"Oh, thank fuck," she breathes out when the text pops up on her phone. Another distraction.

The place is about half-packed when Jay arrives, techno-rock blaring on the speakers, couples grinding on the dance floor and dancers writhing on the poles. Pam is waiting at the bar, and when she spots Jay, she crosses the room toward him.

"We can use the back door to bring your trailer through," she says, leaning in a little to be heard over the music.