“They call it SAD but I love the standard American diet.”

  “Land of the free, home of the morbidly obese.” He holds his half-eaten, processed biscuit high, and my bacon sandwich–holding hand meets his in a toast. The moment our knuckles meet, there’s a tingling in my belly and it’s not from the trans fats. Our eyes lock for a split second, just long enough to feel visually penetrated. That’s it, I can’t touch him again for the rest of the trip.

  Not without consequences anyway.

  He swallows his big bite, completely unaware of the battle that’s brewing in my mind. “So last night was bizarre.”

  I laugh nervously and feel a strong vibration in my pants.

  Oh, hahahaha. It’s just my phone.

  I pull it out of my back pocket, holding my breath for a moment before I send it to voicemail. I’ll call her later. “It’s Imani,” I say, setting the phone aside.

  “You should take it. I was about to go outside anyway.” Nick crushes the sandwich wrap.

  “It’s okay. I don’t want to talk to her right now.”

  “Why? Is she obnoxious?” Nick asks.

  “Not usually but she’s been up my ass about getting another real job. I keep trying to tell her that comedy is a real job.”

  “Is it though?”

  “Yeah . . . I mean, I think so. Don’t you?”

  “I used to think it was.” To hear Nick somewhat side with Imani on this is like a smack in the mouth. It stings.

  “You know, seeing as I just left a steady job to go on a comedy tour with you, you’re not exactly inspiring a ton of confidence right now.”

  “Let me tell you somethin’, if you’re looking for someone else to validate your choice, you’ll never make it in this business.”

  His words feel like another smack. Only this one is so hard that it knocks the wind out of me. After a moment, his statement settles and I can breathe again. I’m a ball of confidence, ready to roll over any naysayers (or ignore their calls). I don’t need anyone to validate my choice to be a comic. Not even Nick.

  “Excuse me.” A motel clerk approaches, a gold watch shining on his wrist while his plastic name tag reads Fredrick Hudson—Manager. “Are you the couple staying in room 137?”

  “We’re not a couple,” we blurt in unison. Nick steps away from me, reinforcing the idea.

  Fredrick raises an eyebrow. “But you are staying in room 137, right? With the broke PTAC unit?”

  “Yeah,” Nick says.

  “Well, we just sent someone over to look at it and there ain’t no way we’re gonna get it fixed by tonight.” Uh-oh. With this heat, sleeping in the Jeep is hardly an option. “We’ve gotta move you to another room. One will be available this afternoon.”

  “Only one?” I ask.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s a king room.” King room? As in one king bed with plenty of room for Nick and me to roll around in? “Wait a second.” Fredrick narrows his eyes at Nick. “You look familiar. What’s your name again?”

  “Nick Leto.”

  “Hold up, I’ve seen you on The Comedy Channel? You’re a comedian, right?”

  Nick welcomes this semi–celeb sighting with open arms. “Yes, I am.”

  The clerk offers his hand. “Oh, man, you’re a funny dude. You’re playing Cedric’s club tonight?”

  “You know Cedric?” Nick asks.

  Who’s Cedric?

  “Yeah, that’s my big brother.”

  “Oh, I see, Fredrick and Cedric,” Nick says. “You got another brother named Hedrick too?”

  “Actually, yeah. It’s like our dad’s Dr. Seuss or some shit.” Nick and Fredrick share a laugh but I still can’t get past the one-room—one-bed—one-night issue. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll comp your whole stay for the AC inconvenience but y’all gotta come out and have a drink after the show with us. It’s Cedric’s birthday.”

  “Hey, thanks, man. I really appreciate that. We’ll be there.” Nick offers Fredrick one of those slick handshakes like the two are old buddies, and the motel manager heads off. When he’s out of earshot, Nick turns to me. “Did you hear that? Free stay and he thinks I’m hilarious.”

  “He said you were funny. Not hilarious,” I say. “So you’re sleeping on a cot tonight, right?”

  “What’s the matter, not in the mood to cuddle anymore?”

