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Buckeye fairly gaped. There were houses of Sloth everywhere, but if money was no object, The Poppy served the best highs anywhere in the VT. At least according to its reputation.

“Well congratulations!” Buckeye said, thrusting out a hand. Maggie shifted her parcel to the other arm and they clasped palms, pumping a couple times up and down in festive warmth.

“Thanks!” Her smile was bright. “This your last stop? I hope?”

“It sure is.”

“You ain’t got anywhere else to be, why don’t you come on in?” Maggie said, stepping aside from the doorway. “Use the bathroom. Wash some of the road dust off you. Have a drink.” The last offer came with a glitter of mischief from green eyes.

Buckeye’s feet hurt from pushing pedals. Her ass hurt from sitting in that driver’s seat for hours. A clean face and a tall glass sounded real good right then. She looked over her shoulder at her truck. It was locked.

She nodded at the newest proprietor of The Yellow Rose. “Yeah, all right,” she said, twitching a grin of her own. “I think I will.”

“Some fine lookin’ ass here tonight,” Maggie said, leaning in as Buckeye closed the screen behind her. “You ain’t gotta work here to have yourself a good time, Bucks. Just sayin’.”

The woman slapped her on the rump and Buckeye laughed and headed for the powder room at the end of the hall.

An ancient light switch clacked on the wall, just inside the door of the little room, which Buckeye shut behind her. Two bulbs blinked to life, more luxury above a flaking mirror. She leaned her palms on the sink and turned her reflection this way and that.

Maggie hadn’t been suggesting a clean-up for no reason. Yellowish dust powdered her cheeks and forehead, the shoulders of her carrier shirt. Wind had blasted all the shorter strands of her hair loose from the tie that held it back, and it stood out from her face in a crazy dark brown fringe.

She cranked the cold tap just long enough to catch a handful of water to splash over her face. No call to let it run and take advantage of hospitality. Even the scant amount she allowed herself was a cool relief on her skin. She managed to rub most of the dirt away from her face and neck, and smoothed the wild hair back into place.

After an assessing frown in the mirror, Buckeye tugged the tie loose from her hair and stuffed it into the hip pocket of her britches. Fuck it. She didn’t have to work there to have a good time, did she? And Lust wasn’t her poison, anyway.

Maggie was thumping back down the stairs, sans mail, just as Buckeye re-entered the hall.

“Hey, there you are,” the other woman said. “Ready to forget about your route for a while?”

Buckeye grinned. “Sure am.”

The Vice’s newest madame pushed open the door into noise and gathered an arm around her mail carrier’s shoulders. They stepped into the parlor, and the woman rose up into her glory.

“Hey, you rowdy sons o’ bitches! Look who I found on our doorstep!”

Buckeye waved to the crowded room, a twang of nerves hitting her at the sight of so many. It had been a while since she’d been around a group this size.

“Bucks is gonna celebrate with us!” Maggie said. “Someone get her a drink!”

Cheers and raised glasses rippled around the room. A few of The Rose’s employees called out her name, including one man who boomed out, “Wheeler!” from behind a short bar in the back corner. She thought she remembered him being a hand, and not one of the rentbodies.

Maggie swiped a waiting glass from an end table and raised her voice again, jubilant.

“The vices always sell!” she cheered.

“The vices always sell!” More liquid salutes as the crowd chanted back The Vice Territories’ motto in a boisterous chorus.

The woman landed a couple more slaps on Buckeye’s shoulder, and then moved off again to play bawdy hostess. She was already pointing and making some crack to a john sitting with a blonde on his lap. His trick was trying to sneak a hand into his pants, and Buckeye got the impression he wasn’t ready to go on the clock just yet.

She shook her head and made her way across the room to the man behind the bar. He was already pulling out a glass, long dreadlocks falling in front of his shoulder as he did.

“Hey, Wheeler,” he said. “You finally let Miss Maggie drag you in here, eh?”

Buckeye was embarrassed she couldn’t remember the man’s name, but didn’t want to ask. “Yeah. Big news about Rhoda, huh? She deserves it, though. As many years as she put into this place.”

“And Maggie deserves it, too.” He nodded at the woman, who was leaning down, one foot on the edge of a chair, arms folded over a knee to talk to a man with a silver moustache. “You want a beer?”

“Please.”