BooksBarbecue
Back Slow Burn
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. Title
  3. Chapter One
  4. Chapter Two
  5. Chapter Three
  6. Incident One
  7. Chapter Four
  8. Chapter Five
  9. Chapter Six
  10. Chapter Seven
  11. Chapter Eight
  12. Incident Two
  13. Chapter Nine
  14. Incident Three
  15. Chapter Ten
  16. Chapter Eleven
  17. Chapter Twelve
  18. Chapter Thirteen
  19. Chapter Fourteen
  20. Incident Four
  21. Chapter Fifteen
  22. Chapter Sixteen
  23. Chapter Seventeen
  24. Chapter Eighteen
  25. Chapter Nineteen
  26. Chapter Twenty
  27. Chapter Twenty-one
  28. Chapter Twenty-two
  29. Chapter Twenty-three
  30. Chapter Twenty-four
  31. Chapter Twenty-five
  32. Chapter Twenty-six
  33. Chapter Twenty-seven
  34. Chapter Twenty-eight
  35. Chapter Twenty-nine
  36. Chapter Thirty
  37. Chapter Thirty-one
  38. Chapter Thirty-two
  39. Chapter Thirty-three
  40. Incident Five
  41. Chapter Thirty-four
  42. Chapter Thirty-five
  43. Chapter Thirty-six
  44. Chapter Thirty-seven
  45. Chapter Thirty-eight
  46. Chapter Thirty-nine
  47. Chapter Forty
  48. Chapter Forty-one
  49. Chapter Forty-two
  50. Chapter Forty-three
  51. Chapter Forty-four
  52. Acknowledgments
  53. Special Thanks
  54. About the Author

Her ass was just about Velcroed to the chair, but she stumbled up, somehow. Her ankles kept folding over on her. She stripped off the high heels and stuck them in the pockets of the mink and made it to the door, to blinding sunlight and nauseating noise and traffic.

Where the hell—

Ah. There she was. Blue jeans and sweatshirt, walking away down the sidewalk.

Velvet put her left hand on the building and lurched off in pursuit.

Chapter Three

Robby

The DON’T WALK sign glared red. Robby glared back at it and bounced the briefcase impatiently on her thigh. Two feet ahead, traffic spilled by in a stream of bright paint and choking exhaust. Damn that hooker, it had started out such a good day.

Her neck prickled alarm. She resisted the urge to turn and look, aware of the damning weight of wallets in her briefcase. Probably just a bicycle cop. She’d just ignore it and—

“Hey!” A drunken smear of sound. Robby’s neck locked tight. “Hey, wait!”

She stared fixedly ahead at the red DON’T WALK sign, willing it to change. The traffic lights blinked yellow, yellow, yellow—

The sign lazily changed to WALK, and traffic swirled to a disappointed stop. She crossed briskly—not quite running—into the intersection, and made it as far as the left-hand turn lane; the brief blast of warmth from a revving Volvo’s front end felt surprisingly good. She hadn’t realized how cold the wind had turned.

The WALK sign flickered threateningly, then wavered to a red DON’T, and the lights, never quite on cycle, changed while she was still in the street a few steps from the sidewalk. Close enough. Confidence and relief spread out warm over her body. The curb, a brisk walk to the warehouse—and escape. No more bullshit, thank god.

Brakes squealed behind her with a sound like grating knives. Like Lot’s wife, Robby turned to look over her shoulder and saw the hooker frozen a few steps behind her in the middle of the lane, staring white-faced at the oncoming shiny grille of a pickup truck.

No time for thought, no time for anything. Robby leaned back, caught a wet fistful of mink, and pulled as hard as she could. The hooker, overbalanced, pin-wheeled past her, tripped on the curb, and skidded to her hands and knees.

The pickup truck skated by, tires smoking. Robby’s sneaker left a kamikaze smear on its blood red side as she jumped for the safety of the sidewalk. The truck fishtailed another thirty feet before straightening. As she caught her balance with one arm around a light pole, the cowboy at the wheel looked back, white-faced, and hit the gas.