Sherry Trent and her father, Victor Redgrave, lay in the lounge chairs beside the immense swimming pool behind the Lucky Nuggett Hotel. They lay face up, eyes closed, facing the Nevada sun. It was hot, even for July, but a slight breeze made the beat bearable. Sherry liked to sport a tan. For one thing a suntan made it unnecessary to apply so much stage makeup at night under the heat of the stage lights performers perspired and their makeup appeared streaked and ran onto costumes, staining them. Also, a tan contributed to her whole some image.

The breeze diminished and Sherry sat up shielding her eyes from the bright sun with her hand and surveyed the deck. Two young men, both in their twenties she guessed, were staring directly at her. Mouths agape, they made no pretense of not staring directly at her breasts and the indentation of her vagina in the skimpy crotch of her bikini. Sherry loved Daddy, true, but she was a born performer. She spread her legs just a little farther apart, tugged at her halter, and smiled at them. It was just a friendly smile, not seductive, but the taller lad – the one with the erection nearly fell backwards in to the pool. Only a grab by his friend – whose crotch was somewhat swollen too – saved him from plunging into the blue water.

Sherry lay back again, feeling their hungry eyes fastened to her, and enjoyed her sunbath.

"How many times have I told you that a performer, especially one who hopes to be a star, is supposed to remain aloof? That was cheap, Sherry," her father said. "Being friendly is one thing. Tantalizing is quite another."