Wherever the hell she was, it was dark, and she had to throw up. Velvet stumbled, fell over something on the floor, and laid there with her face in the still-slightly-damp ruin of her mink until the world stopped bobbing around her.

“Oh, Christ,” she moaned. She wasn’t sure if she meant it as prayer, but there was a first for anything. One thing she was sure about—she wasn’t going to ralph on the mink. Not if she could help it. She got her tingling arms and legs under her, and crab-crawled off of the silky fur and onto ratty coarse carpet. Her hand found a cool smooth wall.

She had to stand to reach the light switch. The sudden glare drove a nail through her head, but at least she could identify the room—hers—the trail of clothes—not hers, but the ones she’d been wearing—and, gloriously, the bathroom.

She was on her way there when a hand fell on her shoulder, a big hand, male. She spun around and flattened herself against the wall, all urge to vomit forgotten in the need to scream. The hand slapped over her mouth hard enough to raise bruises and spark pain in the cut on her chin.

Paolo. Oh Jesus, Jesus, she’d forgotten about Ming again. She should have called or something. Paolo was Ming’s leg-breaker, the size of a refrigerator; he had a face like a two-year-old slice of meatloaf, and the dull glitter of his eyes didn’t tell her a thing about how much trouble she was really in.

“Ming.wants to see you,” he said, and took his hand off her mouth to fasten it around her wrist. “Let’s go.”

“But—I need to—”

“Later.”

Ming Lee Fong had never gotten over being the star of the Kiss The Whip Club. She still had a fondness for studs and leather, the outfit today was sleek black, edged in silver spikes that looked as if they might be able to slice skin. Her hair was a long waterfall of black silk, her eyes dead, quiet. Ming accessorized well.

Velvet swallowed hard and waited for Ming to say something. She radiated cold, like the big room, the icy wood floor; it made Velvet feel even sicker. The world was a turntable on 33 1/3, geared down from the fast 45 it had been in the limousine with Paolo. She’d managed not to puke all over the expensive upholstery, at least. He’d allowed her to throw up on the side of the freeway.

“But I got the money,” Velvet said forlornly, and shifted on her chair. All of Ming’s chairs were uncomfortable.

“Yes, I know,” Ming said; she had a soothing voice, low and smooth. Her eyes reminded Velvet of a meat-eating Bambi. “Tell me how it happened.”