The Tour

Demian strolls into Soapy Massage, looking all rugged and road-worn. Ally spots him and grins, asking what blows him through her doors. He spills it: he's been crisscrossing the country in his beat-up station wagon, strumming his guitar at hole-in-the-wall clubs. Last night's gig crushed it—crowd went wild, and the payout was fat for once—so he's splurging on a killer massage. Ally Ann's eyes light up; she leans in with that naughty sparkle, saying she's always had a thing for musicians, all that raw, sweaty sex appeal. 'Baby, I'll scrub you clean and then some,' she teases, running through the soapy session details and prices like a pro. Demian doesn't hesitate—forks over the cash with a cocky wink.