Twelve
TWELVE
PSYCHED
When Jasmine said I could bring a plus one to the tour launch party, Cass immediately began plotting her public role as my pretend manager. The party’s being held at a hotel bar in midtown. It’s the swankier part of downtown Nashville where locals go to get away from tourist-clogged honky tonks on Broadway but still feel like they’re So Nashville, an important distinction. I’m not totally sure of the dress code so I keep it neutral—army green silk joggers with a black off-the-shoulder crop top and black slides. I layer a bunch of gold necklaces and gold bangles in case the party has an unspoken dress-it-up vibe.
Cass comes dressed to impress. The front of her bleached hair is sprayed into a stiff sideways point so that it looks like white waves rolling off the side of her head. She’s wearing stacked white sneakers and wide-legged white denim pants with a black tuxedo stripe down the leg, a tight white t-shirt tied in a knot against her ribs and a cropped, hot pink leather bomber jacket, the lapels covered in pro-LGBTQ buttons. Fact: No artist in the history of music has ever had a better pretend manager than my pretend manager.
Since the announcement both Kick and I will be on the tour, I’ve been doing my best to keep up with the onslaught of comments and DMs and posts. Most of them demand to know if our songs are really about each other. I’ve largely ignored the question, but Kick whipped the rumors into a full-blown feeding frenzy when he left a comment on one of my posts saying he couldn’t wait to be on tour with me. The kissy-face emoji he added really tipped it over the edge.
When I haven’t been fielding comments about Kick and me-and-Kick and #Marick, I’ve been on pins and needles expecting to hear from my mother. I know any minute she’ll try and worm herself in, take over, take a cut. It’s been over a week since the announcement and she hasn’t called. Neither has Polly. If Emily’s as great a publicist as she says she is, my mother is definitely on her email list for press releases so she’s either sent Emily to spam, hasn’t checked her email, or has the word Sparrow blocked from all of her devices. I’m hoping it’s the latter.
When Cass and I arrive to the low-lit bar, my hands ball into fists at my side. My goal was to glide into the party like someone who’s done this a million times, someone cool, someone not at all nervous about opening a tour for Sparrow. Instead, I’m on the verge of running to the bathroom to hide in a stall.
“You belong here,” Cass says, reading my mind.
I’m about to argue when someone by the bar calls out my name. We walk over to find Deacon Sparrow welcoming us with an outstretched hand, his other hand on the waist of a new girl. This one’s taller than the last one, even taller than Deacon, with waist-length dark waves, heavily lined eyes and a gold septum piercing. She slides her arm around Deacon’s shoulders and lifts a salt-rimmed drink to her lips, chewing on the stirrer.
“Hey there, I’m Deacon,” he says, shaking my hand. “Loved your audition. Excited to have you out with us this summer.”
My brain fires off question after question Mari Gold would never ask.
What happened between you and John Lovejoy?
Did you know he had another daughter ?
Did you see any of him in me when you heard me sing?
“Thank you so much,” I say. “It’s so great to meet you, Deacon. I’m thrilled to be there.” I grab Cass’s arm. “This is my manager, Cass Zimmerman from…C. Z. Entertainment.”
“Pleasure,” he says with a polished grin. I notice he doesn’t introduce his date. “You two like margaritas? You can’t really do karaoke without a margarita or two in you.”
“Karaoke?” I ask.
“Tour tradition. Everyone has a margarita, virgin if that’s your pleasure, and everyone sings karaoke, for luck.”
“I can absolutely do and have done karaoke stone cold sober,” Cass says, “but a margarita with all the alcohol would be amazing, thank you.”
“I’m in,” I say, but I don’t plan on drinking it. Margaritas make me do things like make out with hot strangers in alcoves. Although when I met Kick I hadn’t had a thing to drink.
Deacon motions to the bartender, who brings over two margarita glasses filled with a bright neon slush.
“Special recipe,” Deacon says with a wink as he hands them over. “Mari, you look so familiar to me. Have we met before?”
Sweat beads practically leap onto my upper lip.
“Don’t think so,” I say with a smile, praying my cover doesn’t get blown before I even step foot on stage.
“She has one of those faces,” Cass says. “Looks like an up-and-coming superstar if you ask me.”
Deacon’s about to say more when something catches his eye. Cass and I turn and see Kick Raines, bringer of destruction in painted on black jeans, walking through the door. He has an actual swagger, natural, like if someone told him not to walk that way, he’d have to put in effort not to be so…swaggery. He should be studied for science.
Kick makes a beeline straight for me, a half-grin on his face. “Hey there, Goldie.”
We stare at each other too long, but I can’t look away. He draws me in so easily with those eyes, that mouth .
“Kick, right?” Cass says, breaking the spell. “I’m Mari’s manager, Cass Zimmerman.”
“So nice to meet you,” he says shaking her hand. “Wait, aren’t you the Hot Dog Sandwich Girl?”
