The party moved from Alpine Valley to the Hogs & Kisses bar in Lake Geneva. Sherri loved being part of the rock-star entourage, and so did Mitch—this was what it must have felt like to be on homecoming court, only better. After her encounter with Roberta, Sherri was determined to have fun. She snorted some more lines of coke in the bathroom, only this time the drug made her nerves feel frayed. Her jaw seemed to come unmoored, rocking back and forth, and she couldn’t control her body language. She climbed onto the bar and danced with the other patrons, although she couldn’t seem to move with the music.

Next thing she knew, she was partying in Hugh Hefner’s suite at the resort after Small Paul snuck her in. Even if she was caught, she had a feeling Gloria wouldn’t mind, because the rules were bent for celebrities or high-ranking keyholders with gold-tipped keys.

She would remember the rest of the night in fragments. The suite had carpeting on the walls and a giant, round bed. Gregg Allman flopped down onto it and fell fast asleep, a shot glass resting on his stomach. At some point, Paul snuck down to the kitchen refrigerator and entered the room holding lobsters in each hand. He took the rubber bands off their claws and the pathetic creatures flailed around on the carpet for what seemed like forever. After a while, people just stepped out of their way. Finally, a stagehand threw them out the window onto the golf course, shouting, “You’re free, motherfuckers!”

The next morning, the room was gassy from all the bodies flopped on every surface. Mitch and Sherri had fallen asleep on the couch. She was on top of him, and woke to see his face—just a mortal, puffy face. She stood up, and saw the outline of Allman’s figure on its side in Hefner’s bed. He snored loudly. If only Roberta were there to see Gregg Allman right there, snoring. Sherri felt sick with guilt. How could she have betrayed her best friend?