“You’ll never find yourself, if you haven’t yet lost yourself.”
“Pretty profound,” Nash replied, licking his lips.
“Ivy League, remember?” I quirked a brow and took the bottle to my mouth once more.
“You know what I think? I think you’re lost, little girl. Or hiding out. Something—or someone—has you spooked.”
“I don’t care what you think. Or what anyone else thinks.”
Nash cocked his hip as he leaned, the chain link bulging toward me with his weight. Even under the too-bright lights, his pupils were dilated, obsidian eclipsing moss.
“If you really didn’t give a damn about your reputation, you’d be on my side of the fence right about now.” The slight pucker in his smirk could have been a come-on, or a signal for another swig of alcohol.
“Morning will be here soon enough,” I said, and left it at that.
Business and pleasure was one cocktail I didn’t mix.
Appetite for Destruction
“Don’t eat that!” Riggs nearly smacked the chocolaty goodness from my hand. “Never eat anything left on the bus by someone you don’t know,” he admonished, as if I were five years old and accepting candy from a stranger. “Especially baked goods, unless they are still sealed in their packaging.”
“Oh, gimme a break.” I tossed the half-devoured cookie into the trash anyway, glaring at him. It had tasted perfectly innocent, but he had ruined the indulgence anyhow. “Whatever. More for you, you greedy bastard.”
His laughter followed me down the bus steps and out the door. “Might want to stay close by, girlie. In case you start to trip.”
I didn’t want to be anywhere in the vicinity of Nash’s goon. But sure enough, I had barely made it to the tree line before I started to see jagged trails. Ugh. I’d seen my fair share of festival-goers tripping balls this summer, leaving me with no desire to experience it myself. Not with Maxine constantly nipping at my heels like a police dog. I need air. And open space. I’m just going to find a nice tree to sit under, close my eyes, and listen to the music.
The problem was, the music sounded so, so good. Not dancing was impossible. And when I closed my eyes, the beats had a color. When I breathed in, the melody had a taste.
“Dance with us!” It was the trio of painted, airbrushed girls that followed the festival from town to town. The blonde was done up in glittery blues and greens like the cosmos, her every curve a planet, a moon. Her navel was a star. Star Belly. The tall raven beauty was covered head to toe in scales of purple, pink, and yellow like some iridescent fish, winding her way between the blonde and me. Her arms moved languidly in the air, hands slowly twirling. The third girl had only her top painted, like the sheerest, flexible T-shirt. She took my hand. “Can we paint you?”
The airbrush mist had felt like a whisper against my skin. It was hard not to giggle and sigh, but I tried to stay completely still, even though the music had trailed after us, all the way to the body paint artist vendor’s tent. The cool lick of a tiny paintbrush kept time with the rhythm of the drums onstage.
“So beautiful,” Raven marveled, as Star Belly and the other girl used my body as their canvas, the spray of the paint as cool and refreshing as the slight breeze blowing through the festival grounds.
I had danced my way backstage, my Working laminate the only thing adorning my body besides the evenly distributed paint job and my barely there thong. I marveled at how the natural camouflage of design and color presented itself in such a way that tricked the eye into believing you were covered. I felt fully clothed, although the air temperature told me different.
As did my boss, who took one look at me and fired me on the spot.
Apparently I had collected quite the crowd as I danced my way back to the artist compound.
“I told you this position required a high level of respect and professionalism,” Maxine raged, making a holy production out of unclipping the laminate from my lanyard in front of all my colleagues. “Parading around in your altogether? Soliciting musicians, on their buses? That doesn’t fly with me, and it certainly won’t fly with the promoters. I told you this was a one-strike job. I won’t have you jeopardizing our entire team with your antics. This was your last show. Out you go.”
“Antics? You can’t be serious?” Jade countered. “Who hasn’t gone into the crowd to blow off steam, on an off day? Come on. Dani is our best masseuse.”
“Correction. Dani is my best masseuse.”