  I want so much more than cuddling, which is the problem. “No, it’s weird. I feel like Charlie Bucket’s grandparents all smushed in one bed.”

  “Okay, if you’re not comfortable sharing a bed, maybe I’ll find somewhere else to sleep.” He doesn’t say so but I know he’s referring to a lady friend. Being beneath the sheets with him is a terrible idea but I don’t want him under someone else’s sheets either.

  Twenty-Two

  One of the things I love about the stage is having the mic. It’s like being the most powerful person in the room. All eyes on me and all ears open for my next joke. Ask any comedian. Every time they have to hand the mic over, they’re whining like a third grader on the inside—One more joke, please! Just one more!

  Tonight, however, is not at all like that. In fact, the emcee is welcome to come out anytime and rescue me from my atomic bombing. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little but it’s not good. The spots I typically get in the city are half or less of the time I have up here now. Beads of sweat drip from my hairline into my eyes. The combo of heat and moisture is fogging my glasses. I actually stretch the collar on my shirt and say, “Is it hot in here?” like I’m a female Dangerfield. Totally effing regrettable. My tongue keeps sticking to the roof of my mouth and my lips to my gums because it’s drier than a Christian wedding on a Sunday. Oh, Lord, take me now!

  How can this happen to me again? I blame listening to my set from D.C. Hearing the whole mic fiasco again might’ve wigged me out a little. Still, it’s like I don’t know how to do stand-up outside of New York. God, I hope that’s not the case, or this tour really will be a disaster.

  No, it can’t be that. I made plenty of people laugh in Texas. So what’s different? If anything, I should be better since I’m finally free to just be a stand-up comedian for once. This is my dream. So why is it beginning to feel like my worst nightmare?

  When it’s over, I gladly give the mic back and drag my feet offstage. I can’t look at Nick as I pass him. This time, I have no excuse. No electrical failure to blame.

  “Olivia,” Nick calls after me like he’s about to ground me and take away what I hold most dear. The mic.

  I slowly turn toward him, using the time to force my lips into an innocent smile. “Yes, Nick?”

  His expression is even sterner than I imagined, and the doe-eyed stare I’m darting his way does nothing to soften it. “We need to talk after the show.”

  Uh-oh. Does that mean? Of course it does. He’s taken a chance on me and somehow I’ve managed to blow it. One week since I left law and now I might seriously have to go back. Imani’s words resound in my head over and over like a skipping vinyl. Disaster, disaster, disaster . . .

  I grit my grin and swallow hard. If I pretend there’s nothing to fear then maybe he’ll reconsider. “Sure!” The emcee calls him to the stage but he keeps his stare on me. “You better go. Wish you laughs!” I wave my hand as if urging him to head up and simultaneously flinging fairy dust his way. If I had magical powers right now, I’d make him see that even though I’ve had a couple bad nights, I’m not a bad stand-up. I’m good. And if I can keep this going then maybe one day I’ll be great.

  Nick turns without a word and I let out a contentious breath. I’m safe for now but I think I need something to take the edge off.

  Cedric, the club’s owner and Fredrick’s (motel manager) brother, hangs out behind the bar. He gives me a disappointed-yet-pitying look. “What’s your poison?” he asks, sliding over a bowl of tortilla chips with spinach dip.

  “Got anything that’ll take me back to thirty minutes ago?”

  “No, but I can get you something that’ll make you forget it ever happened.”

  “Close enough.” A moment later, there’s a tall tumbler of what looks like iced tea in front of me. “What’s this?” I ask, then promptly take a sip.

  “A bourbon sweet tea.”

  I make a face. It tastes like equal parts bourbon and sugar. I’m definitely in the South now. Cedric leans on the bar, staring at me like he wants to ask me why the hell I came to his club to bomb. So I steer the conversation away. “I hear it’s your birthday.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I haven’t been called ma’am this much since I left Midland. Southern gentlemen, God love ’em.

  “Well, happy birthday!” I raise my glass and he toasts me with his lowball. “So where are we celebrating tonight?” I ask, thinking back to the deal we made with Fredrick for the free stay.

