Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  I smiled and squinted, allowing my eyes to fully adjust. Out of the calm, cool shade of my massage tent, I could tell the day was going to be a scorcher, both musically and meteorologically. Stagehands were already scaling the scaffolding like tanned monkey gods, while others took respite from the sun in bright-striped hammocks swinging beneath the main stage.

  Music and massage. This was where my worlds collided.

  I had found my calling.

  All the kids I knew in young adulthood had had clear visions of what they wanted to be when they grew up, and noticeable talents. Laney was creating her own comic books before I even met her. Allen had never been without a pair of telltale sticks in his back pocket as a teenager, drumming his way through high school marching corps, garage bands, and into the hearts of millions with his group, Three on a Match. Jax could craft paragraphs that produced laughter, tears, and demands for more in the short time it took to ride the Montauk line of the LIRR from his house to mine. And Posy had followed in our parents’ footsteps, PhD in hand and on a tenured university track before the age of twenty-five.

  Other than providing my friends with my own quirky brand of pop psychology, I hadn’t known what my skill sets were. Until the day I walked barefoot across a boyfriend’s back on the dusty floor of his college dorm room, and the innate therapist in me was truly born. I had no idea that type of massage had a name (Ashiatsu) and its own equipment (wooden bars installed overhead) and that there were actual schools devoted to the ancient Asian practice. But I knew that I wanted to, and I could, help people both mentally and physically through massage.

  “You’re a little overqualified for this job, aren’t you?” Maxine, who ran artist hospitality for the festival, had frowned at my credentials and glowing recommendations. “I guess doctor of physical therapy wasn’t enough for you, then?”

  My Ivy League–educated parents weren’t about to let me go half-cocked out into the working world, so I came armed with my BA in psychology from Hofstra and my graduate coursework from Columbia. It took me two more years, on top of my original seven, to gain the additional hours of education and hands-on clinical experience required to become a board-certified massage therapist. But being stuck practicing in an office had never been on my agenda.

  “Here’s what I expect: dependability, respect, and the utmost professionalism while you work with the artists.” Maxine had held my Working laminate backstage pass close to her face, forcing me to stare her down while keeping my eye on the prize. “And here’s what you shouldn’t expect: Glitz. Glamour. Tips. An easy ride. Got it? You’re not here to get your drugs on, be a groupie, find a husband, land a recording contract, or any of the other rock-and-roll fantasies. You are here to work, is that clear?”

  “Crystal,” had been my reply.

  Now, tilting my face to warm it in the sun, I smiled. I was here to work right through the summer. Music had never failed to help me, heal me, and hold me up over the years, so it was only fair I returned the favor. This was my next big adventure, right here and right now. No looking back, just facing my soul forward, like the lyrics from my favorite Shonnie Phillips song.

  Go through it, darlin’. Not around it.

  It was the perfect place to lose oneself. And no one was hiding behind pretty masks and false promises here.

  “You’re wanted.”

  Riggs Munro was standing in my sunlight.

  It was hard to believe this guy was the mover and shaker behind one of the hottest bands in the industry today. The guys in Go Get Her might’ve been lean, mean, rock-and-roll machines, but their tour manager stalked around the festival grounds half the time like a pissed-off Pillsbury Doughboy.

  “Wanted—how?” I asked. “Dead or alive?” Riggs smirked, as if he didn’t care either way. “Elaborate.”

  “You’re needed. How’s that?” His smirk diminished, and I saw the tension he was holding around his eyes soften. I imagined the job of a tour manager was not an easy one, only hard-asses need apply. “He’s in a lot of pain, and asking only for you.”

  I rolled my eyes. There could be only one “he” Riggs was referring to, and it was current “it” guy, Nash Drama. And he and I hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot. The late-night incident on the Go Get Her tour bus had happened a week ago, and I had been steering clear of backstage during his set times ever since.

  “I can’t massage on his bus, Riggs. I could get fired. Your star player’s going to have to come here.”

