“Yes,” I say.

  “But you’re drunk.”

  “No, I’m not. I was just pretending to make it harder for you to talk to me.”

  “You really did make it hard for me,” Nick says low in my ear, and kisses my neck. I surrender to his touch, my eyes rolling back. “I thought you didn’t want to share a bed tonight.” Last night, I needed him in my bed for survival. And tonight is no different.

  I smirk, tugging my lip with my teeth. “You know, for a guy who’s about to get laid, you have a lot of objections.”

  “We’re on tour. What kind of guy would I be if I didn’t ask?”

  “Even Jerry and Elaine had sex sometimes. Now shut up and kiss me,” I say, tearing off my glasses. Let’s see if Nick’s as good in bed as he is onstage. My body’s in desperate need of a pro. And I get the feeling I won’t have to fake anything.

  Without hesitation this time, Nick takes my face into his hands and pulls me in for a good one. The kind you imprint in your memory and replay on a cold, lonely night. In the warm hotel light, we wrestle with each other’s clothes, flinging them from one side of the room to the other, as if we’re competing for who can toss the farthest. All the while making sure our lips don’t separate for more than a second. Damn, it feels good to touch a man’s bare back. Nick really is hard in all the right places.

  Soon, we’re fully prepared beneath the sheets. Two comedians intertwined. My body calls to him and he responds well . . . at first. The moment I relax, feeling like he speaks my body’s cryptic language, my sexual buzz begins to wane. I close my eyes and kiss him again, reminding myself of how much I’ve wanted him. How turned on I got when he simply lay next to me.

  A small peak of pleasure emerges but fizzles out like a single tiny firework. This makes no sense. I’ve been deprived of intimacy for so long. And Nick is so sexy and funny. I really like him. Why am I not getting off like gangbusters? I let out a decent moan to encourage myself and him.

  Leaving a trail of kisses along my neck, he whispers, “Are you close?”

  “Uhh, maybe,” I say, trying to make it sound like a yes. He seems to take the hint and switches positions, getting his hands involved now. Okay, here we go. I think I can get into this.

  “How’s that?” he asks, staring down at my naked body.

  “Good,” I say, but it’s quickly downgraded to pretty good. All right, let’s be real, I’ve never actually gotten there on the bottom and this doesn’t seem very promising. I push him down onto the mattress and climb on top.

  “There’s my little cowgirl,” he says with that sexy smile spread across his face. Yeehaw!

  Our hips find a common rhythm and it’s good. Really good. Just not good enough. Is it him or is it me? Is it us?

  “Hold still,” I say, trying to salvage it. Who am I kidding? I haven’t been able to get there in years. This is as futile as looking for the ocean in the middle of the desert. So much for Nick being the one who could change that. It pains me to say it, so I won’t. Instead, I’ll have to fake it.

  Rolling out a finale of cries and moans, I give a performance Meg Ryan would be proud of.

  Twenty-Four

  Ring-a-ling-a-ding! Ring-a-ling-a-ding!

  I suck in a deep inhale as if resuscitating myself from the dead. You know the feeling—waking from a dead sleep to a chime-chimey alarm. Only this alarm isn’t my usual one. In fact, it’s not even my phone. I blink my eyes wide, taking in my surroundings. Nick’s snoozing, shirtless and sprawled out next to me. I nudge him awake. “Hey, your alarm.”

  He startles alert. “What?”

  “Turn your alarm off.”

  He reaches for his phone on the nightstand and holds it an inch from his nose. “It’s not my alarm. It’s Bernie,” he grumbles.

  “Huh?”

  “Bernie’s calling me.” Uh-oh, I promised her no funny business. Does she somehow know we slept together last night?

  Oh my god. We slept together last night.

  “Hey, Bernie, what’s up?” Nick says, propped up on his elbows. I cover my mouth, worried she might hear me breathing. “Uhh, yeah, she’s right here. I’ll put you on speaker.”

  With panic-stricken eyes, I mouth, “What are you doing?”

  Nick mutters, “It’s fine. Say hi.”

  “Hi, Bernie!” I say, trying to sound like I’m fueled by a second cup of coffee. “Nick and I were just . . . about to grab some breakfast before we head to Nashville.”

