Courtship of the Cake

by Jessica Topper

  “They don’t pay me nearly enough for this.”

  Thorn in the Side

  A blast of sweet, cool relief hit me. So this was where the promoters were hiding the air-conditioning! Dang. What the trailers lacked in vibe, they certainly made up for in climate control.

  The tour’s headlining bad boy was on the thin mattress of the hospitality trailer, shirtless and writhing in agony. His hair tufted in peaks that either obscured (or accentuated) the devil horns that were no doubt lurking under there. Despite the comfortable temps, a thin sheen of sweat rode high on his forehead as he rolled his eyes in my direction, then back up at the ceiling.

  “What on earth did you do to yourself?”

  I set down my massage gear and tried to assess the situation, but it was hard to get a good vantage point, especially with him jerking around. The bed took up the entire back space of the RV, leaving me no choice but to climb on and kneel beside him.

  “Didn’t you hear?” Riggs spoke for him.

  “Sorry, I don’t subscribe to the Nash Drama fan club bulletin.”

  Deciding to keep him supine, I found two pillows in the cabinet above the bed, still in their plastic, and slid them under his knees. The bolster allowed his lower back to imprint against the mattress, and he let out a trembling hiss. Good thing the mattress was still encased in plastic, too; we were gonna get greasy. I grabbed my Biotone gel.

  “I slipped last night,” he managed through gritted teeth. “Came down on my hip.” His right hand fluttered alongside his body, “And shoulder. Spasms from hell.”

  Riggs added, “It was that damn whipped cream.”

  I raised a brow. “Let me guess. You slipped on whipped cream and . . . fell into a pit full of bikini-clad Jell-O wrestlers?”

  “Very funny, China Doll. I fell onstage.” He bit his lip and winced as I slid my hands under his shoulders and went to work on his upper back. “The singer in the time slot before us got a pie in the face. It’s a birthday tradition among the band members, apparently.”

  Riggs was pacing, which wasn’t easy to do in the small space of the trailer. “I’m going to hand that crew their asses on a platter. They had ample time to make sure the stage was cleaned up.”

  “Kill me,” Nash moaned. “Fuck me, just kill me now.”

  “No one is going to kill you, or fuck you, on my watch. Just try to relax.” My fingers continued their light stroking. Compared to the loose, drunken puppet I had met parading down the bus aisle, today’s Nash was a bundle of tender, tight muscle groups. I gently worked my way along his upper back, from the center and out.

  “Does this hurt?”

  “Like a bitch.”

  I was barely applying any friction. Something didn’t seem quite right. My hunch wasn’t to go deeper.

  “Find a focal point,” I advised, knowing that it could help take his mind off the pain.

  He zeroed in on my chest above him like he wished he had X-ray vision. “I’ve seen those breasts before,” he pronounced confidently. “Cannes, right? We were in a hot tub. On Kid Rock’s yacht.”

  “In your dreams,” I muttered.

  Although I had to admit, I had always wanted to go to the south of France.

  A smile briefly broke through his grimace. “I think you’re right.”

  I kept my pressure steady and my pace slow, watching his face for signs. His jaw was in a permanent jut, as if he was just waiting for me to hit the spot that was going to send him howling toward the ceiling. But little by little, I felt him melt into my touch and his face went slack, eyes fluttering closed.

  Riggs was back in the doorway, leaning in to survey the progress.

  “You know what they call you, right?”

  “Who?”

  “The chick that runs backstage.” He snapped his fingers, trying to recall her name.

  “Maxine.”

  “Yeah. And the others working hospitality. They call you Doc Ivy.”

  I blushed approximately two shades darker than my coral paisley sundress, according to the mirrored wall across from me. I hardly felt doctor-like, with my skirt and Nash’s skull tucked between my knees. Or with my cleavage in his face. But there was no ideal way to work on him in the confined space, unless I had him rotate his body toward the one side of the bed that wasn’t flush with the trailer walls. And I really didn’t want him moving at all.

  “I’m not a doctor,” I murmured, crawling off the mattress and positioning myself at Nash’s feet. Gripping one of his long, denim-clad legs under the calf, I carefully brought it up and propped his bare foot against my shoulder.