  Riggs turned and nodded politely toward my last client exiting the tent, then did a double take.

  “I’m still levitating! Cheers, Dani.” The most famous man at the festival flipped down a pair of shades and took off in a slow jog, back toward catering.

  “Was that . . . who I think it was?” Riggs was temporarily derailed.

  “Yep.” I smiled. “Wow, even jaded tour managers get tongue-tied in the presence of true greatness, huh?”

  “Holy shit, he looks good for his age. Better than when I saw him perform at Live Aid like, thirty freakin’ years ago.” He seemed to remember his mission once again, pulling himself up straighter. “Listen. Nash isn’t on his bus. He’s in a trailer in the artist compound, right over there. Come on. You owe him one.”

  Maxine’s decree echoed in my head: Dependability, respect, and the utmost professionalism while you work with the artists.

  You’re here to work.

  I sighed and dipped back into the tent to grab a few essentials. True, I may have owed Nash Drama a favor. But he owed me a major apology for insulting my intelligence.

  One for the Road

  Of course my van had broken down two weeks into the tour. Mean Mistress Mustard had given a shudder and a sigh as I coaxed her toward a hilly stretch along Route 321 between Boone and Charlotte, North Carolina, as if to say, “Girlfriend, you want me to do what? Please, bitch. I’m forty-two years old.”

  I had stood by her bumper, cursing Jax and his entire unborn line of privileged progeny. And swore at myself for passing up the chance to caravan with my fellow masseuse, Jade, and her family. Her husband Travis was on the tour as well, selling and blowing beautiful glass in vending, while tending to five-year-old Delilah until Jade’s massage day ended. We often rode in tandem between shows for safety and for socializing. If Travis couldn’t stand one more go-round of “The Wheels on the Bus” in their family Subaru, he would jump into my VW and we’d belt out “100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” for the next hundred miles. Or Jade would ride with me so we could gossip about our workday, away from the eagle ears of Maxine.

  They had stayed on to camp in the Blue Ridge Mountains for the off day, while I had been more interested in the creature comforts in town. A much-needed night’s sleep in a real bed, followed by a busman’s holiday of a full-body massage and sugar scrub.

  “Take the scenic route,” the locals at the gas station advised when I’d inquired about the two-hour journey to the next stop on the tour. “The sun will set over the forest and there’s so much less traffic than on the interstate.”

  Yeah, well. No traffic meant broken down and stranded until well after the sun had set. My cell phone dropped two calls to AAA before I was finally told a tow would arrive “within” ninety more minutes.

  A bus had wound its way around the curve and had begun to slow. NO ONE YOU KNOW, the destination signage above the windshield proclaimed. I had seen the same bus idling back behind the stage at the last four shows, but wasn’t sure which artist occupied it.

  Had I known, I might’ve taken my chances with the side of the road.

  • • •

  The tour bus door had burped open a few yards up from my broken-down van.

  “Kylie, get yer ass back up here and let me take a look!” Half a body leaned out the door; I glimpsed a bare foot and long leg, followed by the teased-up hair of a smiling girl, before whoever was fighting for
rights to the narrow stairs won out. “You okay?” demanded a hipster with graying muttonchops and an impatient twitch to his right eye.

  “Not hurt. Just broken down.” Thunder grumbled from somewhere over the treetops. “There’s a tow truck coming, supposedly.”

  He eyed my laminate. “Well, come on then. Unless you want to waste your day off sitting in some Podunk town, waiting for a repair.”

  Given the age of my vehicle, I had a feeling the fix might take longer than a day. After quickly surveying my options, I grabbed my duffel bag.

  “My daddy always says to fly something white from your mirror!” It was the girl again, squeezing past Mr. Twitchy.

  I looked back at poor Mean Mistress Mustard, looking dark and dejected by the side of the road. I couldn’t even get her flashers to work. And as much as I made fun of Laney for always wearing drab colors, I realized I was no better. What was in my duffel looked a lot like what I currently wore—black tank top and dark jeans. Dark and neutral were a massage therapist’s go-to attire, best for not distracting clients or showing stains.

