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Being on stage has always put Velma in the mood for sex. After she and Veronica had taken their bows, she would walk into the wings with applause echoing loud in her ears and a flush in her cheeks, and she and Charlie would slip into the closest empty room for a quick fuck. Loose sequins and blush-pink dust and powdered bronzer sticking to the backs of her thighs as some showgirl's secondhand vanity rocked under her ass. Nails dug into Charlie's shoulders and hips, and the drumbeat from the Onyx's band thumping loud enough to hide the noise of the counter bumping up against the wall, the rhythmic back-and-forth scrape of its legs against the floor. The night she was arrested, cuffed in the back of a paddy wagon that smelled of sweat and cheap cologne, Veronica and Charlie's blood still stubbornly staining her nail beds, she'd ached. Shifted against the seat for the littlest bit of friction, something to ease all that need between her legs while her body had thrummed with post-performance thrill and adrenaline. (She'd nearly combusted before she was alone in her cell and could finally do something about it.)
But then she'd been in Cook County, where her only performances were snapshot things, teasing words and hinting smiles at hound-dog reporters who wanted every scrap of scandal she had to offer. Batting her eyelashes double-time for the innocence act, talcum powder passed along by Mama that she'd used to pale her cheeks, all bloodless shock at how gruesome the scene had been, how her poor heart had just frozen in her chest when she'd seen Veronica and Charlie laying so still, and all that blood—
By now, she's fucking nailed the big finish: the slow, single tear.
Flash bulbs don't burn as bright as stage lights, though, and the questions from a handful of two-bit journalists can't live up to the applause of an SRO crowd at the Onyx. The faintest smell of sugar instead of the rich sweetness of chocolate dissolving on her tongue. The ghost of a sensation instead of a proper itch, but maybe that's for the best when there's no one to help her scratch it. But she gets by. Stretched out under the blanket, her fingers slick and deep within herself, searching after some of the only heat there is to find.
Still, it's a sad imitation of what she's really after, coming with a quiet shiver instead of a toe-curling scream; she's never really shone as a soloist. For Velma, whether shimmying on stage or between the sheets, all the real friction and heat, all the true satisfaction has always been in the give-and-take with her partner.
And then Roxie shows up.
—
Instinctively, Roxie grates at her, and not just because blonde hair photographs better. No, it's the bad routine of it all, the clumsy, ham-handed acting that Mama and Mary Sunshine and all the rest seem to eat up, hook, line, and sinker. Playing like she's the vulnerable young ingenue, all innocence in wanting Velma's advice for her own chance at the spotlight, like she has any right to some of Velma's shine. Like Roxie deserves top billing, too, just because she took a notion to it, has a passable singing voice and dreams of stardom and a story people are paying attention to. No sense in having to work for it, though. Nothing like the hours of practice and ripped stockings and blistered heels she and Veronica had put into their routine just for a shot on the stage. If she'd met Roxie at the Onyx or any other show, some showgirl auditioning for the chorus line, Velma would have written her off from the start and been right in doing so.
But before Velma's eyes, for some incomprehensible reason, Roxie's star starts to rise. Part of it is Billy, to be sure—nobody knows how to work a story like Billy. He'd taken one look at Roxie and struck gold on the whole virginal, country bumpkin, ain't life just been rough on a poor gal like me, of it all. Part of it is Billy, but maddeningly enough, part of it is Roxie, too. Velma had her figured as a two-bit talentless hack, but Roxie understands what she's got with her big blue eyes and peaches-and-cream skin, starts figuring how to work the reporters and Mama like she's the biggest and best starlet ever to grace Cook County's halls. Part of it is Billy, but it kills Velma to admit that maybe Roxie has more talent for this than she would've figured. Maybe the same sort of instinct that would have had the neighborhood boys wrapped around her finger when she was a schoolgirl, knowing when to flaunt, when to lean back, when to give them more and when to retreat. Coy and tempting, batting her eyelashes sweetly and leaving them so hungry for more they nearly come through the fucking bars.
Speaking of coming—
Roxie has settled under Velma's skin like a raw nerve, in more ways than one. Not enough that Velma has to see her dopey face in all the papers and nobody can shut up about the poor tragedy of it all, and meanwhile every other girl is busy turning her hair white with peroxide. No, because now when Velma finds a moment for herself—which seems to be more frequent than usual, not that she'd admit it to anyone—Roxie is there, waiting for Velma behind her eyelids, too. Smug and mouthy until Velma imagines putting her tongue to better use elsewhere, mussing all of those neat little curls and riding her face until Velma gets some satisfaction from it. Her orgasms are better than they've been in weeks, but even that doesn't feel nearly as good as it should. Like, sure, Velma's the one getting off, but this has still somehow become Roxie's show, too. As if it wasn't bad enough to be upstaged in real life, and now Velma can't even find relief in her own fucking fantasies.
—
When Mama comes to her with the diary and an opening to swing the spotlight back in her own direction, Velma doesn't hesitate. Milks walking into the courtroom and her time on the stand for all it's worth, reveling in the rush of holding the crowd and reporters captive like she hasn't gotten to do in weeks.
This is what she lives for—the rapt attention, the hushed breaths, the magic of holding an entire room at attention while they wait to see what she'll do next. How low she'd dip, how high she'd kick, that flash of garter against the white of her thigh, the scintillating whisper of fringe as she'd twisted, turned, legs falling open into a perfect split. Enjoys the high of it enough almost not to mind when Billy turns it around, leaving Velma to play the poor caught-in-the-dark victim; Roxie's not the only one who knows how to gin up sympathy.
