I nod along until Johnny dismisses me with a wink and then cross to the band. Ming’s excellent aim was not reserved for her bra, as both her gloves and her heavy, beaded shimmy belt ended up on band members. The latter could have been a problem, though, and the drummer grumbles as he unwinds the belt from where it tangled around his neck.

On my way back through the audience, a guest pushes out his chair, blocking my way, and I wait as he rummages beneath the table. I’m directly across from Mr. GoodFace, who’s raised his hand like he’s trying to flag down a waiter. A tall blond guy by the bar waves in response and moves toward him. I’m momentarily chagrined to see the men hug, but the quick exchange of back pats is more friendly than intimate.

The man in my way scoots in his chair, wielding his recovered napkin victoriously. Johnny announces the Twins, kicking off the girls’ progress to the stage, and I finally get to the dressing room. Ming rests against a makeup station, dabbing between her breasts with a paper towel. A few feet away, Jane lounges in an office chair, turning side to side as he hums along to the music upstairs.

“Ming,” I say, remembering the drummer’s complaint. “Be careful. Dion would rather not be garroted by your shimmy belt.”

“Eh?” she asks, patting delicately at an armpit.

“Don’t chuck heavy stuff at the band,” Jane clarifies, stopping the swivel of his chair to face Ming. “Their hands are busy.”

Ming cups her mouth. “Shit! Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. But you might want to apologize later.” I go through the items. “Gown, two gloves, robe, murder belt, bra. Everything’s accounted for.”

“Thank you, Kitten!”

I carry my load to the clothing rack on the far side of the room, arranging the gown and robe on a hanger before draping the remaining items on another.

Jane joins me. “You good?” He hands me my champagne flute. “You seemed preoccupied earlier.”

I take a sip of my drink. Guilt plucks at my insides, but I don’t want to tell Jane about the potential sale on the chance it goes south. He doesn’t rebound well from disappointment—unfortunate, given the audition-heavy nature of his work.

“Just distracted,” I say, which isn’t a lie, and wiggle my eyebrows. “There’s a dreamboat at table nine. We were making eyes for most of Ming’s set.”

“Oh?” Jane beckons toward the door with a cheeky smile. “I’d better have a look.”

We arrive in time to catch the end of the Twins’ routine. I try to point out the handsome one to Jane, but the latecomer’s position blocks my view. It’s just as well. The Twins haven’t perfected their aerial set, and their costume pieces are scattered across, behind, and away from the stage.