Page 33 of No Funny Business

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.