Courtship of the Cake (3 page)

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 and 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.

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

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.”

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.”