Courtship of the Cake (4 page)

“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 on 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.

“Good job, guys. We got them so dizzy, they got all turned around. They're backward now.” Fingers flying over the frets, he launched into the alphabet backward, twisting the song smoothly from
Z
to
A
before jumping off the low stage.

“Not so bad, for a drunk asshole with his own tour bus.” His whisper in my ear brought heat to my cheeks.

“You weren't supposed to remember that,” I mumbled in amusement.

Next, he launched into a song that anyone who owned a television set in the last four decades would know. All about sunny days and sweet air . . . except Nash forgot the words, and the tune, about halfway through. He clamped his mouth shut before the f-bomb could detonate. Little Delilah did a face palm.

“It's been a while, okay? Haven't had time to watch much TV these days. Gimme a request.”

“‘Jumpstart My Heart'?” a mom in the crowd yelled hopefully.

“The MILF in the back wants to hear my breakout song,” Nash drawled, not looking up from his fingers as they turned the pegs of his guitar. “What do you all think, should I make her beg for it?”

It was my turn to face palm, as a few adults groaned, a few more whistled, and the kids didn't know what the hell was going on.

Go Get Her's biggest hit was stupid-catchy and its lyrics were passably PG-rated and pleasant. So much so, it was hard to believe Nash would own up to writing it. But his one-man version got the kids up twirling and the adults' hands up in the air. I stole a glance toward Kylie, who was banging her pretty blond head and kicking her hooker heels against the fence in time with the music.

Everyone, Nash included, seemed relieved to have blown off some steam as that one came to a close. Cupping her hands to her mouth to be heard above the applause, Delilah yelled, “‘Wheels on the Bus'!”
with as much conviction as a drunk in the crowd bellowing for Skynyrd's “FREE BIRD!” The kids in the audience clapped their approval.

“Okay, Pigtails. There's something in the entertainment industry called a teleprompter. Do you know what that is?” Delilah shook her pigtails in response. “It's a little TV that sits on the stage where no one can see it, except for the singer who's too stupid or burnt to know the words.”

A little boy tugged on Nash's jeans leg. “You shouldn't say the
S
word,” he scolded, his big eyes earnest.

“Right, right. Sorry. How about that
S
word? Is that one okay?” He didn't wait for confirmation. “So if you want to hear whatchamacallit, ‘Wheels on the Bus,' you're gonna have to be my teleprompter.”

Delilah hesitated, giving me an uncertain look. “It's okay,” I assured her. “You can if you want.”

Nash snapped his fingers offstage and the Kids' Zone MC brought another microphone out for Delilah. He let her take his stool while he stood. “I know the tune, but you need to give me the verse, okay?”

She nodded, biting back her grin. “You have to do the hand motions, too,” she instructed.

“Hey. They just pay me to play guitar. And I only have two hands.”

Delilah rolled her eyes and the audience laughed. I thought to pull out my camera just in time, so I could film her stage debut to show to her parents later. She and Nash went through a call-and-response, going through the traditional verses of the sing-along until he felt comfortable enough to add a few of his own, somewhat questionable, lines. “The towels on the tour bus go stink, stink, stink,” got the kids all plugging their noses, and Nash taught them to pump their fists as he sang, “The bunks on the tour bus go rock and roll,” all the while with a gleam in his eye that went far above the heads of any of the children. I shook my head and laughed.

“The ladies on the tour bus go . . . ‘Hi, Nash!'” He wiggled his fingers flirtingly.

“Hi, Nash!” all the kids (and Kylie) bellowed back at him. Oh, this man was insufferable. His ego was inflated about as big as the bounce house.

“. . . aaaaall over the world!” He strummed a crescendo and mugged for a few cameras. Delilah took a bow and brought the house down.

“Last song of the day, people. And I promised I'd dedicate this one,” Nash murmured into the mic.

He cranked up the distortion and I thanked the heavens for small earplugs as he began to jam out a punk version of the old Kenny Loggins crooner “Danny's Song” for my benefit. His facial expressions gave some of the lyrics a whole different meaning for me, and I couldn't help but laugh and sing along.

“Do you want to wait for his autograph?” I asked Delilah afterward. She shook her head. “Okay, let me just go throw this in his case and then you can go jump in the bounce house for a bit, okay?”

“Ooh, can I throw it? Pretty please?”

“How can I deny such cuteness? Of course.”

“Why a dollar?” she asked, staring at the bill I handed her.

“It's his tip,” I explained. “And an inside joke.”

And petty and juvenile, but he deserved it, after his G-string comment to me earlier.

•   •   •

“Well, that went over about as well as a pregnant pole-vaulter.”

Nash, finally done with autographs and photos, joined me where I waited for Delilah to bounce herself silly.

“Come on. Not bad for your first time,” I joked.

“You're the only one who left a tip,” he complained. “And don't deny it. I know you sent the kid to do your dirty work.”

I laughed. “You ready, Dee-Dee?”

“Ten more bounces,” she hollered back.

“She yours?” Nash asked.

“Huh? Oh. No. I borrowed her. From my co-worker.”

He turned to watch the mayhem in the bounce house, shading his eyes from the sun. How he wasn't roasting in his second-skin jeans
and that black T-shirt was anyone's guess. I could feel my own sweat beading at my neck, frizzing my curls, and trickling down my cleavage and into my sundress.

True to her word, Delilah bounced right out of the house after ten hops and pushed her feet into her mini-Tevas. “Did you thank him for your song?” she pecked at me, like a little mother hen.

“No, but thank you for reminding me.” I turned to Nash. “And thank
you
.”

He gave a little nod of acknowledgment. No thank-you for the hands-on healing from earlier, no apology for the dollars in the G-string comment, but like the swift-moving clouds in the crystal blue sky overhead, all seemed to have passed over.

“One, two, three, whee?” Delilah asked.

“Oh, I don't know, honey. His back was hurting him earlier.” I turned to Nash. “It's this thing we do. When two of us walk with her, we hold her hands and swing her up on the count of three.”

“Back's fine.” He grunted. “Lay it on me, Slick.”

Delilah slid her little palm into his hand, and I scooted to her other side.

“One . . . two . . . three,” she drawled as we all took big steps, “whee!” Up went her feet, and we hauled her into the air and back down, far from where she started. It was a little Mom trick of Jade's to efficiently cover ground fast when little legs couldn't keep up. We made it about five
whees
to where Riggs had just pulled up in his festival golf cart, no doubt ready to whisk Nash away from the humiliation and back to the safe confines of backstage where he belonged.

“Take a backseat.” He thumbed to Riggs. “I'm gonna drive them back.”

I stopped in my tracks, surprised, just as Delilah made it to the count of three on her own and propelled out of our grip, landing in a cloud of dust in front of the golf cart. “Yay, golf cart!” she crowed.

“I don't think . . . thanks, but—”