Page 95 of Slow Burn

She let out a wordless scream of frustration and headed on up the street, into the wind and the bite of the ice.

“You gonna freeze!” the first man yelled after her, and laughed. “Crazy bitch.”

A car turned the corner behind her. She tried to run, but her feet couldn’t hold on the ice; she slipped off balance and fell heavily on her side. Her head hit the pavement hard enough to make her vision cloud. When she could see again, a rusty Camaro had eased to a stop next to the curb, and the passenger door was open.

Velvet reached down and grabbed her under the arms.

“Help,” Robby whispered. “Help.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Velvet asked, and got her in the car. Robby leaned against the door, face against the cold glass, and felt the nausea again. Still too warm. Soon it wouldn’t matter. Nothing could stop it. “Aw, shit, you look like hell.”

“Dying,” Robby said. Velvet froze in the act of turning the ignition key.

“It’s the clothes, right? I knew it. It’s the clothes. Listen, it’s okay, I’ll get you home and we’ll get them off—”

“No time,” she said. “Going to die.”

“Shit.” Velvet leaned over her and fumbled open the glove compartment. “Flashlight—oh, great, dead batteries—one glove—what the hell is this? Oh, yeah, ice scraper—uh—condoms—”

She straightened up with a pair of rusty nail scissors.

“Skirt,” Robby whispered. Velvet yanked the skirt around and found the zipper, slid the leather down Robby’s legs. The bodysuit was the problem—with her hands behind her, she couldn’t get it off. Velvet bit her lip and grabbed one sleeve; she sawed at the Spandex with the nail scissors.

“Oh, Jesus, it’s like cutting steel or something! Ow!” Velvet wagged her fingers in the cold air. “Hang on, I’m trying—”

Cold white headlights spilled into the car. Velvet stopped working and looked at Robby, wide-eyed.

“Uh, did I mention I stole this car? And you, like, escaped from police custody? Maybe we’d better drive.”

She adjusted the rearview mirror and looked behind her. Her face went chalk-white under its thick layer of makeup and bruises.

“That ain’t the cops,” she said, and started the car. The second the engine caught, she jammed the accelerator and almost spun out on the ice. “Oh, shit, Robby, we’re in big fucking trouble here.”

Chapter Forty-three

Velvet

The car following them was a sky blue Mercedes, and it got close enough for Velvet to see the rabbity sweating face of the driver.

Mr. Julian. Jesus, didn’t the guy know when to quit?

The Mercedes spun out on Commerce, whirling around gracefully three times before it broadsided a light pole. Velvet kept driving as fast as she dared, and lost sight of him when she took another left.

“Where’re we going?” Robby asked. Velvet risked a look at her. She looked—dead. Pale, sick, sweating. It was the fucking clothes, and she couldn’t stop to get them off. Not yet.

“I have absolutely no idea,” Velvet answered. “West. I’ll know when we get there.”

She blasted through a red light and came out on the far side of Interstate 35, hung a left on Industrial. Not a great neighborhood, but deserted. She liked it. She’d just go under I-30 toward the open-all-night adult video place and—

The Camaro died. Just like that. Sputtered and choked and hacked and died on her. It coasted to a stop and slid a little sideways. She pounded on the steering wheel and screamed.

It was out of gas. Trust her to steal a car on empty.

“Velvet?” Robby sounded worse than she looked. “Hot. Help.”

“Yeah, okay, sure.” Velvet grabbed the nail scissors and got out, ran to Robby’s side and dragged her out. She left the Camaro sitting in the street, both doors open, and half-carried, half-guided Robby to the side.

Robby pointed right in front of them, at a chain link fence, a collection of round squatty huts, skeletal machines, and piles of rock and sand.

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