Page 82 of Slow Burn

In the corner she found her black patent leather fuck-me pumps, only a little scuffed at the heels. She stood in front of the mirror on the closet door and turned slowly, unsteadily, watching the leather gleam.

“God,” she said reverently. It was as close as she’d gotten to a prayer in years.

The doorbell rang; she lost her balance on the high heels and sat down on the bed hard enough to make the springs squeak. The room lurched into spin dry.

God, it was Sol, come to beat her up again—or worse, it was those assholes from the dry cleaners—or—

Robby ran by the door, backtracked and traded a look with her.

“Stay here,” she said, and swung the door shut. Velvet clutched handfuls of neon blue comforter and waited, eyes shut, while the room dipped and danced.

She didn’t hear anything from the hall, not even the locks clicking back. She’d hear something, wouldn’t she, if somebody broke in? If they started kicking the shit out of—

Wouldn’t she? Oh, God. If they did, what would she do? No back way out, no place to hide, nothing to fight with. Oh, God. She was suddenly convinced that she would throw up, and looked frantically around for a trash can, a plastic bag, anything. There was a trash can across the room, but that was ten steps, at least.

She covered her mouth with her hands and bent over to put her head between her legs.

Two, maybe three breaths later, she heard the bed-room door open, and a man’s voice said, “Are you okay?”

She looked up with both hands still wrapped around her mouth.

It was Paolo. He had a gun.

She passed out.

When she came around, he had put the gun away and was holding her in his arms, wiping her face with a warm damp cloth. She choked on the taste in her mouth and dry-heaved; he grabbed a trash can he’d brought over and held it under her mouth, but she didn’t do much more than drool in it. He wiped her chin.

“Better?” he rumbled. She’d never noticed it before, but his eyes were green with brown rings. “You shouldn’t drink so much, Velvet.”

“Thank you, Betty Ford. Hey, sorry about the mess, I—I got the flu. My friend’s been taking care of me.”

Paolo took a folded newspaper out of his pocket and handed it to her. She didn’t have to look to know which article he was pointing to.

“Yeah, I know, it looks bad—but honest, Paolo, swear to God, I didn’t—this guy, he fucked me over, I told him not to use my name, honest.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Paolo looked sad, as much as his blocky massive face could. “Ming’s unhappy. Very unhappy.”

“I know.” She swallowed hard and looked at the bedroom door; it was open. “Um, where’s my friend? Robby?”

“In the living room.”

“Uh-huh. Um, sorry, but is she, like, okay? You didn’t—”

Paolo stared at her with his eyebrows bunched together like hairy spiders, green eyes the color of old grass. He shook his head.

“Oh. Good. So, she’s, she’s okay. Right?”

He didn’t nod. Oh, God.

“Do I have to go back? Is that why you’re here?” More blank stares. She felt a shiver in her back pull her shoulders tighter. “I have to go back, right? Take my medicine?”

“Medicine,” he repeated. “No. Don’t go back.”

He took the gun out of his jacket pocket and looked at it through slitted eyes. She held very still while he thought about it.

After a minute or so, he looked up and said, “Don’t go back, Velvet. She wants to kill you.”

She opened her mouth but couldn’t think of a damned thing to say, just watched him fiddle nervously with his gun. He finally jammed it back in his pocket, threaded his fingers together, and stared down at them.