  “I’m going to call you Doctor Feelgood anyway.” Nash let out a groan, his hands falling useless against his broad chest. “Much better than the pill pushers trying to”—his breath labored as I laced my fingers around his knee—“numb me up and send me back out.”

  “Pull your knee away from me,” I instructed, as I provided the counter-resistance to work his hip flexors. “What kind of drugs? Pull for ten, nine, eight . . .” I kept counting down, but my brain was whirling through the info he huffed out in small doses. A stockpile of narcotics, anti-inflammatories, and analgesics over the years, not just from this incident.

  “The last doc he saw told him it was sciatica,” Riggs supplied. “Pumped him all full of stuff.”

  “I don’t think he has sciatica.”

  “Good,” Riggs laughed. “That’s so not a rock star disease. More like a little old lady disease.”

  Not exactly accurate, but I let it slide, concentrating on the areas of concern. There were more to them than met the eye, and my experienced touch. After working both left and right sides, I had him switch to pushing against me.

  “What the hell are you doing, prepping him for childbirth?” Riggs asked.

  “I’m pulling the muscles to let the joint relax,” I explained. I turned back to my client. “Push for ten, nine, eight . . .”

  “Relax? Nash Drama doesn’t relax. He drinks. He passes out. That’s his idea of relaxing.”

  Riggs wasn’t helping matters any. The trailer was small enough without him throwing his weight and his two cents around.

  “How about some privacy, please? I think he’ll relax more without you breathing down his neck.”

  “Yeah, dude. Her breath smells better than yours any day of the week.” Nash sputtered a laugh as Riggs stomped down the stairs, but the teeth embedded in his bottom lip were a dead giveaway to the discomfort he was experiencing.

  “Think you can roll over for me?”

  “Of course.” He winced as he changed position. “I can play dead, too.”

  At my request, he pulled his knees up to his chest, facedown on the bed, prayer-style. I had spied Nash shirtless and careening around on the stage, but it was a fascinating flip of the coin to witness him at rest. Passed out in my lap on the tour bus hadn’t counted. I ran my hand up the column of his spine, letting his body speak to me. His entire dorsum, from broad shoulders to tapered waist, rose and fell under my touch. The lone tattoo that rode high on his shoulder was a bluebird in flight.

  “What?” he asked, hearing me suck back a gasp.

  “Your bluebird tattoo.”

  “It’s a swallow. What about it?”

  “Nothing, I—I’ve just seen a similar one.” So many fine points of my night with Mick in New Orleans were etched deep enough to leave a mark. A sharp memory of my fingers tracing the shape of his tattoo while cradled in his arms as he relayed its meaning rose painfully to the surface. “That’s all.”

  “Spontaneous decision with my best buds. We all got them, one crazy night when they came to see me on my first big tour. It was something to commemorate how far I had gone. You know, like a sailor, when he’s sailed ten thousand miles.”

  “I’ve heard . . . it was for the hope of a safe return home.”

&n
bsp; Mick had sounded so wistful that night, yet so full of hope at the prospect. And I had obviously been so caught up in him that I ignored every other warning sign.

  “For some? Maybe. Not me.” Nash cast a glance at it, frowning. “I should get a matching one; God knows I’ve logged enough miles to earn a flock of them.”

  I moved along his strong shoulders, kneading in long, gliding strokes. We settled into a quiet rhythm, while outside the small trailer window, the festival continued on at its own frenetic pace. My mind began to thumb through the pages of my mental textbooks, thinking about various possibilities. “Little old lady diseases” be damned, there were a hell of a lot of debilitating conditions that tended to strike a patient when they were young, bulletproof, and thirty feet tall. Although the right side of Nash’s body had taken the brunt in his fall, his entire sacroiliac joint seemed to be a hot spot.

  “Does this area always give you problems?” I asked, my fingers barely ghosting over where his spine met his pelvis.

  “Stiff as a motherfucker most of the time,” he hissed. “Since I was a teen. Some mornings I can barely get out of bed.”

  I began a series of circle strokes, massaging over the muscles and not the joints. His shoulders relented in small increments, and a sigh of relief pooled from deep within him.

