“He’s quite the hero,” I offer.

  We ride along the highway, which is ridiculously crowded considering it’s after midnight. My eyes wander around the loopy ramps, commercial buildings, and luxury apartment complexes right off the road. Then I see something I somehow missed on the way to the club. That notable piece of the capital’s architecture.

  “Hey, is that the Washington Monument?” I say, harking back to the moment I saw the Empire State Building in New York for the first time. The screen never quite does the structures justice. I guess some things are better live.

  “Yeah, it’s huge,” Nick says.

  “You’re not jealous, are you?” I throw Nick’s words back at him and, at the same time, feel certain that our white forefathers were trying to compensate for something. The waitress laughs at this, slowly winning me over.

  “You know, the monument was the tallest structure in the world until the Eiffel Tower,” she says, and I chuckle under my breath at the idea of the two countries having a whose dick is bigger? contest. Really makes you wonder what would happen if women ruled the world.

  “How do you know that?” Nick asks.

  “I remember it from a high school field trip.”

  “A recent one?” I ask, and she laughs again, not at all noticing (or minding) the dig. Not that it was meant for her as much as it was for a guy who is much closer to midlife than senior year. Perhaps this Jeep is a symptom of his crisis. And so is the waitress.

  “No, I graduated like four years ago,” she offers.

  “Did you hear that, Nick?”

  “Yes, Olivia,” he drones.

  “Clinton was president when she was born,” I add.

  He completely ignores me but I hear him say something to her. Something he wants to keep between them. I let it go and lean my head on the box next to me, watching the monument shrink in the distance.

  My butt goes numb by the time we make it back to the comedy condo. Never thought I’d actually be relieved to be back at the shabby-ass apartment.

  “You go ahead. We’ll be right behind you,” Nick calls back, probably wanting some privacy to whip out his Washington Monument.

  Crawling on my knees, I reach for the latch and pop the door open. “You kids be safe,” I say, then slam the door hard.

  Inside the condo, it’s quiet but still smells like Snoop Dogg’s crib. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge (one of the few bottles left next to a jar of mystery mayonnaise). Stand-ups really are a special bunch. Strike that—male stand-ups are a special bunch. I wash the cap and head to my room for the night, making sure to lock the door.

  By the time I slip on my pj’s and into the double-washed sheets, voices rustle somewhere in the small apartment. The walls in this place don’t provide much privacy. Something D.C. and NYC apartments have in common. My ears tingle at the sound of Nick’s rough muffled voice followed by her giggle. Not like a response-to-a-joke giggle but more of the flirty, precoital variety. Exactly like the giggle Imani made the other night. Who knows how long it’s been since one of those sounds slipped beyond my lips? Well, I know how long it’s been but I’d rather not say because it’s long enough that the most appropriate response would be—Bless your heart.

  I sneer with an annoyed grumble, pulling the blanket up to my chin. I’m in no mood to listen to the two of them make the bed rock while the futon bar digs into my back.

  After twenty minutes of trying to ignore the faint murmurs of their conversation or whatever they’re doing, I hear the apartment door close. Must be Herb crashing their party. I sniff audibly. No sign of any fresh bud. The place goes quiet, and soon, a single set of footsteps slips past my locked door. The sound of another door closing follows.

  Did the waitress leave? Did Nick send her home before things went too far? Hmm, maybe this night isn’t a total disaster.

  Sixteen

  Do-Dah-Lee-Do!

  I startle awake with a big gasp as if inhaling smelling salts.

  Do-Dah-Le—! I silence the alarm and blink my eyes. Where the hell am I? Looks like a Salvation Army room display. I slide my glasses on.

  Nope, just a comedy condo.

  One day down, ten more to go. Throwing off the covers, I’ve got two things in mind—a shower and coffee. I grab my things before dragging myself out toward the bathroom. The hum of the exhaust fan drones behind the closed bathroom door. I knock. “Nick, are you in there?”