  “Are you sure you’re not having breakfast in bed?” she asks in her gruff accent.

  I throw my head back in a big laugh. “Oh, Bernie. Don’t be ridiculous.” I glare at Nick and mouth, “She knows what we did. Did you tell her?”

  Nick screws up his face like I’m bonkers then speaks into the phone. “What’s going on, Bernie?”

  “There’s been a change of plans.” Nick and I share puzzled expressions. “You’re not playing Nashville tonight.”

  “Wait, what happened?” Now Nick sounds panicked.

  “I got you a better gig in Memphis. It’s at Graceland.”

  Okay, now we’re really confused. “Graceland? As in Elvis Presley’s house?” Nick asks.

  “That’s right. It’s Elvis Week and their stand-up duo canceled at the last minute. Their loss, our gain. And, you’ll get to stay at the hotel on-site. Probably better than the shitholes you’ve been sleeping in.” I like the sound of that.

  “See, told you to be prepared for anything,” Nick whispers my way.

  “Think they booked us two rooms?” I whisper back.

  “What was that?” Bernie asks.

  “I was just saying that’s great,” I say. “But do you think a bunch of guys in faux pompadours will get my jokes?”

  “I’m sure it’ll translate. Just do your corporate act.” Corporate shows have been my only real paychecks since I’ve been performing. It’s probably the best way to make some cash while climbing the comedy ladder. As an attorney, I usually had an in on the local or nearby corporate functions. Bernie would hook up the rest.

  “What’s the pay?” Nick asks, popping a cigarette in his mouth, and I practice my Elvis impression with a snarled lip.

  “It’s triple the Nashville show.”

  I gasp. Triple! “You’re kidding?” More money. Better lodging. Now this is starting to sound like a proper tour.

  “I haven’t told you the best part,” she continues.

  “Wait, it gets better?” My stomach tightens in anticipation. I could really use some more good news.

  “They’re gonna dress Nick in a full-on Elvis costume.”

  It does get better!

  His jaw drops and the cigarette tumbles out of his mouth. I can see it now, Nick trading in his black Wayfarers for an elaborate gold pair. I start snickering at his mounting humiliation. That’s going to be hilarious.

  “You think that’s funny, huh?” Nick asks.

  “You in a bell-bottom spandex jumpsuit? Please, that takes the comedy cake!”

  He wags a finger at me. “Just so you know, Andy Kaufman and Eddie Murphy did Elvis impressions.”

  I don’t know about Andy Kaufman, but how could I forget Eddie Murphy’s Elvis bit from Delirious? “That’s right! Eddie’s was spot on.”

  “There’s something else you should know about tonight,” Bernie says.

  “Let me guess. Nick has to end every joke with, ‘Thank yooooou, thank ya very much.’ ” I break out my Elvis timbre, feeling it all the way down to my pelvis. Had my inner Elvis made an appearance last night, I wouldn’t have had to put on a show.

  “Sorry, kid,” Bernie continues, “but you have to dress up like Priscilla.”

  Bless my heart.

  I should’ve seen it coming. Nick snorts a laugh and I roll my eyes. “Thank you, Bernie.”

  “I emailed you the details. Good luck.”

  Nick ends the call and we stare at each other, our cheeks a little too pink for first thing in the morning. I look at him, wondering if my crush is still alive or if the sex smothered it. He smiles and runs his fingers through his hair, his bare abs popping as he lets out a satisfied exhale.

  Yeah, it’s still alive.

  “So,” he begins. “How you doing?”

  “Good,” I say, hugging my knees to my chest.

  “Good, because I want you to know I don’t usually sleep with comics I tour with.” Does that mean he sleeps with stand-ups he doesn’t tour with? Not that it should matter, the deed is done.

  “I haven’t slept with any comics,” I say.

  “Really? Never?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “It’s not like a hard-and-fast rule or anything but I figured it’s better not to complicate my comedy career with sex.” Saying those words sends a chill down my spine. Yes, I like Nick. Who wouldn’t? But did I just make a rookie mistake the very moment I’m trying to go pro?

