Page 52 of No Funny Business

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.