  The door opens and a flood of steam pours out along with a waft of Irish Spring. Nick stands in nothing but a hunter green towel just barely wrapped around his waist. He smiles, humming Steve Miller Band’s “The Joker” like he’s in a very good mood. His wavy, wet hair drips on his shoulders, rolling down his defined chest. It’ll be impossible to steal my gaze away from those pecs.

  “Good morning,” he says, breaking the bare-chest seduction spell.

  “Morning,” I murmur, trying to conceal my morning breath. Not to mention my bird’s nest of a top bun (if that bird lived in a shantytown).

  “Hope I left you enough hot water.”

  At the moment, a cold shower might be better. “Uh-huh,” I mutter, and he slips past me. Before locking myself in the bathroom, I sneak one last peek at him. Of all the comics I could be on tour with, it had to be the one with the cutest butt. I bite my bottom lip then quickly wash away the dirty thought with a headshake. Time to get cleaned up.

  All things considered, the shower looks pretty safe but I better not take any chances. So I slip out of my clothes and into a pair of five-dollar rubber flip-flops (because you know I packed ’em). The hot water is plentiful for the first few minutes before it dies out and gives me the cold shoulder. Literally. Icy water’s just pelting my back. After I towel off my goose-pimpled skin and dress, I crack the door to get a little air circulating while I dab my face with concealer. These dark circles aren’t going to hide themselves.

  Nick knocks softly. “You decent?”

  I grab a tube of lip gloss and swipe it on before he sees me. “Yeah, what’s up?”

  “We have to get on the road,” he says, wedging his body in the door just close enough for me to breathe in his cologne, or deodorant, or whatever makes him smell so damn good.

  I remind myself of Bernie’s rule. This swooning has to stop. As much as I’d like to explore other possibilities, Nick’s my road buddy, not my bed buddy. He’s Jerry. I’m Elaine.

  “What’s the rush?” I ask. “We don’t have a show until tomorrow. You got plans with another waitress tonight?” This is totally something Elaine would say to Jerry. Still, I find the idea more infuriating than funny. I wonder if she would too.

  “Maybe,” he says, and his double dimples (the kind you wanna lick) manifest once again, making this whole thing harder.

  “What happened to your friend last night, anyway?”

  “I never kiss and tell,” he teases, and I roll my eyes inwardly. Or outwardly because then he asks, “Why?”

  “Well, since you made me sit on the floor of the Jeep like a dog, I figured you’d be pouring her coffee right about now.”

  “It wasn’t like that. Besides, we’re out of coffee.”

  Uh, what was that?

  “What do you mean, out of coffee? I can’t get in that Jeep and drive for even one hour without at least one cup of coffee. I won’t make it.”

  “We all have our vices, Olivia.”

  I knit my brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you can get your fix at the gas station. Now c’mon, Miss Priss, you can finish your makeup later.”

  * * *

  —

  Over at the gas station under the canopy’s shade, I scarf down a breakfast bagel sandwich while throwing back a swig of coffee, or in this case, the liquid of life.

  “Better?” Nick asks.

  “Yes.”

  He turns the ignition and that gorgeous Guns N’ Roses guitar riff eases through the speakers like a breathtaking sunrise. “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” I haven’t let myself listen to this in a long time.

  “Veto!” I say, exercising my right for the first time this trip.

  “What? Why?”

  “Uh, because I can.”

  “This is a classic,” he argues.

  “Ugh, no. It’s played out. Change it, please.”

  His expression turns sour but he complies and Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down” takes over.

  Whew, that was close.

  “Where to next?” he asks himself, putting in the Atlanta address in his GPS.

  I pull up the itinerary from my email to get the details for myself. “Not another condo, I hope.”

  “Nope. A motel.”

  “Is that better?”

  “Eh, I guess we’ll find out.”

  Moments later, we’re off. Well, kind of. The roads are congested on the way to the highway, and it’s hardly nine in the morning. “What is this? The church crowd?” Virginia is technically the edge of the Bible Belt states. I grab my makeup bag, flip down the visor mirror, and clamp my dark lashes in an eyelash curler.

