Free Compact with the Devil: A Novel by Bethany Maines

lady could protest.

GERMANY III
Tilt!
    Nikki toured the perimeter, trying to make sense of the scene in front of her. The mechanical stage apparatus took up the center of the room with a snaking octopus of wires that all fed into a central panel manned by the plump, donut-eating tech she had noticed earlier. She could see Kit and the band on a small TV monitor at the currently unmanned desk; the tech was back at the craft services table. Taking a deep breath, she sidled up to him.
    “Hey,” she said, “I’m Nikki. I’m helping Trista out.” Donut Eater nodded and wiped his fingers on a napkin to shake hands. “Am I the only new person on board today?” She added a winsome smile.
    “Well,” said the tech, looking around as if he wasn’t sure she was talking to him, “there’s the walk-on help.”
    “What’s walk-on help?”
    “Them,” he said, waving at the black-clad men currently carrying equipment toward the loading bay. “The tour can’t bringenough people to really do just labor, so we hire out. Some towns are better than others. The Germans, at least, seem to live up to their reputation for efficiency. Things are going pretty well tonight.”
    “What about—”
    The tech’s watch beeped, interrupting her. “Time to start the prep for raising the stage,” he said, pivoting on his heel and leaving without another word.
    Nikki watched him leave and shook her head. Nerds … so smart and yet so stupid. Why were the technologically savvy so frequently undersocialized?
    She followed some of the walk-ons, keeping a wary eye out for security. Somewhere there was a large man who would be pissed at her when he woke up.
    A groupie was waiting by the back entrance, a backstage pass dangling from her neck and a cigarette from her fingers. Nikki leaned against the wall and scrutinized her; she’d never seen a real live groupie before. Plaid mini and spike-heeled boots that left the pale expanse of her thighs exposed for all admirers to see. A cascade of pale blond hair that fell down her back in a straight curtain of corn silk. A thin, youngish man in a dark suit, his blond hair in a faux-hawk, approached her and the two talked for a moment before he escorted her outside.
    The way in which the man rested his hand on the small of the girl’s back reminded her of Z’ev. Z’ev’s fingertips would rest with the lightest of touches on her spine as they walked through restaurants or onto the dance floor. Nikki could never quite figure out if she liked it as an old-fashioned gesture of courtliness or disliked it as a patronizing gesture of ownership. She couldn’t quite shake the idea that he thought she needed his guidance to do things, as if she couldn’t take care of herself.Even when he had proof otherwise, he still didn’t seem capable of accepting it.
    “What the hell was that!?” demanded Z’ev, slamming the door on the apartment. “You go out for butter and forty-five minutes later I find you answering questions from the cops.”
    “I was helping,” said Nikki.
    “You were helping?” repeated Z’ev. “The policeman said you did a flying side-kick across the counter and beat the guy unconscious with a brandy bottle.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Nikki. “It was tequila. Longer neck, better grip.”
    “Nikki!”
    “What? What do you want me to say, Z’ev?” asked Nikki, heading into the bedroom to take off her sweatshirt. Z’ev followed after her. “Poor Mr. Singh was getting robbed. What was I supposed to do? Just stand there?”
    “You could have called the cops!” suggested Z’ev, glaring.
    “Yeah, and by the time they got there Mr. Singh could have been dead and definitely would have been out all the money in his till. He’s putting his son through college, saving for his daughter’s dowry, and sending money back home. He can’t afford that!”
    “Nikki, you are not bulletproof! You could have been killed.”
    “Meh. That guy didn’t know what he was