Nodding seemed to still be a risky proposition, so Velvet waggled her hand in agreement. Funny, it had ink stains on it. She blinked and finally remembered jotting the address on it.

The paper. Oh, God, she hadn’t meant to tell him all of it, surely she hadn’t—God. Oh, God.

No telling what she’d done. Told the story on nationwide TV. Screwed her way across Dallas. Who knew?

She tossed back a mouthful of orange juice and gagged, but Robby was still watching, so she kept drinking, and drinking, until all she got was a frothy mouthful of pale bubbles. Robby took the glass back.

“Thanks.” The word came out rough around the edges, not quite the way she’d meant it, but Robby nodded and went away. “Where’re you working?”

“Hockey game,” Robby called. “Good business, especially around the beer lines. Lots of flush people at hockey games for some reason. Sports events are always good.”

“Good in my line of work, too,” Velvet managed to say, and sat down on the toilet. Mercifully, the lid was down. “Guys are always horny after a good game.”

Robby came back from the kitchen. This time, she was holding a steaming cup of coffee. Velvet wrapped chilled hands around it and sighed in gratitude; the steam cushioned the ache a little, made her feel a little more normal.

“Does it ever bother you?” Robby asked. Velvet met her eyes. After a long uncomfortable silence, Robby turned away. “Sorry. Not a very polite question, I suppose.”

“No,” Velvet agreed, and sipped coffee. It was bitter and hot and tasted like the bottom of a grease pit, and she didn’t care at all. “It’s not a very polite question.”

She waited in the bathroom until she heard the door shut, wandered out to check the locks, eased herself carefully down on the sofa. The leather was as cold as ice, but warmed up quickly.

She went to sleep, curled up under a clown-red afghan with bright yellow fringe, with the TV on ESPN as she waited for the hockey game to start. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep—long enough that there were guys fighting on the ice on TV—when a volley of knocks on the door woke her up. She came bolt upright, and met the wall of her hangover with bruising force.

It’s that guy. The suit. Jesus, what do I do?

She hit the mute button on the TV and huddled under the afghan. The knocking continued. After it got quiet again, she ventured over to the door and looked through the peephole.

“Well, well, well,” she murmured, and flipped the deadbolts, tossed her hair back over her shoulders, and opened the door. She clung to it in what she hoped looked like a sexy way, instead of a way to stay upright.