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manager was nice enough to stop and give me a ride.”
    â€œPfft. Riggs isn’t nice. Is he, girls?” The Dramettes all giggled and flashed their legs and lashes Nash’s way, but his eyes stayed on me. “Riggs has to play the bad cop. I get to have all the fun. Now let me show you a real ride.” He proffered up the condom packs again, with a crooked grin. “I won’t break you, China Doll.”
    â€œGo fuck yourself.”
    So much for respect and professionalism. But at least I still had dependability on my side.
    He dropped the grin, and the condoms. “Good thing you”—he took a swipe in my general direction with a pointed finger—“won’t remember any of this in the morning,” he announced, swaying slightly. Before I could say a word, his head hit my lap, long legs splaying into the aisle. Out like a light . . . and trapping me in the dining booth.
    The groupies groaned, any possibility of being his runner-up for the night obliterated. They didn’t seem to hold it against me, however, as they said their good-nights and made their way to the empty bunks in the belly of the bus.
    Riggs set a pillow on the table in front of me and plumped it with a meaty paw.
    â€œSeriously?”
    â€œYou’re welcome.” Riggs had finally cracked a smile. Kylie grabbed his arm and they jumped over Nash’s long limbo-stick legs.
    Looked like the bad cop was going to get lucky.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Whether he was recalling the same memory or not, Riggs wasn’t smiling now; the tour manager’s mouth was a grim, crooked line as he led the way out of the VIP tents on quick, bowed legs. We passed rows of luxury coaches, their generators purring and windows discreetly darkened, until we reached the artist compound. The inner sanctum of the festival was surprisingly vibeless. Its courtyard was a ghost town, fashioned out of single-wides that were way too nice to ever end up in a real trailer park. Riggs muttered his usual mantra as he held open the flimsy door of the hospitality trailer for me.
    â€œThey don’t pay me nearly enough for this.”

Thorn in the Side

    A blast of sweet, cool relief hit me. So this was where the promoters were hiding the air-conditioning! Dang. What the trailers lacked in vibe, they certainly made up for in climate control.
    The tour’s headlining bad boy was on the thin mattress of the hospitality trailer, shirtless and writhing in agony. His hair tufted in peaks that either obscured (or accentuated) the devil horns that were no doubt lurking under there. Despite the comfortable temps, a thin sheen of sweat rode high on his forehead as he rolled his eyes in my direction, then back up at the ceiling.
    â€œWhat on earth did you do to yourself?”
    I set down my massage gear and tried to assess the situation, but it was hard to get a good vantage point, especially with him jerking around. The bed took up the entire back space of the RV, leaving me no choice but to climb on and kneel beside him.
    â€œDidn’t you hear?” Riggs spoke for him.
    â€œSorry, I don’t subscribe to the Nash Drama fan club bulletin.”
    Deciding to keep him supine, I found two pillows in the cabinetabove the bed, still in their plastic, and slid them under his knees. The bolster allowed his lower back to imprint against the mattress, and he let out a trembling hiss. Good thing the mattress was still encased in plastic, too; we were gonna get greasy. I grabbed my Biotone gel.
    â€œI slipped last night,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Came down on my hip.” His right hand fluttered alongside his body, “And shoulder. Spasms from hell.”
    Riggs added, “It was that damn whipped cream.”
    I raised a brow. “Let me guess. You slipped on whipped cream and . . . fell into a pit full of bikini-clad Jell-O wrestlers?”
    â€œVery funny, China Doll.