The crowd parted as Nash stepped forward. His bare chest was slick with sweat and heaving with an exhilaration that could only come from having sex, or having just played to a crowd of twenty thousand.
It had been his music, pouring from the speakers and washing over me on the hill.
Mind. Officially. Blown.
“I wouldn’t have let her onto my bus if I had had any doubts as to her respect and professionalism.” He took his own Artist laminate that was threaded through the belt loop of his low-slung, tattered jeans and replaced my Working badge. “You’ve earned this.”
Turning to Maxine, he added, “She stays on this tour. With me.”
Fool on the Hill
Life didn’t change too much on the road as part of Nash’s entourage. The cities still blurred as we made our way back up north. Go Get Her continued to draw the faithful thousands each night, and Nash was in his element, holding court after each set like the king of the world. But I felt like a court jester, just along for the ride. I was grateful for the protective bubble my “I’m with the band” status provided, but once the embarrassment of the incident subsided, regret set in. The Artist pass gave me license to bypass Maxine, but I missed the rest of my tour family in hospitality. I was just biding my time as I skirted closer to home and the looming task of figuring out my next big move. Summer tour couldn’t last forever.
I hated glossing over my predicament to my parents, whose phone calls always wound their way back to asking when I was going to come back home and to my senses. And to “put that education to good use.” Just because I wasn’t wearing a white lab coat and appearing on someone’s explanation of benefits didn’t mean I was working in some back-alley rub-and-tug establishment.
But I wasn’t exactly earning a salary or a 401(k), either.
“Nash needs you for a one-off gig,” Riggs said one day in catering, fiddling with the creamers on the table. Up they went into a pyramid, before he shuffled them down into a line across the checked tablecloth like little white pawns in chess.
Bands loved the chance to play a one-off. There was no need to carry production or backline, it’s all waiting for you there—lights, sound, the works. You just roll into town, bring the party, and get paid handsomely for it. But trying to sneak in a one-off gig while out on a contracted festival tour sounded a little like a guy trying to grab a quickie with another woman while on his honeymoon—way too much of a hassle and a risk.
“When could he possibly fit in a one-off? This tour goes straight through Labor Day, and any show Go Get Her plays around here would break Minstrels’ radius clause, wouldn’t it?”
Riggs’s brow shot up. “You know more about this business than I had you pegged for, girlie. Vying for my job?”
“No thanks.” I stabbed at my salad. I had learned about touring through osmosis, feeling every one of Laney’s pangs when the road took Allen. Even during their off years, Laney took a vested interest in where he was at any given time, and where he wasn’t. And even though I wouldn’t admit it, I had gleaned a lot about the business through Nash.
Riggs continued his shell game across from me, moving the creamers with his pinkies. Gold rings graced both of them, and I wondered whether Nash’s money had bought him his bling, or if there had been a long line of Nashes before this current one.
“The band has to take a week off tour when the festival moves up through Canada.”
; “Has to?”
“Nash has a . . . well, let’s just say Canada has a tiny issue with him crossing the border.”
I practically choked on a chickpea. “Nash has a record?”
“Kid stuff.” Riggs shook two creamers like they were tiny liquid maracas. “Even President Bush had a problem crossing the border when he was in office, and he had a DUI from 1976. Anyway, that was way before you were born. The fact is, this presents a lovely opportunity.”
“For?”
Up went the creamers into a tower, end to end. “Nash is up for an award.”
I laughed, swishing around the last of my lettuce. “What? The douchebag award?”
Down went the creamers, rolling all different directions across the table. “You’ve got a dirty mouth, Doc Ivy.”
“Nowhere near as filthy as Nash’s.” Logging miles on his tour bus was like sailing unchartered seas aboard a pirate ship. Nash swabbed the deck daily with such slurs and sexual innuendo that I was ready to walk the plank just to get a break from him.
