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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.”
    â€œKill me,” Nash moaned. “Fuck me, just kill me now.”
    â€œNo 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.
    â€œDoes this hurt?”
    â€œLike a bitch.”
    I was barely applying any friction. Something didn’t seem quite right. My hunch wasn’t to go deeper.
    â€œFind 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.”
    â€œIn 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.
    â€œYou know what they call you, right?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe chick that runs backstage.” He snapped his fingers, trying to recall her name.
    â€œMaxine.”
    â€œYeah. 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.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œI’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.”
    â€œPull your knee away from me,” I instructed, as I provided thecounter-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.
    â€œThe last doc he saw told him it was sciatica,” Riggs supplied. “Pumped him all full of stuff.”
    â€œI don’t think he has sciatica.”
    â€œGood,” 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