Two girls stood at the tent flap, daring each other to go inside as a male friend egged them on. Typical students on a spring break, with burnt noses and bad dye jobs from a last-minute decision to test whether blonds really did have more fun.

“I hope she’s not trying out for a spot,” one girl muttered as I headed their way. “My fourteen-year-old sister has bigger boobs.”

“She can practice her Kama Sutra on me anytime,” the guy said.

I nodded to them as I passed, pretending I hadn’t heard. Just like Mom would have done…though she probably wouldn’t have added the mental “Fuck you.”

I pulled the tent flap open a crack. A stomach-churning blend of pot and incense rolled out.

“Caesar Romeo?” I called.

“Who’s askin’?”

“Faith Edmonds. You’re expecting me?”

The dimly lit tent was divided into rooms. The front one was a reception area, complete with chairs and magazines—Playboy and Penthouse. Maybe for inspiration.

“Well?” the voice barked. “If I’m expecting you, what the fuck are you waiting for? Get your ass in here.”

I followed the voice into a room that looked like a sultan’s tent. Multicolored pillows carpeted the sand floor. A huge gilt mirror on a stand had been tilted at an odd angle—odd until I followed the reflection to the pillows.

Caesar Romeo perched on an ornate wood seat, so huge it looked like a throne. He was no taller than my five feet. His skin was wizened, and so darkened by the sun I couldn’t guess his age or ethnic background. Beady black eyes glared out from deep-set sockets. A flame-red Afro, gold lamé shirt and tight white leather pants completed the look. If I believed in goblins, that’s what I’d peg him as—one of the pisacha from my mother’s tales.

His gaze crawled up me, then down, as cold and critical as a matron eying a slab of beef she wouldn’t serve to her dog.

“Turn around,” he said.

“I’m not trying out for a part,” I said. “I’m Faith Edmonds. Ned Baker sent me.”

Romeo waved a hand and I thought he was motioning at me, until I noticed a man smoking a joint off to the side, who was giving me a much more flattering appraisal.

“Felippe,” Romeo said. “Go. Shoot those bimbos giggling at the door.”

“Should I give them T-shirts?” Felippe asked.

“Don’t waste the merchandise. They’ll be lucky if they make the cut.”

Felippe stubbed out his joint on a brass urn and left. Romeo’s gaze followed him, and he listened as his assistant offered the girls a “role.”