“That and I owed you one.” I may have done him a solid the other night filling in at Funnies but I seriously doubt he’d let me join his tour if he didn’t think I could actually work a crowd. “C’mon, let’s hit the road.” He waves me over toward the line of tightly packed cars parked along the curb.

  I smile, my lip quivering slightly. Exactly like that moment right before I go onstage when all of my nerves dance around my body until they finally settle when I take the mic.

  “There’s not a ton of room but your suitcase should fit.”

  That’s a relief.

  Nick steps behind a black . . . Jeep Wrangler?

  “This is our mode of transportation?” I ask.

  “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t like Jeeps, Olivia?” he says like it’s a deal breaker.

  “Not at all. I grew up with a Jeep.” Now this feels a little spooky. My dad drove his beloved 1981 Jeep Laredo until the very last moment of his life. Okay, drive is a little strong. Half the time, the thing would break down and he’d have to push it up the road wedged inside the door so he could steer it along the way. “Why don’t you get a new Jeep, Dad?” I’d ask as a kid, embarrassed about being stuck on the side of a dusty road. Again. “It’s my baby, Livy,” he’d say. “Like you. Should I get a new daughter just because you whine sometimes?”

  My dad was much more whine-averse than he was engine failure–averse. There were many moments over the years I’m sure we would have preferred to trade each other in for someone better. But he never gave up on that old Jeep. It was his most prized possession, aside from his vinyls, of course. Maybe it’s a coincidence that I’ll be riding in Nick’s black Jeep on this comedy tour. A funny one (not the ha-ha kind).

  “Good,” he says. “I just got it. Bought it from a guy named Chris Rock.”

  My jaw drops. “Are you serious? You mean, Chris Rock, Chris Rock?”

  “Um, same name. Different sense of humor.”

  “Okay, because for a second I thought maybe this Jeep belonged to Jon Voight.”

  Nick smirks, confirming he gets the reference. “Seinfeld fan?”

  “A show about a stand-up living in New York? Of course I am.” I walk halfway around the Jeep, admiring the bold black body. It’s a soft top, which is great for summer but a terrible choice for our Northeast snow showers. And I don’t even want to think about the fuel costs.

  “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Nick asks.

  “Yeah, she is. Not much of a city car though.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we’re leaving.” He opens up the rear door. The back seats are folded and tucked in as much as possible, leaving a small space that’s already filled with boxes piled on top of one another. His large black suitcase fits just enough for the door to close. By the looks of it, I’m not the only one who brought all my shit.

  “What’s with all the boxes?” I ask.

  He glances at them for a moment and shrugs. “It’s merch.”

  “You mean you sell T-shirts with your face on them?”

  “With a face like mine, I’d be crazy not to.”

  I wasn’t sure before but now I know Nick’s one of those guys who knows how good-looking he is. Without a word, he scoops up my luggage with a grunt. “Jesus, what’s in here? Bricks and mortar for your own stand-up set?”

  I shrug innocently. “Home Depot was having a sale.”

  “Women and their sales,” he says with a sigh like we’ve been married for thirty years and he’s given up on me. I feel the urge to playfully smack his arm and say, “Hey!” with a giggle like I’m his girlfriend. But I resist, remembering Bernie’s warning.

  “This too,” I say, holding up my garbage bag luggage.

  “What are you, waste management?” he asks, letting his Brooklyn(ish)-Jersey accent fly.

  “You don’t think this is chic?” I stuff the poofy bag in between the luggage, the sound of the airy plastic making a mockery of me.

  “As broke as everyone is these days, I’m sure it will be. What’s in it?”

  “What are you? TSA? It’s my pillow,” I say, trying to make it sound necessary.

  He closes the back door and leans on the hanging spare tire. “Cute. You pack like a five-year-old going to a sleepover.”

  “You got jokes, huh? We’ll see who’s laughing when you’re up all night, fluffing those lumpy hotel pillows.”