  “Whoa, what are you doing?” he says like I just aimed a can of pepper spray at him.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Please don’t do that while I’m driving. You’re making me nervous,” he says.

  I turn with my lashes crimped in the curler. “Oh, this? This makes you nervous?” I tease, and he cringes. “I can drive and do this at the same time.”

  “Yeah, that don’t make it a good fuckin’ idea!” He does a Chris Rock impression and I let the curler go, laughing. Because I can’t laugh and curl at the same time.

  “Bigger & Blacker?” I ask.

  “You know your stand-up.”

  “It’s one of my all-time favorites.”

  “Hey, me too.”

  Right there, in stop-and-go traffic, we share a moment. Two comedy lovers stuck in a Jeep, one thinks of the other . . . Why do you have to be so cute and funny?

  Then, he pulls a single cigarette from the pack hidden in the front console. Oh, yeah, how could I forget about that? So not cute. I shift the conversation. “What’s with the crazy schedule? Is it always like this?”

  “No. Not exactly.” He steadies the stick behind his ear and sets his wrist on the twelve o’clock position on the wheel, keeping his eyes on the car in front of us.

  “Then why are we touring like rock stars?”

  “Because I always wanted to be one,” he says, like he’s sending me a wink behind his dark shades.

  “That explains the leather, Billy Idol.”

  “Just trying to pack my gigs like your suitcase on the way to L.A.”

  “I can’t wait to get to L.A.” I let out a yawn and slink back in my seat.

  “Tired?” he asks.

  “Yeah, this caffeine isn’t doing anything for me. Think I might catch a nap so if you want me to drive the second leg—”

  “Uh-uh. We went over this.” Nick shakes his head. “You’re not driving my Jeep. A capeesh is a capeesh.”

  This is the second time he’s said this but now he knows that I know my way around a Jeep better than he does. “I can change a tire on your Jeep but I can’t drive it?”

  “You didn’t change the tire. I did.”

  “Because I showed you how.”

  He smirks. “It’s not personal. I’m just not ready to let someone else drive it.”

  Why is he so protective over his Jeep? It’s just a Jeep. Even my dad let me drive his eventually. Maybe by Georgia, Nick’ll warm up to the idea. Then, a familiar ’80s synth beat rolls through the speakers. I know this song! I like this song. Bobbing my head to the beat, I crank up the volume. It’s got the perfect message for my possessive driver. “You know what I think, Nick? You gotta . . . RELAX! Don’t dooo iit!” I sing along with Frankie Goes to Hollywood.

  “Are you serious right now?” Nick spits out a slight chuckle.

  “No, you’re the serious one,” I say. “Sing with me.”

  “I guess that coffee’s kicked in,” he says, and joins me. After all, it’s his music.

  “When you wanna come . . .” The sound of our voices singing those lyrics in unison feels like we’re having vocal sex and sends a tingle down my spine. So I lower the volume.

  “I forgot how dirty this song is,” I say.

  “I know, I like it.” Nick and I share a look. It lingers long enough for me to wonder if Nick’s any good in bed. I have a sneaking suspicion he is.

  No, Olivia. Don’t go down that road.

  I swat the idea away like a damn horsefly in the house and turn my attention to the traffic ahead as it finally begins to clear.

  “So what’s your story?” he asks.

  “My life story?” Isn’t it a little too early in the tour for this one? Maybe we should wait another five hundred miles.

  “No, like do you have a boyfriend back in New York?” Was he just thinking what I was thinking? Is that why he’s asking me now?

  “You first,” I say.

  “No, I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m single and ready to mingle. Now you?”

  “Me neither,” I say, feeling my body tense beneath the seatbelt.

  “Girlfriend?”

  “I don’t have one of those either. My life isn’t exactly conducive to dating at the moment.”

  “And why’s that?” He sounds genuinely interested. But my answer shouldn’t surprise him. It shouldn’t surprise anyone who’s tried to make their way in New York City.