  “Here!” The girl peeled off her white lacy camisole and tossed it to me. The bra she revealed was about as minimal as two postage stamps and some Silly String, but she didn’t seem to mind. “I’m fixing to get naked anyway.”

  Wow. So not something I would say within the first three minutes of meeting someone, but to each her own. “Thanks.” I dashed back to the car. The wind was picking up in the hills, and the flimsy garment whipped at my face as I went about securing it to my side mirror. The first slashes of hard rain began to fall, just as I hauled myself up the steep steps and onto the climate-controlled quiet of the bus.

  “Welcome! I’m Kylie!” The girl threw her arms in the air like she was hosting a surprise party. “We’re the Dramettes!”

  She hugged me to her almost bare chest, and I knew the saying “give you the shirt off their back” would never be the same for me again. The two other girls lounging on the couch behind her gave bored waves.

  “Cool. I’m Dani. I massage, backstage. Are you an all-girl band?”

  “They’re groupies.” The guy made himself heard over their peals of laughter. “Riggs Munro. I tour manage Go Get Her.” He turned to the bubbly trio. “Let’s not wake the sleeping giant, ladies.”

  “He’s not sleeping,” complained one of the girls. “He passed out on me.”

  “Power nap,” Riggs insisted. “He needs one after—and before—drinking.”

  “My daddy says you should always eat a greasy meal before you go drinking,” Kylie informed everyone. “Fatty foods stick to the lining of your tummy.” She rubbed her bare, flat abs in thought. “Maybe someone should’ve given Nash a burger when Go Get Her got offstage.”

  The band name I certainly recognized, as they were the summer’s darlings of the main stage. The festival’s four headliners all took turns closing out the shows, and these guys must’ve hit the road right after their set. I peeked over Riggs’s shoulder toward the curtained-off section of the bus, amused to think the rock stars were cradled in there like babies in their bunks while the “grown-ups” up front carried on.

  “Kylie, didn’t your daddy ever warn you about hanging around backstage doors?” Riggs cracked.

  She cocked her head to the side like a bemused poodle. “Come to think of it, that’s one bit of advice he never gave me.” She shrugged her shoulders happily, like that explained everything. “Oh well!”

  “I’d better go check to make sure he’s still breathing,” Riggs muttered, lurching toward the back of the bus and disappearing behind a door at the end. “They don’t pay me nearly enough for this.”

  Now that the curtain was moved, I could see all the bunks on either side of the aisle, and they were unoccupied.

  “Where’s the band?” I asked the girls.

  “Probably in Charlotte already. They ride separate. We stayed back to party with Nash.”

  “Why does one guy get his very own bus?”

  There was a ruckus coming from the lounge at the back of the coach, and the girls all exchanged glances.

  “Because I can?” roared a voice, slurred with alcohol.

  “Because he’s an asshole?” Riggs chimed in from behind him.

  “But admit it, I’m only drunk when I’m an asshole. Right, Riggs?” Six feet, four inches of intoxicated rock star filled the front cabin. He seemed proud of his logic, which probably made more sense to anyone past the legal limit. “Helllllloooo, ladies.”

  The bus hit a pothole and he lurched to grab hold of something solid. In this case, it was me, and down we went, into the cozy dinette space. Awfully convenient how his hands pinned themselves between my ass and the cushioned leather bench I landed on. Two packaged condoms fell out of his bowling-style shirt pocket and onto my cleavage.

  “Hot damn, you’re gorgeous. All blond and big-eyed, with those pouty blow-me lips . . . just like a little blond china doll. Wanna move this to the back of the bus?” he stage-whispered.

  “You need a shower.” And a toothbrush.

  Not exactly the most memorable first line I’d shared when given airtime with a celebrity. Or the most flattering.

  He shook his shaggy blond hair into his eyes with exaggerated effort. “So you wanna do me in the shower, then? Tight quarters, but I’m game.”

