Page 93 of Slow Burn

“N-n-nothing. H-help me.”

“We’re going to help you. We’re taking you to the station.”

“N-no,” she said, and took a deep breath. “T-t-take m-my clothes off.”

Chapter Forty-one

Velvet

Velvet played dead until she was sure he was gone, the asshole, the fucking asshole. At least he was a terrible shot. She didn’t even think he’d knicked the leather jacket, though laying on the cold street wasn’t doing much for it, either. She eased up to her knees and winced at the ache in her arm. She’d slammed her elbow when she’d dropped, but it was better than breaking her face again.

He’d tried tokillher, the asshole. What had he said?Why aren’t you dead yet?

“Oh, god, the clothes,” she said, and got to her feet. “He poisoned the clothes.”

She remembered Burt, burning.

It was definitely time to get the hell out of Dodge. Money or no money, it didn’t matter. She’d hitch a ride, she’d blow a truck driver, anything,anything.She couldn’t stay in this town one more minute.

She slogged out to the street, keeping to the shadows and watching carefully for any signs of Mr. Julian, the murderous dry cleaner. She was being so careful that she stepped on something thick and metallic, and it slid under her foot with a screech and almost knocked her on her butt. She reached down and picked up the gun Mr. Julian had used to shoot her. Not only was he a lousy shot, he was clumsy, too.

As she came out on the street, she saw him on the other side, walking with his arm around some woman.

A date? He’d shot her and then went out on adate?The unbelievable fucker.

The woman shoved him back and ran. She was wearing a short black leather skirt, a Spandex bodysuit, short boots. She ran right into the path of a cruising cop car.

“Robby,” Velvet whispered.

Robby was wearing the poisoned clothes. God, she’d told her to wear them. Her fault. Again.

Robby fell on the sidewalk in a splash of water. The cops yanked her up, handcuffed her, and shoved her in the back of the prowl car. Mr. Julian left his coat lying on the sidewalk and ran off down the street. Velvet hid in the shadows and watched him go, bit her lip and danced from one foot to the other as the cops secured Robby. God, what could she do? Follow them? How?

A thin hollow-chested guy came out of the Gearbox and walked over to a gray rusted-out Camaro. As he opened the door, she hurried up to lean casually against the ice-cube cold car fender.

“Hey. I saw you inside,” she said. He looked surprised—and dazed. He’d had some chemical alterations. “I justhadto talk to you.”

“Yeah?” He licked his lips and looked around, as if he wasn’t sure she was talking to him. “Well, uh, hi. So—”

“Wanna party?”

The lights in his head were 10-watt bulbs. She was beginning to think she’d have to give him the laundry list, but the switch flipped just as the police car doors slammed and it pulled away from the curb.

“Sure!” He looked like she’d given him a winning Lotto ticket. “Uh, get in. Sorry, uh, about the mess …”

He wasn’t kidding. She looked in and saw a mountain of fast food bags in the back, old mail, parking tickets, condom wrappers. She took the gun out of her pocket and pointed it at him. The terror in his eyes scared her.

“Sorry, buddy, I need your car. Give me the keys.” When he didn’t move, she took a deep breath. “I don’t have time to fuck with you. Give me the keys, or I shoot you and take them.”

He tossed them over. She caught them one-handed and slid in the driver’s seat. He stepped well back from the car, holding his hands in the air.

“Sorry!” she yelled, and slammed the door. It creaked and the whole car rattled. The engine cranked sluggishly, then caught with a roar.

When she looked in the rearview mirror he was running, hands still in the air, toward the Gearbox.

“Sorry,” she said again, more softly. “I’m always fucking sorry.”

Chapter Forty-two

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