  “There’s a place a few blocks from here called Wild Peacock.”

  I take another sip of my bourbon sweet tea. The alcohol burns my chest, numbing my insides. I better pace myself. “Wild Peacock? Is that where Channing Tatum strips?”

  He shakes his head. “No, it’s not some Magic Mike shit. But I’m sure you can find some dude to grind up on you if that’s what you’re into.”

  My mind drifts to an image of Nick and me dancing to some ’90s R and B song, his arm around my waist and my waist against his . . . Even under the circumstances, I don’t hate the idea. Then again, if we get that close, we’ll have to talk.

  That’s it!

  I need to make it impossible for us to talk. And I know exactly how to do it. I slide my drink aside. If I want to survive the night, I’ll need to keep my wits about me.

  Nick takes the mic and opens strong. The birthday bartender watches him, eyes lit up, laughing at every punchline. “That dude’s funny.”

  Yeah, yeah. What else is new?

  By the end of the show, I’m hiding from Nick at the bar while he’s busy posing for photos with his adoring fans, handing over those Buh-Bye shirts left and right. Sneaking glances at his sexy smile from across the room makes the thought of leaving this tour even more unbearable.

  After the fan mob dies down, he comes my way. Ooh, there goes those stomach knots. Relax, Olivia. Just act like you’re having a great time. Like you’ve met your two-drink minimum.

  “Hahahaha!” I throw my head back in a laugh and my new friends at the bar shoot me a look.

  “What’s so funny?” Nick asks.

  “Oh, nothing. Have you tried one of these? It’s so good. I’m on my second one.” I raise my bourbon sweet tea, playing the role of fun, tipsy comedienne, and he raises an eyebrow.

  “Can’t say that I have. Can we go talk in the greenroom?”

  My heart thumps against my chest. “Later—we have to get to the club for Cedric’s birthday, remember? He’s already headed over there. C’mon!” I hop off my barstool and motion for him to follow me out of the club.

  “Wait, Olivia,” he says, not far behind me.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t dance like Elaine, do you, Jerry?” I imitate the character’s infamous dance, jerkin’ around with major hitchhiker thumbs.

  “Are you drunk?” he asks, laying his hand on the small of my back and leading me to the Jeep like a gentleman. I’m stark sober but I stumble a little. His touch is intoxicating. My body loosens up, eager to lean into his hand. Into him.

  “Maybe,” I say, hoping he’ll buy it and keep his talk to himself awhile longer. “Let’s go dance it off.” I tap him on the nose with a “boop” and he smiles, opening the passenger door. I think it’s working.

  As he walks around to the driver’s side, I scramble to connect his auxiliary cable to my phone. My song’s locked and loaded with the volume on high by the time he opens the door.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

  “I’m uh-mazing.”

  He turns the ignition and Bruno Mars’s voice steals the speakers. I pump my fist to the beat, singing along to the first verse of “Uptown Funk.” Can’t talk over this jam.

  “Olivia,” he calls, but doesn’t look too mad that I hijacked his stereo.

  “I’m too hot!” I sing as he pulls out and heads down the street. Dancing around as much as my seatbelt will allow, I get the party going. No way he’d want to have a serious conversation now. The song isn’t even over by the time Nick pulls up to the valet. “Whoohoo! We’re here!” I shout.

  “Maybe we should get you some food.”

  “Later. Let’s party!” I play up plastered girl and practically skip into the club. A Drake track blasts overhead as I whip out cash for the cover. The sooner I get on the dance floor, the better. I hardly make it into Wild Peacock with its blue, purple, and green uplights before Nick takes my hand. Another rush comes over me.

  “C’mon, we gotta go make an appearance,” he says, no doubt referring to finding Motel Manager Fredrick.

  “Let’s go dance first,” I beg, stealing my hand back.

  “We need to make good on our promise.”

  I relent, following several paces behind him to the VIP section. Fredrick and Cedric and a few others sit at one of the roped-off booths and lay eyes on Nick and me. “Oh, hey.” Fredrick grins and waves us over. “You made it. Come have a drink.”