  “I think you mean gamey.” I didn’t have much range of motion, but was able to fan my face with my hand and pluck his condoms off my skin. “I’m not doing anything, or anyone, on this bus.”

  He freed one hand to inspect my laminate. “This one you give a pass to, Riggs?” he complained. “And not . . . not . . . whatsherface . . . you know, the chick with the big j—”

  “Jailbait,” Riggs dismissed.

  “I’m not a groupie. No offense,” I added, nodding to the girls.

  “None taken.” Kylie blew me a kiss.

  “And just because I am wearing a pass doesn’t give you license to touch my ass.”

  “Oh look, everyone. A poet! So talented. Is that an Artist pass? No? Just the hired help?” He stared me down. “You do know who I am, right?”

  “Yep. A drunk asshole with his own tour bus. Color me impressed.”

  “Let her up, Nash.” Riggs sighed, as if this was something he had to remind his charge of daily. “She works hospitality.”

  “Well, she’s not being very hospitable.” Emphasis on the spit.

  “Still touching my ass.”

  He slowly slid his hands out from under me, sitting up and holding them, palms out, at his chest with an innocent “who me?” pout. I shimmied up to a seated position, but he still kept me trapped on the wide bench.

  “You’re awfully touchy for someone who doesn’t like to be touched. Whatsyername, China Doll?”

  He may have been drunk, but his watery green eyes channeled depths that, on a normal day, I might’ve taken a plunge into. But it wasn’t a normal day; it was almost midnight and I was bone-tired from working, hands-on, for hours straight. And while employed by the same festival, Nash Drama and I lived in very different worlds. He would get his crazy-dollar-amount guarantee, no matter if he crawled onstage and played the same one note for his entire ninety-minute set.

  And me? I would get fired if I so much as looked at Maxine or one of the artists the wrong way. Her words of warning boomed louder than a stack of Marshall amps onstage. Dependability, respect, and the utmost professionalism.

  “What’s . . . your . . . name?” Nash repeated, obnoxiously slow and loud as if I were new to the language, or hearing impaired.

  “Dani.”

  “And how did you end up on my bus in the middle of the night, Dani?”

  “My van broke down, and your tour manager was nice enough to stop and give me a ride.”

  “Pfft. Riggs isn’t nice. Is he, girls?” The Dramettes all giggled a
nd flashed their legs and lashes Nash’s way, but his eyes stayed on me. “Riggs has to play the bad cop. I get to have all the fun. Now let me show you a real ride.” He proffered up the condom packs again, with a crooked grin. “I won’t break you, China Doll.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  So much for respect and professionalism. But at least I still had dependability on my side.

  He dropped the grin, and the condoms. “Good thing you”—he took a swipe in my general direction with a pointed finger—“won’t remember any of this in the morning,” he announced, swaying slightly. Before I could say a word, his head hit my lap, long legs splaying into the aisle. Out like a light . . . and trapping me in the dining booth.

  The groupies groaned, any possibility of being his runner-up for the night obliterated. They didn’t seem to hold it against me, however, as they said their good-nights and made their way to the empty bunks in the belly of the bus.

  Riggs set a pillow on the table in front of me and plumped it with a meaty paw.

  “Seriously?”

  “You’re welcome.” Riggs had finally cracked a smile. Kylie grabbed his arm and they jumped over Nash’s long limbo-stick legs.

  Looked like the bad cop was going to get lucky.

  • • •

  Whether he was recalling the same memory or not, Riggs wasn’t smiling now; the tour manager’s mouth was a grim, crooked line as he led the way out of the VIP tents on quick, bowed legs. We passed rows of luxury coaches, their generators purring and windows discreetly darkened, until we reached the artist compound. The inner sanctum of the festival was surprisingly vibeless. Its courtyard was a ghost town, fashioned out of single-wides that were way too nice to ever end up in a real trailer park. Riggs muttered his usual mantra as he held open the flimsy door of the hospitality trailer for me.