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“How’s the sex survey coming along?” he said, falling into a hay-stuffed potato sack by Luca’s side, the guitar still around his waist. The overall effect was like a frat boy at a party, about to launch into a drunken rendition of “Sweet Caroline.”
“Not sure, babe. I was kind of distracted.”
“Well, there are a lot of people here.”
“It wasn’t them I was noticing.”
“Oh, really? Who was it then?”
Luca grinned. “This doofus I love. You probably haven’t met him.”
“Mmmm, lucky doofus,” said Artair, kissing him sweetly. His mouth was warm from all the singing. “But we should probably be quick.”
Luca raised an eyebrow. “Really? Why?”
“Well, there’s this total stud that I love on the hill. And he could catch us at any moment.”
“Bastard. Is he better than me?”
“He’s pretty fucking amazing.”
Before they could join the other pairs in some heavier activities, there came the sound of a clearing throat beside them.
A woman was sat at a nearby clutch of chairs—late thirties by the look of it, with sun-bleached hair that was impossibly bouncy for a half week of camp showers. Luca had seen her milling around the High Top for the last few hours but hadn’t paid her much notice.
“Hey friend!” she said in a warm voice. “You’re Red Bear, right?”
Artair winced at the recognition. It had already happened a few times since Luca got published. “Yeah. I mean... I guess?”
“Awesome, awesome. I would have just called you by your real name, but I couldn’t see you on our schedule.” Artair blinked, tensing a little beside Luca. “Oh, sorry. You’ve got no clue who I am, do you? Charlie Kay, music director for the festival.”
She extended a hand, which Artair took cautiously. “Sorry, was I supposed to register with someone else before I started playing?”
“Gosh no. The High Top’s been here since the first year of the festival. And they’ve always arranged their own acts and open mics. I’m just thrilled to be meeting with the Red Bear.”
Artair cleared his throat. “Well, if you liked the article, this is the guy that?—”
Luca elbowed him as discreetly as he could. Whatever was happening was about Artair, not him.
If Charlie noticed the thump, she didn’t say anything, keeping her gaze fixed on Artair. “So, the man of the moment, huh? And you’re here strumming background tunes, unadvertised, in a café of all places?”
“Ahhh, yeah?”
She chuckled and took out a business card. “Listen, we’ve had a cancellation for night six in the Melt Tent. I’ve got a few other acts I could offer the set to, obvs. But I thought you might be interested?”
“The Melt Tent?” said Artair, in a strange inflection that Luca couldn’t place. He was staring at the card like it was a daunting shadow on a dark night.
“By the vegan pizza place? Past the mask store? Not the largest venue, I know. And mostly full of college kids looking to sink into the grass for a few hours. But I thought that vibe would suit you perfectly? A place where the music is the accent, not the attention?”
Luca suppressed a grin. She was quoting his article.
Artair cleared his throat again, heavier this time. “I... don’t really do that kind of thing. Feature acts.”
Charlie chuckled. “Hey, I hear you, bro. And I’m not here to challenge your artistry! Great to see someone keeping the old jam band tradition alive. But you were too distinctive up there to be anyone else. And I’d have kicked myself if I didn’t make the offer. The first opportunity for Red Bear to headline a stage as a named artist? It’d be a big coup for the festival.”
Artair shifted against the hessian.
Charlie raised her hands. “But zero pressure, my man. I’m not here to crimp your evening. Just have a think about it, ’kay? Either way, we should totally grab breakfast tomorrow. There’s this cute place that does organic biscuits and gravy. You can even bring along that Luca guy. I know a few stories that would make his typewriter sizzle.”
