Chapter 3: Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes
She was draped over her chair, nonchalant as always, tapping her fingernails (bloodstained claws) against the table. A faint puff of cigarette smoke was the only thing blocking her eyes, her passionate eyes.
"You're late," she sneered.
"I'm fashionably late."
Billy watched her run her eyes across him, neatly pressed suit, newly shined shoes, slyly slicked hair. Velma, of course, would appreciate his spotless appearance.
She blew smoke in his face.
"Just out of curiosity, Miss Kelly, is this a date?"
She raised her eyebrows.
"A rendezvous between friends. I needed to get out of the theater. You see, Roxie has this new man, and when they make love, they sound like dying hyenas."
"So I'm just a cleverly timed diversion?"
"Yes."
Not like he expected to be anything other than that, of course.
xxxxx
She slipped into his room quietly. He wasn't even aware of her presence until the harsh thud of the closing door. With a quick turn of her fingers, she locked the door behind her.
He was locked in his bedroom with Mary Sunshine.
Maybe, if he concentrated hard enough, he could wish her away. Maybe the shirt he just removed did not belong to a woman, but the majestic illusion of a woman.
She was far too real to be an illusion.
He moved quickly, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible. But she kept up. She was like the forever-and-for-always lover he never had; she knew what he wanted.
He underestimated her. He probably wasn't the first.
Surprising even himself, he let her sleep in his arms, sun-splattered hair against his cheek. He traced circles in her back, letting her steady breathing lull him to sleep.
That night, he dreamed of headlines.
xxxxx
For almost two hours, he tried to make sense of Velma. It was easy enough when she was his client because their visits were always the same. He would talk about the case; she would flash him bits of leg; he would remain businesslike (inwardly smiling).
But he couldn't hide behind his rich-lawyer façade any longer. He told her outrageous stories about his clients, and she would tilt her head to the side, take another drag of her cigarette, and inch her foot closer to his under the table.
Velma Kelly always got what she wanted.
"Mr. Flynn, can I ask you a question?" she purred, dragging him back to reality with her sharp fingernails.
"Fire away."
"Why did you abandon my case? It was a sure thing. You said so yourself."
"Because no one wanted a Velma Kelly wind-up doll."
"Really? I find that hard to believe. You know, I had to screw Harrison to get him to drop charges. I went through some shit because of you and Hart."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Really? Harrison? Tramp."
She went to take another drag of her cigarette, but he was quicker. He snatched it from between her claws, dropped it, and let it go out beneath the sole of his shoe.
She smirked.
"Thief."
Her eyes (her laughing eyes) were moving in, bringing him into focus, a camera trapping the perfect picture, the perfect Billy, in her memory.
Smile for the camera, Billy.
Everything she was was right there, on her lips, as they finally reached his. He felt it, tasted it, slipped it in his pocket to use against her later.
It was scandalous.
Like the scandalous Miss Kelly herself.
