“Now, this will sting a little,” she told her reflection, and put the ice pack on her eye. The shock almost made her pass out, and she braced herself with white knuckles on the counter. “Oh, shit, son-ofabitch—oh, man, I broke a nail.”

Nope, not just one—she spread her scraped fingers wide and counted three, no four, that were trashed beyond repair. The pain from her face retreated under pressure of this new disaster. She’d just paid Mary Ellen Davis fifty goddamn dollars for a manicure, with the special polish, and now—

Now—

She met her own eyes in the mirror and what she saw there scared the shit out of her—just another pathetic stupid hooker with glitter nails and neon bruises and wounded eyes. Wounded eyes.

Same old shit, Velvet.

She sat down on the toilet and tried to let the tears come, but instead of tears there was only pain, and under the pain an ache that went way down to her bones. Pathetic. Totally pathetic. What was she so proud of? That she’d taken her beating like a pro? That she’d proved to herself, one more time, that she was exactly what everybody thought she was? Who the fuck did that jerk think he was, anyway? Beating on her like that? She’d show him something—stomp on his balls, snap his kneecaps, watch him piss his Armani suit and scream—

The tears came suddenly and hard, spilling down her cheeks, warm under the ice pack.

Somebody knocked on the door—a polite knock, respectful. Velvet sat up and wiped at her face with a torn sleeve, cleared her throat, and yelled, “Yeah, what?”

Robby eased the door open a couple of inches and looked inside.

“Are you ready to go?”

“Go where?”

After a moment of what looked like second thought, Robby said, “My apartment. You can stay there until tomorrow.”

“No shit?” Velvet gave her a narrow look, or as narrow as she could with one eye swelled shut. “I ain’t working, you know.”

“What?”

“No freebies.”

Robby’s face went stiff.

“That’s not what I meant,” she sputtered. Velvet shrugged. “It’s not!”

“Hey, whatever. I’m just laying out the house rules.”

“Well, so am I.” Robby glared at her for another beat and said, “Are you ready?”

Well, at worst the suit would have a prissy little house with plastic carpet runners and cellophane on the lampshades. A museum house. The bathroom floor would be cleaner than most people’s plates. Who says you can’t go home again? Maybe Robby would have those stupid collectible salt and pepper shakers Mom loved so much.