  “So,” he started, when breath and speech came easier to him. “You got a boyfriend waiting for you back home?”

  “Home?” I began, my fingers snaking up to knead the back of his neck. “I left home broken down by the side of the road last week.” Mean Mistress Mustard was still out of commission, sitting south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Jade and her family had generously made room in their six-person tent for me, and I was happy to take turns behind the wheel for them when we pulled up stakes after each gig. But I felt bad constantly crashing their family time. I knew one phone call back to Jax would remedy the situation, but I didn’t want to have to rely on him to bail me out. “No boyfriend.”

  “Swinging the other way, then?” He turned his head to one side and I could see the lascivious grin beginning. “I could see you putting the l-l-lick in lipstick lesbian.”

  “Sounds like you’re dreaming again.” God, was this guy incapable of sustaining a normal conversation for five minutes? Laney sat like a devil on my shoulder, telling me to give him a good old-fashioned Vulcan nerve pinch. Instead, I worked my fingers up the base of his skull, satisfied when I saw the goose bumps rise on the flesh of his bare arms.

  “I’ve got a guy who could probably fix your van. Gimme a few days, okay?”

  I had a feeling Nash Drama was the type to have a person in every port, happy to do or give things to him. I had a feeling he was used to the getting and the doing, too.

  “I think you need to get to a doctor,” I murmured as my hands came to rest. An hour-long soft tissue massage was a Band-Aid, at best. I could only give him so much.

  “I’ve got you, Doc Ivy. What more in life do I need?”

  “You need a rheumatologist. And quitting drinking might be a good idea, too.”

  He fell silent, and I feared I might have crossed the line. After all, I was—as he had pointed out on his tour bus—the hired help. And the guy had been photographed with a bottle in his hands more often than not, making me wonder if he had an endorsement from the liquor company, rather than the guitar manufacturer.

  “That wasn’t a judgment,” I added quietly. “I’m just thinking if you have an inflammatory issue—”

  “You’re not the first. To tell me.” He slowly came to an upright kneeling position. Resting his chin on his shoulder, he locked his gaze on me.

  “And?”

  “And I’ll consider it.”

  “Good.”

  I moved to the tiny kitchen sink of the trailer before realizing there were no hookups; the taps turned uselessly under my greasy grip.

  “So, what’s the diagnosis?” Riggs wanted to know, barreling back up the metal steps.

  Nash shrugged back into a tight black T-shirt. “She wants to play doctor with me.”

  Cute. “No, I said you need a real doctor.” I fished into a dish tub on the counter keeping the beer cold for a few pieces of ice to rub my hands clean.

  “Then she suggested we get a room.”

  He grinned, and ducked as I threw an ice cube at him.

  “No, I suggested you get a rheumatologist. Obviously you require an interpreter as well.”

  Nash swung his arms back and forth, and swayed from side to side. Hard to do in the narrow confines of the trailer, but apparently easier now that I had warmed and stretched his muscles. “Good job, Doc Ivy,” he drawled. I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. “I feel like a million bucks. If you show me your G-string under that cute little dress, I’ll shove a few dollars in to show my appreciation.”

  Unbelievable. “Gee, I think I liked you better when you were writhing in pain.”

  “Kidding!” he yelled after me as I tripped down the steps and stormed toward catering. Thanks to this asshat and his boo-boo, I had missed half my lunch break. “Come see my three o’clock set. I’m dedicating a song to you.”

  Kid’s Play

  “Jade, can you cover my three o’clock?”

  My fellow therapist reached to check the appointments clipboard hanging from the pole of our massage tent. “No problem. Hot date?”

  “Please. Just wanted to catch Go Get Her’s day set.” I didn’t wholeheartedly believe that Nash would dedicate a song to me, and with titles like “Get Me Some,” “Head Girl,” and “Ex-Sex,” I wasn’t really sure I wanted him to. But I couldn’t deny my curiosity was piqued.

  Jade frowned. “Go Get Her doesn’t have a day set today.” She showed me her phone app with the daily itinerary and sure enough, they weren’t on until well after dark.