  “Ha, you’re not gonna get any Marriott rewards on this trip.” Nick swings the keys in his hand and heads for the driver’s side door.

  “A girl can dream. Especially with proper neck support,” I say, climbing in the passenger seat. Faux new-car smell competes with stale-cigarette odor. I really hope that’s left over from Chris Rock.

  Nick turns the ignition and the rhythm of an ’80s electric keyboard rises through the speakers. I know this one. Bon Jovi’s “Runaway.” Before I can comment on his choice of music, he clears his throat and turns to me like he’s got something important to say. “Now listen, this Jeep is new. And it’s special to me so I’ll be the only one driving this tour, capeesh?”

  “Did you just say capeesh?”

  “Yeah, it means I’m serious.”

  Okay, now I’m so spooked I do a little shiver-shake. I haven’t heard that word in years. Whenever I was being stubborn growing up, which I’ll admit was a lot, my dad would always put his foot down and say capeesh. Something funny’s definitely afoot.

  “Got it. You control the wheel.” For now.

  “And the music.”

  “Sheez, dictate much!”

  “Haven’t you been on a road trip? Whoever drives gets to DJ,” he says, defusing my warm fuzzies. Now there’s an antiquated law that needs amending.

  “So we have to listen to Bon Jovi for two weeks straight?” I snap.

  “No. I’ve got a whole range of classic rock.” Nonstop classic rock? Okay, Nick’s really starting to sound like my dad. But I’m not going to take this lying down.

  “Here’s the thing, if this is all we listen to my head will be so clogged with guitar licks that I won’t be able to remember my jokes. And that’s bad for both of us. So how about this: you give me one veto and one song of my choice every hour. Seeing as we have three thousand miles to go, that’s a bargain.”

  His mouth twists in consideration. “Fine. But you have to promise to play by the other rules.” I’m not sure if he’s referring to the no-driving thing or the no-funny-business thing but in any case, I agree.

  Nick taps in an address on his phone and locks the device in place with a doohickey on his dashboard. Current ETA—2:17 p.m. Four hours and nine minutes until we get to D.C. Sounds long, but with our itinerary this is probably going to be one of our shorter commutes.

  “Good! We’ve got lots of time,” I say, strapping myself in with the seatbelt.

  “Yeah, we’ll see. Between the Jersey turnpike and D.C. traffic, that could change.”

  “Is that why we’re leaving hella early?” I ask.

  “People still say hella?”

  I flash a tight-lipped smile. “Only really cool people.”

  “Get used to leaving hella early. Trust me, it’s worth it.” He turns up the volume and we’re off.

  I sit quietly, letting him focus on driving through the city and making his way to the bridge. As Nick picks up speed the road noise ramps up. The height of the Jeep makes me feel like we’re towering over all the other drivers. I gaze over the little white peaks on the water as we cross into Staten Island. When we make it to I-95, Nick sets the cruise control and I watch him relax in his seat.

  “So have you played Capital Comedy before?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Any pro tips?”

  “Don’t bomb.”

  “You’re full of great advice, aren’t you?”

  He takes his eyes off the road for a split second. “That’s the best advice I’ve ever gotten.”

  I roll my eyes with a slight chuckle. There’s something about Nick that feels familiar. Maybe it’s the Jeep, or that we’re cut from the same stand-up cloth. Or maybe we both know we’re going to be stuck together for a while so we might as well get used to it. No matter how it feels, the truth is we’re still technically strangers, and I’d like to get to know him. Biblically. But I’ll settle for something less naked.

  “So, how long have you been touring?” I ask.

  “On and off for about a decade. Mostly on.” His words carry the weight of an exhausted sigh.

  “Wow, I’ve only done shows in the tristate area.”

  “Really?” He sounds surprised and now I feel sheepish.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, buckle up because you’re about to get a crash course on tour life.” His tone echoes all the other comics that warned me the road isn’t for everyone.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll see. I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.” He flips his blinker and the ticking fills the space before he speaks again. “But I will say this. Be prepared for anything. And I mean anything. Because the road won’t hesitate to show you what you’re really made of.”