“ That’s where I know you from,” Deacon’s date says.
Cass immediately fumes next to me. Two weeks ago, she posted a new video for Sapphic Sammies. She made a sandwich for Sarah Paulson based on her Nurse Ratched role—a turkey hot dog covered in pickle relish and sauerkraut with hot sauce on top. She thought it was cheeky and funny, but the comments on the video got heated with people debating whether or not a hot dog is a sandwich. The debate moved to TikTok and went absolutely everywhere. There are TikTok accounts named things like AHotDogIsNotASandwich where people hotly debate Cass’s video and whether or not she’s evil for insinuating a hot dog is a sandwich. While she loves how many views she’s racked up, she hates being called Hot Dog Sandwich Girl, especially by strangers.
“That’s me,” Cass says with a thin smile, “in the flesh.”
“I made that hot dog. It was legit.” Kick rubs his thumb across his bottom lip. I decide to write a song about that specific action as soon as I am able because good lord. Thumbs like that and lips like that require a memorial in song.
He turns to me. “Manager, huh? I didn’t realize you were such a serious artist.” His smile is playful when he says it, but I wonder if he’s putting on a front. He acts so breezy causal all the time, like none of this affects him, but there’s no way this tour doesn’t mean as much to him as it does to me. The deal was to be The Opener, not one of the ones opening. He has to at least be mildly irritated to share the spotlight with me.
“Kick and Mari, so glad you could both join us tonight,” Don Sparrow says, joining the party.
We all exchange introductions, Don telling us how impressed he was with our auditions. I’m cooking up a question, something to open the door to what I really want to know, when Cheddar comes over and demands their attention.
I feel Kick’s eyes on me and throw him a look. “Where’s your band? Or plus one or girlfriend or…whatever.”
It just hit me in this moment that he could have a girlfriend. It’s been over a month since that night at Jackson’s party. I’m sure someone like him doesn’t stay single for long.
His left eye half winks, an almost wink, like he rethought it half-way through. “Band couldn’t make it tonight. But don’t worry, they’ll be on the tour with us.” My stomach does a summersault at the mention of us . “Hey, since you don’t have a band, did you need to borrow me and the boys to fill out your set? I’m sure they’d be down to help out since it’s just you and your acoustic. Might be fun.”
“That’s actually a great idea.” Emily’s vaporized out of nowhere, a tumbler of amber liquid sloshing in her hand. “Maybe you two could even do a song together, yeah?”
Suddenly everyone’s paying attention, including Don, Deacon and Cheddar, all eyes on me and Kick. I don’t even want to be on the same tour as Kick Raines, let alone on stage t ogether . I need to shut this down before it gains traction. I look at Cass and telepathically tell her to be my pretend manager and jump in. She sees it and, blessedly, speaks fluent telepathy.
“But their styles are so different,” Cass says. “I think it would really fill out the night to have them doing their own thing, separately, give more variety to the show overall.”
Emily takes a drink and says, “Maybe.”
Deacon throws a disinterested hand up. “I’ll leave that to you and Cheddar. This whole thing was your idea anyway. You guys are in charge of that part of the show. Oh, look, there’s Nic.”
He and Don leave to go say hi to this Nic person, Deacon pulling his date with him, which leaves Emily semi-glowering at me and Kick.
She aims a long, pointy, pink shellacked nail, first to me, then to Kick. “This thing brewing between you two, we need to capitalize on it. The fans love you together, voted you both onto this tour. Maybe we should give them what they asked for.”
Kick nods in rhythm to the music playing from the loudspeakers, but I can’t tell if he’s agreeing with Emily or humoring her. There’s no way he’d want to do a song with me. His style is too hectic, too party boy loud, too sexy chaotic. My music is emotional, deep, moving. My songs need to be absorbed with eyes closed, heart open. Kick’s songs are body shakers, tambourine breakers. We cannot perform together.
“Think about it,” Emily says before flittering off to talk to more important people.
“Maybe we’d be good together,” Kick says. “We already know we’re good at…other things.”
“Are you ever serious?’
“I’m serious about spending more time with you.”
He smiles and leans over the bar to motion to the bartender. I take the opportunity to pull Cass with me and head over to a table full of appetizers. I need snacks if I’m going to be dealing with Sparkle Eyes all night.
“Umm, what was that?” Cass says, picking up a taquito and biting it in half.
“You mean Emily nearly crashing and burning my entire existence? Can you imagine? Me and Kick Raines doing a song together? No way. Not ever.”
“I’m talking about you and Mr. Smooth Talker Sexy Eyes. With the flirting and the sexual tension. I thought he was supposed to be your musical nemesis.”
I turn my head as slowly as I can, letting her know she could not be more wrong.
“He’s an ass.”
“An ass you wanna do bad things to. I’ve never seen your flirt face live and in action. It was truly something to behold. And his flirt face can be seen from outer space.”
