Roxie never knows what’s going to set Velma off. So every once in awhile a diamond-crusted bobby pin disappears into Roxie’s purse, so what? They’ve gotta eat, and times ain’t getting easier out there.
Velma hits Roxie right where it hurts and burns her favorite fur in the shower stall.
So this time it ends with Velma pulling a Maureen O’Hara and ripping Roxie’s bodice right down the front. Roxie does the natural thing and tries to slap her in the mush, which leads to Velma yanking her hair, which leads to Roxie trying a Gorgeous George-style headbutt on Velma, which leads to them kissing, which leads to them biting chins and lips.
Roxie feels blood drip on her new dress (HER BRAND NEW HUNDRED DOLLAR DRESS) as Velma shoves her into their vanity. She lets out a scream of protest as Velma latches onto her swollen breasts, licking the sweat from between them. “Fuck the pin,” Velma whispers. “I’ll take it out on you this way.”
Roxie can’t hear anything but the roar of her own blood in her head, and when Velma starts biting her nipples she doesn’t know if she should push her away or arch into her touch. She moans gutturally, remembering her idolatry and wondering if her lonely fantasies live up to the hype she’s built up in her head.
It quite nearly does. Whatever Velma’s learned on the road or on Murderess Row, it sucks Roxie’s breath away, making her cry out and slam her palms into the dressing table, a drum solo, a round of applause.
Then she grabs Roxie by the back of her neck and pushes her to her knees. Her words are amused and distant as she hikes up her dress. “Lick me, kid.”
She does, without any clue of her own success until Velma lets out a smoky groan and her thighs jerk in Roxie’s hands.
Velma disengages from the scene cooly, stares at her nails,at Roxie with her torn bodice and her sweat-drenched face. Then she speaks. “Sweetheart, If you were as much of a whore onstage as you were in this dressing room, there wouldn’t be an empty seat in the house.” With that Velma strode away, her hips shimmy-shaking, already imagining the next town, the next act.
“Jeesum crow,” Roxie moans, mopping her sweaty forehead.