  “I suppose that’s smart. Maybe it’s better we stay out of each other’s pants for the rest of the tour. Go back to being Jerry and Elaine.”

  No sex the rest of the tour, huh? Is he trying to respect an appropriate boundary or is he done with me? I don’t know and I can’t bring myself to ask if last night meant anything to him. I’m not even sure what it meant to me. And until I do, keeping things professional sounds like a plan.

  “Good idea,” I say, wringing my hands.

  Nick’s phone rings again. But this time I don’t think it’s Bernie. He silences it. “I’m gonna get some air.” He slides on his jeans and shoes, and I watch him leave the room.

  * * *

  —

  After I wash last night off my skin and out of my hair, I wrap myself in a rough, bleach-scented terry towel, clear the misty mirror with my hand, and wipe the smudges off my lenses with a washcloth. That’s when I notice a small green speck of something stuck in my teeth. Upon closer inspection, I conclude it’s leftover spinach dip from the club.

  “Yuck.” I cringe with freshly flushed cheeks. That was there since last night? When we were kissing? Did Nick see it? Of course he did. He must’ve told himself to totally ignore it and keep going. According to Patrice O’Neal’s stand-up, when it comes to men and sex, the bar is relatively low. Damn little horndogs.

  Like any self-respecting woman, I first try to weed the spinach out with my nail. When that doesn’t work, I scrub the clogged nook with my toothbrush. Still stuck. And of course, of all the things I packed, dental floss wasn’t one of them (try not to judge me). I glance around the sink for some kind of helpful apparatus. Any chance the cleaning staff left some floss next to the bar of soap? Nope, this is not The Plaza.

  Nick’s black toiletry bag sits zipped up in the far corner. I crack open the bathroom door. “Hey, Nick!” I call, but there’s no answer. He’s probably still outside. He wouldn’t mind me borrowing a little waxy string, would he? Doubt it. I carefully unzip his bag and begin pulling things out, one at a time. A razor, earplugs in a plastic case, Trojans (boy, did those come in handy), loose Q-tips, a lighter, and . . . a white gold wedding band?

  What the . . .

  Is he married?

  I examine it, enamored like it’s the ring that rules them all. But it doesn’t seem to be ruling Nick one bit.

  Oh, no. I slept with a married man. I think I’m gonna be sick.

  “Hey!” Nick calls, banging at the door, and I gasp.

  The ring slips through my fingers and drops against the porcelain. Clink, clink—bouncing off the bowl. Frozen, I watch the ring circle the drain. And down it goes.

  “Shit,” I whisper.

  “You almost done?” Nick asks. “We need to get on the road soon and I need a shower.” Yeah, so he can wash the filthy affair off him. Oh, Lord. This is bad.

  “Just a second,” I call, digging desperately at the sink, sweat beading on my brow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter under my breath, scrambling to put everything else back. And fuck him too. Playing the nice guy just so he can get in my pants. I try to swallow but anger clogs my throat. What am I gonna do?

  Just tell him the truth. Spinach, floss, ring. It’s not like I’m the worst person in this scenario. Or am I?

  Forget it.

  I can’t tell him.

  But I also can’t be the one responsible for losing his wedding ring, even if he doesn’t seem to care about it. I take a deep breath, settle my trembling hands on the knob, and yank it open like ripping off a Band-Aid. “Hey,” I say, feeling both guilty and indignant.

  “Can I get in there now?”

  “No, I need a little more time. I’m not feeling well,” I say, hugging my stomach.

  Nick observes me for a moment, then his expression shifts—like a lightbulb going on. “Oh, did you just get your period?”

  Why are periods always the go-to thing with men? Something’s wrong, it must be the menses! I don’t want to give him the satisfaction but at the same time, it seems like a reason he’ll accept long enough for me to rescue the ring. “Yeah, and it’s really bad.” If I have to buck up through mind-numbing cramps, it’s only fair that I be able to cry Bloody Mary every now and again (like you’ve never lied about your period to get out of something).

  “Do you need me to get you something for your, um . . .” He signals to his crotch. Jesus, my condolences to his wife.

  “No, thanks. I’m all set with my supersized tampons!” I slam the door in his face. Fucking philanderer. I look back at the sink, annoyed. Almost hormonal. Maybe I should’ve told him the truth and made him fish it out.

