Page 8 of No Funny Business

“Be nice, Liv.”

“I’m just sayin’. With that shirt? It’s like he just walked off the set of Jailhouse Rock.”

She indulges me in a little laugh. I’ll take it. “His name is Lukas. He’s from the Frankfurt office.”

“Makes sense.” I lean on the cool stone breakfast bar between us, eager to get the rest of the details.

“We had a few drinks. One thing led to another...” Isn’t that how it always happens? You’re having a friendly drink and before you know it your bra’s dangling from some guy’s lampshade and you’re screaming, Ja, ja, JA! (For those of you who don’t know, that’s yes in German—I picked up that much.)

“Ooh, you did the nasty with him,” I tease, gyrating my body like we’re back in eleventh grade.

“Girl, you don’t even know.” She widens her eyes as if she’s about to spill the tea. “Boy can make my body talk!”

“In what language?” I ask, and she shoots me a sassy pursed-mouth stare. “Does he speak any English?”

“Only a few words, but they’re all the right ones.”

I roll my eyes, finally feeling the adrenaline rush of the evening simmer down. “Should I get a hotel?” I’d prefer not to hear my BFF enjoy her German boy toy all night.

She waves a carefree hand. “No, Liv, you’re good. There’s no way he can go again.”

“How many times has it been?” I say out of the side of my mouth even though I know he’s not listening to our conversation from the other room enough to understand it.

She lifts a finger for a count of one, then two, then three.

“Damn! For you or for him?”

She nods in the direction of the bedroom. “Him, for me it’s been...” She holds up a full five-fingered hand. My jaw drops. “Try not to hate me.”

“I never could.” Though, I am envious of her orgasmextravaganza. I haven’t had one since I came to New York. I’m not talking about a multiple-orgasm sexfest. I mean any orgasm. It’s true. Whether I’m alone or with someone, it never shows up. But I’m busy. By the time I get home from my twelve-hour days, how can I expect my body to give any more? I’m sure things will bounce back when I have only one career to manage instead of two. At least I hope so.

“So how was the show?” she asks, and I immediately think of Nick’s smile.

“So good. The crowd was awesome. Imani, I’m telling you. This is what I should be doing.” I breathe out a sigh as my gaze wanders to the ceiling, imagining a scene I’ve thought of a million times—just me and a mic, onstage, thousands of people in the audience laughing as I land joke after joke after joke. I fantasize about seeing my name on a marquee and making friends with my comedic heroes. The ones who are still alive at least. Maybe I’d have time for an actual relationship with someone who gets it. Someone who gets me. Maybe someone with a face, and sense of humor, like Nick.

Imani’s eyes soften. “Liv, that’s great. You’re like... glowing.”

“Well, I sorta met a guy too,” I say playfully.

“Really? Who?”

“He’s another stand-up.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“I’m not sure. He’s on the road all the time anyway.” Unfortunately. “Well, you better get back to the Hamburglar.”

“I just hope he doesn’t snore.”

“Yeah, all the good ones have sleep apnea.”

She lets out one of those too-tired-to-laugh laughs. “G’night.”

“Night. Sorry about the pepper spray.”

“Don’t be. You’re my penguin.” She lays her hand gently on mine and gives it a little squeeze, forgiving me for pepper-spraying her German sex-god guest.