  I feel a twinge of something in my gut, and the urge to hug myself like I have a tummy ache. Instead, I roll my shoulders back and say, “Roger that. I’m fully prepared to kick this tour’s ass.”

  “You think so?” he asks.

  “Totally. This is like a dream scenario for me. Nothing can get me down.” At least it better not. I’ve got too much riding on this.

  Nick shakes his head. “Spoken like a true Vincent.”

  I look over at the sound of my name, wondering what he means, then remember we’ve established it’s synonymous with winner.

  With the city in the rearview, I look ahead toward my very bright future. It’s so bright I reach into my bag and pull out my prescription sunglasses. Ahh, that’s better. Time to sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

  Dunk, dunk!

  The sound of metal clanging beneath the undercarriage sends a jolt to my system, adrenaline surging in its wake. Nick grips both hands on the steering wheel as the metal object passes with no apparent damage. “What the hell was that?”

  “Good question.” He glances in the rearview, then back at his dashboard. “Shit.”

  “What?”

  “Low tire pressure.”

  “A flat?”

  You’ve got to be kidding me.

  Eleven

  Nick and I stand on the shoulder, staring down at the punctured, deflated tire. What’s that he said? Be prepared for anything? Then I hear Imani’s words in my mind like a haunting echo—See, this is already a disaster. I shrug the thought away and remind myself this isn’t a big deal. It’s not a sign or an omen or any of that. Flat tires happen. And like I said, nothing’s gonna get me down.

  Nick, on the other hand, looks a little deflated himself. He kicks the tire and his young Gary Gulman hair falls across his face. “I can’t believe this. My brand-new Jeep!” I can hardly hear him over the cars whizzing by on the turnpike like a NASCAR track in the middle of a cup race.

  “Talk about taking the air out of your tires,” I say, channeling Rodney Dangerfield in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  Nick raises an eyebrow over the rim of his Wayfarers. “I don’t remember you being a corny one-liner comic.”

  “No, I’m more of an observational storyteller. Like two comedians are stuck on the side of the road kinda girl.”

  “And?”

  “One says to the other . . .” I look him square in the face. “Watch out for sharp objects.”

  “Ha. Ha,” he says as inexpressive as Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

  I open my arms. “I’m here all week.”

  “This is why we have to leave early,” he says, and I almost wonder if that conversation jinxed us.

  “Duly noted. But this isn’t a huge delay. You must get flat tires all the time on the road.”

  “Actually, I don’t.”

  “Really? Then what was all that talk about be prepared for anything?” I ask as he lifts his phone to his ear. “Who are you calling, the tire fairy?”

  “Roadside assistance.”

  “What do you need them for? You have a perfectly good spare right here.” I gesture to the giant rubber donut hanging on the back of the Jeep. Nick lowers his eyes, pretending not to hear me. Wait a second. Oh . . . I see what’s going on here. I step closer. “You don’t know how to change a tire, do you?” I say low in his free ear like I’m trying to simultaneously tease and seduce him. I’m not sure which desire is stronger. Not to judge but how can anyone driving up and down the country on a regular basis, like the headlining Nick Leto, not master this very basic skill?

  “Hang on a second.” He glances back at me with a hint of shame in his eyes before he begins calling out his insurance number in that stilted, annoyed way we address automated systems. “Zero. Zero. Four. Seven.”

  I step in front of him so he has to face me (and this situation). “Your keys, please.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because, the tire fairy’s here.”

  He lowers the phone. “You’re gonna change the tire?” And there he goes, throwing judgment right back at me. Like I haven’t heard it before. You’re going to law school? You’re moving to New York? You’re a comedian? I always feel like saying, Yeah, I’m an intelligent, funny, self-sufficient woman and you’re an ignorant prick. Sometimes, I actually have the balls to say it. But given the circumstances, I let Nick off the hook.

