Rich shifted nervously in bed, the sheet wet with his uneasiness, causing his brown-tressed bed partner to groan in displeasure at his restless turning, tossing. “Am I bugging you, Nance, hon?” She pulled the covers up and over her head and answered his question by peeping one runny mascaraed eye above them, rolling it round as though she were a comic in blackface. Then she gave him another groan and turned over on her stomach, apparently wishing she’d never traded those second-rate clubs she used to sing in for the bed of an insomniac. “Sorry, hon,” Rich soothed, patting the blankets where they sheathed her well-formed backside. “Get to sleep, Frankie,” she growled, “okay?” “Sure, hon, sure.” Damn her, he thought. An empty-head like her didn’t understand, couldn’t understand a thing like Nolan. Nolan. Rich shifted again, feeling weak-gutted and foolish that the mere name of a punk like Nolan could run a chill across his spine. He had just closed his eyes and blanked his mind for the nth time when a knock at the bedroom door shot him out of bed like he’d been jabbed with a needle.