  “Okay, you son of a bitch,” I mutter, and squat down in front of the open cabinet. Luckily, I know all about fishing shit out of pipes. Growing up my dad got sick of my hair clumps clogging the bathroom sink, so dismantling the plumbing and flushing them out became one of my regular chores. I set the garbage bin beneath the sink and unscrew the trap loose. The stench of rotten eggs mixed with sewage spills from the drain. Ugh. I gag and dunk whatever’s in there in the can. Pinching my nose with one hand and fishing around for the ring with the other bare hand, my imagination runs wild.

  What am I touching? And whose is it? Gross!

  It’s true what they say. Karma’s a bitch. I’m never going through Nick’s things again. And I still have spinach in my teeth. Then through the sludge, I feel that small band of gold.

  Got it.

  I repair the drain and wash all the gunk off the ring, then slip it back into his toiletry bag. And it’s like the whole thing never happened.

  Except it did.

  Twenty-Five

  The infectious rhythm of Elvis’s “All Shook Up” plays in the distance. I’m still pretty shook up myself after this morning. Throughout this entire six-hour drive, I haven’t been able to look Nick in the face. I’ve kept quiet, busying myself with writing and rewriting jokes, listening back to successful recordings from New York, and drafting long texts to Imani about the whole ordeal only to think twice and delete them.

  I also priced out car rentals so I can make the rest of the trip on my own. His infidelity is infuriating. Do you know how hard it’s been not to scream out, You’re married! this entire trip? I should’ve screamed it a million times by now but I find myself waiting for the right moment and using my one song an hour to play hits like “Before He Cheats” and “Womanizer.” To think I really liked him, that he might be someone I could trust. Now I want nothing to do with him.

  Nick steers us down Elvis Presley Boulevard. Crowds of tourists mosey around the grounds. A variety of Elvis wannabes are sprinkled throughout. Seventy-year-old Elvises, short Elvises, Elvis on stilts, lady Elvises, and even pompadours on three-year-olds. The guy kicked the bucket nearly forty years ago but I guess it’s viva Elvis Presley.

  “Have mercy!” Nick says, gawking at the Presley pack. Figures he’d break out a Stamos impression.

  “That’s Uncle Jesse, not Elvis.” I bite back the end of my sentence—you cheating bastard.

  He knits his eyebrows. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” What I’m not sure of is how we’re gonna perform in those ridiculous costumes. My stomach tightens. When not seething with anger and planning my escape, I obsessed over photos of Priscilla Presley—her gorgeous dark hair, alabaster skin, striking blue eyes, and perfectly arched brows. Will I be dressed like the more modest, newlywed 1960s Mrs. Presley or the vivacious, go-go-style 1970s Priscilla?

  He lowers the music and asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I say, and crank up the volume as Vince Neil sings “Girls, Girls, Girls” for the hundredth time this tour.

  We arrive at the back of the soundstage, where we were asked to meet one of the event coordinators. After wandering around for a few more minutes, we find her.

  “I’m Nick Leto. This is Olivia Vincent. We’re your stand-ups,” Nick says, introducing us.

  She doesn’t bother to drop her tablet and shake our hands. “You’re the husband-and-wife duo?” I’m not sure what’s giving her that impression but the mention of Nick’s wife, even if incorrectly referring to me, makes my skin crawl.

  “No, we’re not married,” Nick clarifies, seeming pretty tense for a guy who’s single and ready to mingle. Ugh, that phrase should’ve been my first clue.

  “I see.” She stares at us over the rim of her glasses, shifting her eyes back and forth between us. “Well, thanks for coming on such short notice. I’m Jane. Follow me.” Jane heads farther backstage, her short legs carrying her quickly. We hurry close behind. “You need to get to hair and makeup right away. You got your material, right?”

  Nick and I share a look—the first since we got the call. “Material? What material?” he asks.

  “For cryin’ out loud.” Jane does not seem pleased and presses a button on the side of her headset, turning the corner. “Lindsey, I need a copy of the Elvis-and-Priscilla stand-up act in makeup ASAP.”