Still chuckling, I gathered up my dishes and deposited them into the dish tubs lined up along the wall. Doubling back, I siphoned out some coffee from the urn into a large glass of ice, dumped in a pack of sugar, and plunked a straw into it. Back at the table, I stole three of Riggs’s creamers, ruining his perfect symmetry.
“So what’s this got to do with me?”
“It’s like you borrowing a kid for the afternoon to go see his Lemonwheel set. Same concept. But for one week. Then you can run back to your fun, little life.”
I smarted a little at the “run” comment. As for my fun, little life—I had gotten fired from my summer gig and was currently at loose ends. What the hell was he proposing?
Riggs reached into his pocket and set a black velvet ring box on the table. It looked very formal amid the scattered creamer cups and the cheery red and white checks of the tablecloth.
“Look. It’ll be just as easy as a one-off.” Elbows on the table, Riggs folded his hands, and together we stared at the box between us. “Nash is being honored in his hometown, and it’s a big deal for him. He doesn’t want to show up without a lady on his arm.”
“Tell me there isn’t a ring in there.”
“He just needs to come across well.”
“Tell me,” I repeated slowly for clarity, “there isn’t a ring in there, sitting on a table in the middle of fucking catering.” Silverware clattered a few tables down, and a fat, bearded roadie gave an impressive burp amid the cheers of his co-workers.
“It’s one week, Dani. You show up with Nash, and everything else will be waiting for you there. Luxury hotel suite, wardrobe full of clothes, the works.” His chubby fingers wrestled with the box’s tight lid. I glanced around, in a total panic.
“Not. Here.” My hiss caused Riggs to freeze, think better of opening the box, and push it toward me to do the honors. I let it sit next to my sweating cup of iced coffee.
“Look. Help him out here. He needs some good press. Rumor mill has it that the label might drop Go Get Her if Nash doesn’t get his personal act together. And the band . . .” Riggs fiddled nervously with his pinky rings, twirling them simultaneously with his thumbs. “Let’s just say he’s on pretty thin ice with them as well.”
My eyes widened as I sucked coffee through my straw and came up for air. Now that surprised me. Go Get Her’s sound was like nothing I’d heard before. It had a fiery spirit and an urgency about it that was infectious. Nash added a slithery groove with his voice and guitar playing that begged the body to move, his wordplay and rhythm designed to delight and excite every kind of fan, and convert the unbelievers on the spot. Together, Nash and the band brought the crowd screaming to their knees night after night with their debauched and sensual set. Each song built heat, and it was amazing to watch as they kept the tunes alive, kept them breathing and growing.
“I don’t understand. Go Get Her is pure magic with Nash fronting them.”
Riggs smirked fondly at me like I was born yesterday. “Labels don’t believe in magic anymore. Magic doesn’t always equal the Midas touch. Nash’s pageantry and penchant for ‘drama’”—he air-quoted—“hasn’t won him any popularity contests with the suits crunching the bottom-line numbers.”
I nodded, thinking about the private tour bus, as well as the extravagant after-parties and trashed backrooms that made headline news. That probably didn’t fly with the promoters and execs.
“I can see that, but . . . the band?” They were so good together.
“Ever date someone that you just can’t stand . . . but the sex is so damn good, you can’t bring yourself to break up with them?” Riggs was saying. “Yeah. That’s Go Get Her and Nash. But even they’re reaching the tipping point.”
I picked up the ring box.
“Pose with him for one week, back in his hometown. Get him some good press and show the world Nash Drama has calmed down. In the end, you’ll get a new wardrobe and a diamond ring to keep for your troubles.”
Oh, this guy knew dick-squat about my troubles.
“You think I need new clothes?” I demanded, scraping the chair back.
“Sorry.” Riggs gave a sheepish grin but his teeth were still sharklike. “But your hippie, earth-mother flower-child look isn’t going to cut it, Holly Hobbie. Not on Nash’s arm.”
I made an angry beeline out of the catering hall toward the artist compound. Musicians and their guests loitered about, drinking at the picnic tables and enjoying the sunshine. Marching right up the stairs of the trailer labeled Go Get Her, I yanked on the latch and burst in.