  Good idea. That oughta loosen Nick up.

  “Okay!” I climb over the ropes and slide into the booth. A tall bottle of whiskey sits on the table surrounded by empty glasses, mixers, and lime wedges. Bottle service, huh? I grab the bottle and look to the birthday boy. “May I?” I ask, and he gives me the okay.

  “Maybe you’ve had enough,” Nick says, gently stopping me from pouring any more.

  “It’s not for me. It’s for you, you fuddy-duddy.” I hand him the glass, pour some soda for me, and we all toast to Cedric’s birthday.

  Nick takes a tiny sip, then leans in. “Maybe we shouldn’t stay long. I really want to talk to you.”

  Damn! This drunk act is failing me. Plan B.

  “What? I can’t hear you! I’m gonna go dance,” I yell over the music, and slide away from the booth before he can say anything. The DJ plays “Lose Control,” a throwback from Missy Elliott, and I groove to the beat, getting lost in the crowd. What are the chances a classic rock–obsessed comedian like Nick will follow me?

  As the DJ seamlessly segues the dance track into another, Nick glides up, head boppin’ and hips poppin’. I may have misjudged this one.

  “Hey,” he calls.

  “Hey!” I say, making sure there’s plenty of distance between us. I turn away from him, hoping he won’t attempt any conversation. And there are definitely worse things than his becoming mesmerized by my bouncing booty. Staying light on his feet, almost bobbing and weaving, he makes his way around to face me once again. I do another half spin, then another. Each time he follows me. Here I am, afraid he wants to get rid of me when I can’t seem to get rid of him.

  “Wanna get out of here?” he yells clearly over the music.

  “What?” I cup a hand over my ear like I can’t hear him.

  Finally, he steps close to me, puts his hand on my waist and his mouth to my ear. “Wanna go back to the motel?”

  His eyes meet mine in an intense gaze and my pulse goes haywire. Only I’m not sure if it’s the fear of being fired for the second time in a week or the rush of excitement that comes from thinking of going home with him. I turn slightly and shout over the music. “I’m having a good time!”

  The song shifts again, this time to something slower. And somehow it seems quieter too. I don’t know what to do so I just stand there frozen, looking at Nick looking at me.

  “Why are you avoiding me?” he asks, and this time there’s nowhere to run. I have to face him.

  “Because I bombed again and I don’t want you to kick me off the tour over some subpar sets.”

  He wrinkles his brow. “What? I’m not kicking you off the tour.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No, you’ve had some rough nights but I know you’re a good comic. You have a lot of potential. A lesser comedian would’ve given up a long time ago.”

  “Then what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “Well, like you said, you’ve had some subpar sets. It’s the tour. The first time you go on the road it can be intimidating. We’re comics. We’re all a little neurotic. But if you want things to go better, you have to get out of your head. So tomorrow in Nashville, try to relax. Go up there like you would at Funnies. Same jokes, different crowd. I know you can do this, Olivia. I believe in you.”

  “You do?” I ask, feeling a rush from his acceptance. At least one person sees me the way I want to be seen.

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t have asked you on this tour if I didn’t. Besides, I like having you around,” he says, but the way he’s looking at me, I’m almost sure what he means is that he likes me.

  “I like having you around too,” I say, holding his gaze. Then his eyes fall to my mouth and my lips part. Nick reaches for my waist at the same time I reach for his leather lapel. Without a word, Nick and I crash into each other, our lips locked in a hot kiss. His hands crawl up my back as my palms scrape his stubbly cheeks, and I caress his soft hair with my fingertips. It’s like he’s been wanting this since we met too.

  I know we’re not supposed to but now I see something Nick and I have in common.

  A slight disregard for the rules.

  Twenty-Three

  Stumbling inside our king room, we hang on to each other for balance. Totally drunk on each other’s kiss. The lyrics from “Paradise City” still playing in my head from the drive back to the motel—please take me home! His mouth comes for mine again but then stops short.

  “What?” I say, nearly breathless.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks, and his momentary hesitation actually makes me want him more.