Free Beautiful Disaster by Kylie Adams Page A

comedians was insane.
    One guy went by the name Spasm. His routine consisted mainly of Tourette’s-like outbursts and weird body convulsions. It rarely garnered anything but a few modest giggles at the beginning. But Spasm refused to rethink his act. He was dark, moody, and impossible to interact with, yet still a club fixture at all hours.
    Another regular was Vicky Crow, a morbidly obese woman pushing thirty who would do or say anything at her own expense for a laugh. Her bit about having time to eat a whole pie while a man struggled through layers of fat to find her vagina was an audience favorite. But Max thought she was a psycho and kept his distance. Especially after she went bug fuck on him for reaching out to take one of her cheese fries.
    His favorite upstart was Tyrese Jones, a cool black guy with the razor-sharp mind of a Chris Rock and the cover boy looks of a young Denzel Washington. Women went ape shit for Tyrese. He was a notorious pussy hound, too. The revolving door of one-night stands and attendant girl dramas made for not only a great spectator sport, but also rich material for the dude’s stage act.
    Lucien’s avuncular regard for Max had stirred up plenty of seething resentment. Everybody sought the old guy’s approval, not only because of his influence at the club, but for the fact that getting a nod from a comic at his experience level was a major vote of confidence. His private classes were expensive, though. Spasm, Vicky, and Tyrese could barely afford to pay their rent, so the sour opinion floated that Max was buying his way onto the stage.
    He checked himself before he started to whine about the perils of being rich. So what if a few dirt-poor twats were giving him shit? He would still rather be flush with megabucks. Rushing into one of those payday advance joints to keep a cellphone in service was no way to live. And that’s exactly what Spasm had had to do just a few days ago.
    “We’re ready for you, Lucien.”
    Max tensed up and shot a look to the announcer, but the man was already gone.
    Lucien squeezed Max’s shoulder. “This is it, kid. If you need to puke, do it now. Comics who lose their last meal on the stage never get asked back.”
    Max managed a weak grin. “I’m good. But thanks.”
    “Remember what we talked about,” Lucien advised. “Open, sustain, and pace yourself. Five minutes can be a goddamn eternity up there.”
    Max shook his head up and down, swallowing hard. Reluctantly, he stepped over to the curtain and surreptitiously peered out at the audience.
    Christ . No headliner on the bill and the room was still packed. Word had traveled that Dane Cook might drop in over the weekend to test new material. For now, though, the suckers would have to settle for Max Biaggi Jr.
    He swept the area for familiar faces. Suddenly, he smiled. Sitting dead center near the front of the stage were Shoshanna, Dante, Vanity, and Pippa. No matter how bad he sucked tonight, Max could at least count on big laughs from that table.
    Just two weeks after her overdose, Shoshanna was back to the same precocious vamp style, causing a stir in her ass-cheek-baring Judy shorts by Seven Jeans and a weathered cotton tee that screamed BAD GIRLS SUCK , REAL GIRLS SWALLOW . But as far as Max was concerned, Sho would be on a short leash until her thirtieth birthday. So the upscale slut look was just that—a look.
    Vanity and Dante held court as the hottest couple in the club. By comparison, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt were just two ordinary people. Dante kept a possessive hand on Vanity’s Paige denim-clad thigh, occasionally whispering in her ear and stealing a kiss. He was gone. So was she. It was a total love wreck. Of course, Simon St. John hated their union. How did a father get over the fact that a boy he considered trash was nailing his daughter on a regular basis? Max wondered this with a wicked sense of glee. Why? Because if anyone deserved that special kind of torment, then it was