  “I work like thirteen-hour days most of the time and I do shows on the weekend too. I barely have time to eat, let alone be in a relationship.”

  “Yeah, it’s tough building a career and a life. Especially when our job requires us to be out most nights.” And just when I think he’s gonna leave it at that, he says, “But you do make time for sex, right?”

  My cheeks flush at the word sex like I’m twelve years old. When it comes to Nick, I guess sexual tension’s okay, but a candid conversation about the deed? Not so much. “Why are you asking me that?”

  “I’m not trying to be skeezy. Just making conversation. Getting to know you. Jerry and Elaine talked about sex all the time.”

  “I don’t know if they talked about it all the time.” I hold a pregnant pause. Not that there’s any chance I could be pregnant (because, well, you know why). Sure, everyone thinks the moment a single woman moves to Manhattan, her life becomes an episode of Sex and the City season one. But my show would be called Busy in the City. And yeah, I wear that busyness like a badge of honor just like everyone else in my generation. At the same time, I don’t want Nick thinking I’m in the slow-sex group. Or worse—a twenty-eight-year-old virgin (No offense, Tina Fey—love you!). Nick nudges me with a look, so I say, “Yes, of course I have sex.”

  “Really?” He sounds unconvinced. “Then when was the last time?”

  I take a second, skipping days and weeks, and begin calculating months.

  “That long, huh?” Nick says.

  “Give me a second.”

  “If you need a second, you’re not doing it enough.”

  “Whatever.” I push my seatbelt over and reach in the back for my pillow, the one tucked in my garbage bag. I need at least another REM before I can handle this conversation. “I’m not here to debate my sex life with you.”

  “What sex life?”

  “Ha. Ha.” I settle my pillow against the sun-streaked window and curl in. Nick takes the hint and doesn’t say another word. I sneak a sideways glance his way. What’s he thinking? And why do I care so much? I close my eyes, willing myself to conk out for a nap. But his words resound in my head—If you need a second, you’re not doing it enough.

  Yes, my schedule’s packed but maybe that’s not the reason for my lack of sexual adventure. I have no desire to fake it for some guy I hardly care about. Maybe that’s the problem. I just haven’t found the man I don’t have to fake it with.

  Seventeen

  The sun beats on my face when I open my eyes. My nostrils are accosted by a waft of Nick’s bad habit. Wind whips through the Jeep as he drives eighty miles an hour down the two-lane highway who knows where while Tom Petty’s “American Girl” blasts through the speakers. How long have I been out?

  I blink my eyes a few times and catch a glimpse of the clock on the dash when I slide my glasses back on. 1:56 p.m.!

  “Have a good nap?” Nick asks, extinguishing his cigarette and rolling up the window.

  “Yeah,” I say, slightly disoriented and attempting to bring moisture back to my dry mouth by chugging every last ounce from my water bottle. When I come up for air, I look ahead for any local signs. “Where are we?”

  “We crossed the North Carolina border about forty minutes ago.” So it’s official. I’m back in the South. “You know you sleep with your mouth open, right?”

  Was he watching me sleep? From any other strange guy that’d be creepy. But when it’s Nick, it’s kinda cute.

  “All these trees make me stuffy.” The truth is, trees or no trees, I’m a straight-up mouth breather. And now Nick knows two intimate details about me—dry mouth and dry . . . you know.

  “Is that why you snore too?” he teases.

  I make a dismissive clicking noise with my tongue. “I do not snore.” Do I?

  “Oh, yeah?” He taps around the screen on his phone that’s secured to the dash, keeping his eyes primarily on the road. “Look at this.” He lifts the device from its place and flashes the screen my way. A video of me completely unconscious, mouth open while the sound of my piglet snores plays through the sound system. Heat slinks up my cheeks. “You’re cute when you snore.”

  I take it in stride, feeling more embarrassed than violated. We’re jokesters after all. Still, my heart flutters when he calls me cute. “Recording me while I sleep, huh? Classy.”