I spoon some queso onto my plate. “He’s just trying to rattle me. ”
“Yeah, rattle you all night long.”
“Hey, Mari.” Cheddar says from behind us. We turn around and he’s smiling. “You and your friend like karaoke?”
“Would do it as a career if I could,” Cass says. “Cass Zimmerman. Mari’s manager,”
“I’m Chet Hurr,” he says, nodding. “You can call me Cheddar.”
“Cheddar. I dig it.”
“If you haven’t already, get your name in the queue because trust me, singing a Whitney Houston song backed up by an animatronic band is the only way to live.”
That’s when I notice, which, how did I not notice until now? At the back of the bar is a stage set-up with four life-size animatronics. Like, Chuck E. Cheese level, massive, furry, creepy, dead-eyed animatronics. There’s a polar bear wearing camo pants playing drums, a pig in a leather jacket playing keys, a cow in a cowboy hat playing bass guitar and a horse in a long black wig with a sequined bomber jacket playing guitar. They’re the back-up band of nightmares. I can’t decide if, when activated, they’ll rock out or try to murder me.
“Oh. My. God.” Cass is enamored, her love of all things kitsch kicking into high gear. She shoves her plate at me and already has her phone out taking photos to show Granny G.
Cheddar leaves to round up more singers and I feel Kick shuffle up behind me.
“I bet you’re a Celine girl.” His voice is low and husky, an invisible fingertip tracing down my spine.
I don’t turn, letting him talk to the back of my neck while I balance Cass’s plate and add guacamole and blue tortilla chips to my plate.
“Celine Dion is a goddess, but no, I’m not a Celine girl.” I turn to face him, “I guess you don’t have me as nailed as you think.”
“Oh, I’m gonna nail you, Goldie. ”
My mouth drops open. I know he only said it to get a reaction from me, but my thighs are quivering all the same.
“Let me guess,” I say, “you do a mean Journey cover? You and your brother got a karaoke machine for Christmas and tortured your family with spirited renditions of ‘Don’t Stop Believing’ around the Christmas tree?”
He shifts, goes far away for a moment, his mind focused on something only he can see. His eyes well up and for a second it looks like he’s about to full-on cry into the salsa. I’m trying to think of something to say while wondering what exactly I said wrong when he shakes his head and pops back into the present, back to his loose, confident self.
“Journey rules,” he says, wrapping his lips around his thumb to suck off some stray salsa. “Not my go-to, though.”
I realize too late I’m staring at his mouth and quickly turn away, nearly slathering Emily Wu and her dry-clean-only black silk blouse in guacamole.
“Oh,” I startle, righting my plates. “Sorry. That could have been a situation.”
“You two can’t stay away from each other, can you,” she says, looking between me and Kick.
“We just happened to be getting food at the same time,” I say. Emily needs to get over her dream of making us a thing like, now.
She bats her eyelashes. “I’d love to get a quote from you both for the tour launch press release. Tell me how you’re feeling about opening for Sparrow.”
She holds her phone up, her voice memo app open to record us. I look at Kick and he’s looking at me like, go ahead. I’m still startled from nearly slathering Emily in guacamole and curious about Kick’s emotional reaction to my comment about his brother. I reach deep down for the sincerest thing I can say, sure I’ll say something I’ll regret but hoping for something inspirational. I need to get this right, need to convey how much this means to me, how it’s not about Kick or a rivalry or a contest. That I’m here to show the world the artist I know I can be.
“I’m psyched.”
That’s what I say. I’m psyched , a phrase I’ve never, ever uttered until this exact moment.
Emily doesn’t bat an eye. She turns her phone to Kick who smiles a million-dollar smile and says, “As an artist, it’s so vital to learn from those who’ve gone before you. To me, this tour is such a huge opportunity to learn from a band who’s already paved the way for so many. I mean, they’re legends! I couldn’t be more honored.”
I close my eyes and will the floor to turn into quicksand, swallow me whole, and melt me into the Earth’s core.
When I open my eyes, he’s inches from my face, grinning. He chomps on a tortilla chip and saunters away knowing he’s just thrown a gauntlet the size of Horse Kacey Mugraves’ teased bouffant. I feel certain every partygoer felt the ground rumble beneath its weight.
I inwardly harumph and go sit at a table in the middle of the floor, not too close to the stage but still in the mix. Cass finds me and plops down in the chair next to mine. I’m stewing, not ready to tell her about my press quote embarrassment, when she points to a tall, burly man with a thick blonde beard that reaches to the middle of his chest and small eyes that disappear into his bushy eyebrows.
“That’s the band’s manager, Nic Johns,” she whispers.
I remember seeing him at the auditions but didn’t know he was the band’s manager. “How do you know this?”
“We manager types tend to stick together.”
“Uh-huh. What else do you manager types do?”
She smiles, showing all her teeth. “Perform, baby.”