And then she's free, out of Cook for good and able to fall asleep in her own bed for the first time in months. It's quiet without the sound of a dozen other girls around, shifting and sighing and every hushed breath and whimper carrying clean through the bars.
Velma doesn't even bother trying to lie to herself about missing it—not prison itself, no, she's not giving up her featherdown mattress and silk sheets for anything—but being part of the story. No cameras or reporters at her door now that her own trial is off the table, and there's always another bigger, flashier headline to hunt down. Sure, not being at risk for a hanging isn't too bitter a pill to swallow, but what does Velma have if not her stage, and who the fuck is she performing for, now? Enough cache from her previous life and murderess rap to get bookings at mid-sized clubs, but Velma Kelly on the marquee doesn't draw crowds the way it used to. How is she supposed to feed on the energy of the room when half the tables are empty and the other half are caught up on whatever latest blood-hungry broad has taken the city by storm? What's freedom worth when she's not getting enough attention to enjoy it?
Then, one day when she's on her way home, Velma walks past some baby-faced girl with a blonde bob that's grown out to her shoulders, long enough to see the brown at her roots she'd try to dress up with peroxide. Velma doesn't pay much attention to the news—what's the point when she's not in it?—but she catches enough to have noticed the lack of Roxie's name, too.
The thought feels fucking laughable as soon as she has it, but maybe there is something there—not just one lady killer, but two, and both of them hungry for the spotlight that had abandoned them as readily as it had once raised them up. And, honestly, mutual hate and competition makes as good a basis for partnership as anything else.
—
Velma had needed to humble herself once before to ask for Roxie's help, but this time is different. Before, Roxie had been on top and Velma the one chasing after scraps of attention, and they'd both known it. Roxie holding all the cards, and meanwhile Velma trying to bluff her way forward with an off-suit two-five and everyone else at the table able to see her hand.
Now, though, the scales have rebalanced in Velma's favor. Sure, the public eye has turned away from them both, but of the two of them, only Velma has gone through the process of earning its attention without first needing to get a gun involved. She and Veronica had made names for themselves on the basis of their act alone, never mind all the splashy, front-page buzz that Roxie had ridden to fame on. So even when Roxie rolls her eyes and tries to hide her interest, playing like she's not still the same wannabe performer at heart who'd been all wide-eyed panic her first night in Cook, Velma knows better. Barely even minds extending a bit of magnanimity in the face of Roxie's humdrum career prospects, enough to help Roxie see this would be beneficial to them both. Velma can make use of some of that same shine Billy had capitalized on, let Roxie's appeal boost her own name, and—lucky Roxie—Velma can do the same for her.
No expectation for any kind of friendship between them, Velma made that clear from the start. She's not here for buddy-buddy love or bosom friends or any of that bullshit. But they can hate each other and still help each other. They can have a grudging respect for each other's uses and talents while spreading under-the-table stories to tabloid reporters that are all ugly barbs and keep them both in the papers.
Roxie digs her nails in a little harder than she needs to during their pair moves, and Velma walks away from rehearsals with little pink divots on her shoulders and ribs. Velma handles their choreography, coming up with moves that are just at the fringe of Roxie's comfort zone, pushing her to move faster, stretch further, work harder, because Roxie would rather twist one of her delicate, bird-like ankles than admit Velma's got more talent for this than her. Claws out all the time, edging in front of one another for a greater share of the spotlight, but all that hunger benefits them both, spurs them to heights they'd never have achieved alone. Success is all that matters, and so long as neither of them fucks with that—so long as the business side is played straight—everything else is fair game.
When the chips finally fall and fucking each other ends up on the table, that includes sex, too.
The first time was all post-performance headiness and bourbon flavored, Velma's skin peppered with more of those red-pink marks from Roxie's nails—long, purposeful drags this time, meant to sting as much as to claim Velma as hers—and Velma's lipstick smeared across Roxie's mouth and tits and between her thighs. After, there's a moment of hesitation while they readjust their garters and slips—not quite making eye contact with each other and a pronounced silence in the room—when Velma wonders if this is one complication too great for their already precarious and messy partnership.
But then she tells Roxie to tighten up her steps in the second half of her latest number, and Roxie's rolling her eyes as she touches up her newly mussed makeup in the vanity, and that's it. Sex becomes just one more facet of their relationship, one more place for practice and performance and competition, one more avenue where they're free to be as petty and spiteful and vindictive as they want so long as everyone gets off at least once.
Maybe it says something about Velma that she's fucked two of her performance partners, but her marriage to Charlie was different—Charlie had wanted her from the start, and made no secret of his interest. Velma had lapped up his attention, but she should've known better than to expect love or loyalty from his star-chaser heart.
With Roxie, though, there's no pretense at love, and so no risk of betrayal. Velma could care less how many Johnny Big Bucks that Roxie leaves with after their shows, or who else gets to hear those breathy, needy moans for more, more, please more, because even in bed, she's as attention-hungry as ever. No, Velma could care less, because she knows that Roxie needs her as badly between the sheets as she does onstage. Who else is going to keep her in the spotlight? Who else is going to fuck her with the same intensity and abandon and ruthless edge that Velma will?
They'll never trust each other, but they don't need to. Instead, they've found something better in this tightrope balancing act, mutually assured success and satisfaction, with room enough between them for hating and respecting and needing and fucking each other, because whether it's sex or show business, neither of them can do it alone.