  Liar, Liar, custom-made leather pants on—

  “On the Lemonwheel stage?” Jade hooted a laugh. “No way!”

  Her finger tapped the time slot and the detail appeared. Nash was appearing solo on the stage in the Kids’ Zone at three o’clock for a “family-friendly sing-along,” apparently.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Curiosity was for cats, and monkeys named George. I now had to make it my life’s mission to get over to that stage by three o’clock. All I could picture was Nash, with his Norse god hair and his leather pants low-slung on his hips, trying to control his potty mouth and win over the sippy-cup club.

  “Jade, can I borrow Delilah?”

  • • •

  “Yay, Kids’ Zone!” Delilah grabbed my hand and together we skipped halfway across the festival grounds to the bright green-and-yellow-striped tent. A bounce house was rocking sidestage, and Minstrels & Mayhem’s youngest attendees were Hula-Hooping, crafting, and hitting bongos under the watchful eyes of their parental figures and the competent Kids’ Zone staff.

  I felt a little bad using Delilah as my ticket into the twelve-and-under event, but then again, she never missed a chance to play in the Kids’ Zone. Or to catch the musicians rotating daily on the Lemonwheel stage.

  Sure enough, Nash was standing on the low platform, checking levels and tuning up. The production was pretty low-fi compared to the main stages, but I still gave the “earplugs in” reminder. At five years old, Jade and Travis’s daughter was a veteran festy-goer, and plucked her own brightly colored foam plugs from the kangaroo pocket of her overalls without needing assistance. A small crowd had already gathered to watch, but behind the fencing set up to keep the family-friendly area separate from gen pop, a large group of Go Get Her’s faithful following and curious adult fans sans children waited to hear this bonus and obviously rare solo set.

  “Who’s that pretty lady?” Delilah asked.

  Kylie was waving madly at me from behind the fence. Thankfully she had more clothes on this afternoon than she had had o
n the tour bus that other night. “Just a friend I made here at the festival.” I smiled and waved back as Kylie bopped around in anticipation of the music.

  Delilah nodded, plopping herself down on the grass cross-legged. “I’ve made some friends. They’re all kids, though. Daddy tells me not to talk to the adults unless I’m with him or Mommy or you.”

  “That’s very wise,” I told her, kneeling to her level and giving her little shoulders a squeeze. I couldn’t help but think of Kylie and her “my Daddy always says” words of wisdom from the other night. Daddies, don’t let your babies grow up to be groupies, popped into my head, to the tune of the old country song about cowboys.

  “Howdy, folks!” a bubbly MC in a neon orange Kids’ Zone T-shirt boomed into the mic. “We’ve got a special treat for you today here in the Kids’ Zone! Please give it up for Go Get Her’s Nash Drama!”

  Kids old enough to clap, clapped; those who were too little sat and stared, or their parents pressed their hands together. The crowd behind the fence whooped and cheered, even though they could only see the back of him. Nash gave me a tight smile, making me wonder whether Riggs had lost a bet, or pulled the short end of the stick. But once he adjusted the strap on his sparkly black guitar, he seemed to resign himself to his fate.

  “Hey, guys. It’s my first appearance on the Lemonwheel stage, so please be kind. And sing along if you know this one.” He began to strum lightly and recite the alphabet. “Of course you know this one. I’m just warming up.”

  He rolled his eyes as if he were bored, but every child in the audience sang, screamed, and laughed along. When he got to Z, he pretended to take a snooze, letting his chin drop to his chest. Delilah giggled next to me.

  “What? Huh?” He sat up with a start. “Sorry. I was just catchin’ some Z’s,” he drawled, lazily slapping at the air. “There’s some over there.” He pointed over our heads, and kids turned to look. “And there! Grab ’em!” Little hands swatted and swiped overhead as Nash kept his guitar strings buzzing like bees. “Got those Z’s? Let’s shake them around and get them really dizzy.” He cupped his hands and shook, and all the kids did the same. “You, too, dude.” He gestured to a huge papa bear with a shaved head and tribal tattoos snaking around his huge biceps, sitting with twin boys on his lap. “What, are you too cool for this?” The other parents laughed as the guy gave in, shaking his head first, and then his meaty paws together.