When I finally collapsed into bed an hour later, I lay there, eyes wide open. I didn’t have to work on Sunday—officially—which was good, but that didn’t mean I was in the clear. I could get frantic calls from the assistant manager with problems-that-must-be-fixed. This happened often.
Rio could be exasperating, and yet I’d never known him to tell a lie or brag about something he couldn’t do or accomplish. He was painfully honest, if mischievous about the truth, depending on the form it took. So what if he knew me like the back of his hand? During the entire time I’d known him I’d had any number of one-offs, but no connections. A bar toilet or the brick wall of a seedy establishment were usually enough to find release. And there was my fist. Just because I hadn’t had any lately didn’t mean
