“Shut up!” No pink in those cheeks now, hot little spots of red. “You flaming—”

“Children,” Jim said flatly, and reached over Kelly’s shoulder to pick up a stack of cash. “Seven-o-five in cash, right?”

“Right,” she said; she was still glaring at Mark. “We’ll split the credit card and ATM money on Thursday.”

“Good. Now. Robby—”

“I know,” Robby sighed. “Get the hooker out of your shower.”

What the hell was she doing in the rain? The ground underneath her felt cool and smooth. She wiggled a little. Her skin squeaked—oh, god, she’d lost her clothes someplace. What the hell—

Ah. Naked. Shower. Oh, yeah. No wonder the rain was warm. Velvet let her head loll forward, and the warmth beat on the back of her neck with tiny balled fists. Jesus, yes. Just what she needed. Time to relax, to get her head together—

Where the fuck was she?

The shower curtain rattled, and she looked up, right into the rain. She snorted it out of her nose and tried to focus on the shadow standing there.

A French-manicured hand reached down and turned off the HOT. Velvet blinked, confused, unable to imagine what that meant.

The water turned ice cold and slammed down on her like sleet. She shrieked and covered her head, but that only sent cold water sluicing down her sides. She flailed around and caught hold of the old-lady handhold on the wall and got her feet under her.

It was a mistake. She’d forgotten about the pink soap in the tub, and it made a nice skate. She lost her balance and pitched forward into the tile wall.

“Ow,” she said, pitifully. Her chin hurt, and when she swiped at it her fingers came away red. The blood dribbled off in the water, misted pink, and disappeared. She slapped at the COLD knob until the sleet stopped.

The shower curtain rattled back. Velvet turned her head and glared through a wet curtain of hair at the suit—what the hell was her name—who held out a towel.

“Bitch,” Velvet said hoarsely. The suit’s smile was bone-thin, her brown eyes amused. She wasn’t wearing the glasses anymore, probably didn’t even need them, more stage dressing.

“Dry off. I’ll get you some clothes.”

“I don’t wear suits,” Velvet snapped; her voice sounded almost normal again. “Don’t bring me a goddamn Hillary Clinton suit.”

The suit shrugged and walked out of the bath-room, shutting the door behind her. Velvet sat down on the toilet and toweled her hair without much enthusiasm.

“Hey, get me a drink while you’re out there!” she yelled. That was habit; she wasn’t even really thirsty. She raked her toes through thick gray carpet; her skin looked blue. She shivered and stood up to dry off. When she was done, she turned and looked in the mirror.

Her hair was a curly wet mess. Her chin looked raw where she’d scraped it open. Red patches on her knees, on the palms of her hands—how the hell would she explain it to—