. “I had to hit her, but I didn’t hit her too hard. Bye, Velvet.”

“Bye.”

As she locked the door behind him, she heard him humming something. It sounded like the theme to the “Love Boat.”

Robby was going to have a hell of a bruise on her chin.

After four rings, a man’s voice said, “Hello?” He had a high thin voice that reminded her of telephone wires humming in the wind.

“Mr. Parriott?” she asked, and took a short sip from a glass of Scotch. Her buzz had passed with her fright, and she was doing her best to spin it back up.

“Yes-s-s.” He sounded doubtful. “May I ask who’s calling?”

“Maybe.” She swirled the liquor and watched the overhead lights through the thick amber filter. “Maybe it’s somebody you want to hear from.”

“I’m afraid I don’t—”

“Velvet,” she said, and took another drink during his silence. “Interested?”

He cleared his throat and said, “Yes, of course. But I understood you were not available.”

“Yeah, well, plans change. What exactly do you want?”

“Well, I—I don’t know—the night. I’d like to book you for the evening.”

“All evening?” She finished the Scotch and set the glass down with a tinny clink on the kitchen counter. “My, my. You’re ambitious.”

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