Nash was playing house inside with two topless groupies. The lights were dimmed and the air hung heavy with pot smoke. He lounged between them on the couch, wearing a black tee that proclaimed in white writing FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCK, his long arms thrown over their bare shoulders. Each girl offered a smoldering joint between a thumb and forefinger to his lips, and he’d take turns smoking between them. All the while, he rolled their nipples between his own thumbs and forefingers, and they giggled and squirmed in delight. He’d exhale smoke across a belly and lick the closest breast above it before moving back to their waiting fingers. It was hypnotizing, but I wasn’t there to watch their show.
“Tell Riggs this is what I think of YOUR proposal!”
I tossed the ring box, which bounced off his shoulder, rolled down his chest, and settled into the creases near his button fly. Slightly to the left of his massive hard-on that was obvious under the straining denim. The girls gasped and their gaze landed on the box. A diamond ring, sitting on the dick of a rock star? For groupies, that was probably as rare a find as a unicorn horn.
“My proposal? That was his idea. I just said I wouldn’t go home empty-handed.”
Nash ceased his nipple-toking and cupped his precious junk (ring included) with both hands. “Go. Later.”
The girls responded as if he had called them by their names. Go moved to grab her halter. Later extinguished the joints in the ashtray.
He had his harem. What the hell did he need me for? I didn’t exactly fit into his collection. Thanks to mainstream media, I knew exactly what he considered women good for. “I’m never going to be a lady on your arm and a whore behind closed doors!” I informed him.
“Gee, quoting my interview articles now?” He leered sarcastically. “And here I thought you said you weren’t a member of the Nash Drama fan club.”
“I’m not,” I muttered, ignoring the girls’ titters. “But I read Rolling Stone once in a while.”
“I have no doubt that you’re a wildcat in bed.” His heavy-lidded eyes cruised the length of me. “But that’s not why I allowed Riggs to ask you,” he said to me. “Come on. Let’s take a ride.”
“No. I’m not going anywhere with you. Not in that asinine T-shirt. You look like an idiot.”
“Fine!” Nash stood
up, shoved the ring box into his pocket, and stripped off the tee. “No fucking T-shirt.” He tossed it onto the couch cushion he had just vacated, and the girls pounced on it as if it were warm meat. They clocked heads in the scrabble to stake a claim on their favorite singer’s piece of clothing, and ended up laughing, locking lips, and rubbing boobs together. Perhaps it was a show for Nash, but his eyes never left me. “Happy now?”
His bare chest rose and fell as we stared each other down. It struck me how intimately familiar I was with this stranger’s torso before me, from each time he climbed on my massage table during this tour. Trusting me with it. I knew every curve of muscle and every sinew, his thews on display as he twisted to grab his laminate and keys.
“Let’s take that ride,” he repeated.
I followed him out of the trailer to where his golf cart waited. This time, he bypassed the flat avenue of merch tents and opted to head straight toward the sloping hill that acted as a natural amphitheater for the stage. That day’s festival ground was a small ski resort in winter, but come summer, the concerts blazed at the bottom of the mountain while the fans raged at varying heights of the grassy slope.
“Can the cart make it up this terrain?” I hollered as we bumped and careened higher and higher. It was a golf cart, for heaven’s sake. Not an ATV.
“Trust me,” Nash yelled over the rushing wind, gunning the pedal harder. “I’m a professional.” His sarcasm bit as sharp as the wind at my face. We reached one plateau, but not high enough for Nash, or far enough from the crowds that were already clustering around the dark stage, waiting for Go Get Her’s set. The band wasn’t even scheduled to start for another forty-five minutes.
Finally we reached a summit that satisfied him, and he threw on the brake. We sat down on the long, wild grass. Nash’s fingers pried the box from his pocket. He said nothing, just palmed it back and forth between his hands.
“Why’d you send Riggs to ask me?” I finally asked.
Courtship of the Cake Page 6