  Well, mostly.

  “No, you’re gonna change it,” I say. “And I’m gonna show you how.”

  He doesn’t look convinced, though who knows if he’s now questioning my ability or his. But he complies with a click of the button on his keyless entry. I smirk. It’s nice to be in a position of power for once. We make our way to the Jeep and begin removing our suitcases. He grunts, pulling out my luggage. “Seriously, what’s in here?”

  “I didn’t know what to pack so I brought everything. You could say I’m prepared for anything.”

  This can’t be Nick’s dream scenario by any stretch but his lip curls up just enough for me to know that he’s glad I’m here. “Here’s the rest of your luggage,” he says, handing over my trash bag. I take it and drag my suitcase safely inside the shoulder lane.

  Nick grabs the jack and cross wrench from the tool compartment (at least he knows where that is) and looks at them the way a caveman would. “Now what?”

  I place my hand on his shoulder and gently say, “Now you become a man.” He frowns helplessly and I can’t help but snicker at his expense. “Okay, okay. Go make sure the emergency brake’s on. That’s the one in the—”

  “I know what it is.” Nick hands me the tools and goes around to climb in the front seat. When he returns, he’s lost the leather jacket (not that it has any place in this June heat). His sleeves are wrapped tightly around his bulging biceps. I didn’t know those were hiding under that leather. What else is he hiding beneath his clothes?

  Nick stands in front of me with his hands on his hips and the sun reflecting off his dark shades. “You sure about this?”

  “Yes,” I say, and hand him the cross wrench. “Now loosen the lug nuts.” He points to the correct tire anatomy for assurance. And I nod.

  Turning the first one, his arm flexes. “Damn, that’s tight.”

  For a moment, I get lost again, thinking the same thing about his body. His rugged jaw clenches as he loosens the next one. Oh, man, it’s gonna be a long trip if he keeps that up. Okay, Olivia, say something before he catches you ogling him. “You breakin’ a sweat already?”

  “It’s hot out here.”

  He’s what’s hot. But seriously, the midmorning sun is really heating up the pavement. Plus this added humidity makes it extra steamy. And there’s enough of that going on. I resist the urge to let my gaze roll down to his waist and keep my focus on the task at hand. But it’s really hard not to notice his behind in those jeans when he squats down to rest the spare on the ground.

  Stop looking at his ass, Olivia. “Heavy?” I tease.

  He dusts his shirt off. “Nah, just hella bulky.”

  Back in Midland, I never had to teach a guy to change a tire. City boys are a totally different breed. Jeep tire changes can be tricky if you don’t know what you’re doing. But Nick’s taking to it like a natural, following my instructions to a T.

  I’m pretty proud of my protégé.

  While Nick finishes up, I pull out my phone and begin texting Imani that I’m stuck on the turnpike with a guy who’s having his first tire-changing lesson. As much as I’d like to share a good laugh about this, it’ll only give her another reason to discourage touring. So I delete it.

  When he’s done, I scrutinize his work while he stands back, watching me. What are the chances he’s telling himself not to look at my booty? “A-plus, Nick,” I say, congratulating him.

  “It’s not complicated. Just a pain in the ass.” He begins digging in his pocket.

  “Not as much of a pain in the ass as waiting for roadside assistance.” I push off the solid rubber tire to my feet and dust off my hands. When I glance up, he’s sparking up a lighter in front of his face, covering the flame with his hand. I sneer. “You smoke?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he says as if he’s saying two packs a day. He takes a long drag and releases a puff of smoke with each word. “You got a problem with smoking?”

  I would love to list all the reasons why smoking is a huge problem for me, for him, and that baby from Indonesia, but it’s too hot and too loud out here to get into it. The rising sun is beginning to burn my skin more than that bad habit’s burning Nick’s lungs. So I cross my arms and respond the same, “Oh, yeah.”

  “Sounds like you could use a cigarette.” He flips open the little box of cancer sticks.