"I have to have someone to sing to, don't I?"

"My gammy's been itching to get on stage. Take her!"

"Sorry. I don't go for older women. You know. The image and all."

"But she's spry for her age. The broken bones have mended nicely!"

"Come on. Relax and enjoy the limelight, Tressa. Rest a.s.sured, I will deliver you back to your boyfriend with your virtue intact."

"Boyfriend? How do you know he's my boyfriend?" I asked, suddenly flushed.

"From the bulging veins in his neck that popped out when I whisked you off."

"Oh."

Jax yanked me up the stairs and onto the stage to deafening applause. Mr. Harcourt handed Jax a microphone.

"h.e.l.lo Grandville, Iowa, U...S...A!" Jax yelled.

The audience went wild.

"I'm totally thrilled to help you celebrate your new auditorium and night four of TribRide! What do you say, Grandville? Are you ready to party?" He raised the microphone over his head. "Rock on!"

Jax brought the mic to his mouth and stared into my eyes. I felt like I might pee my pants. I can be such a teenybopper.

Then, he started to sing.

"You come. You go. You leave. You stay."

I stared. Holy Hollywood hype. Jax wrote this song. Keelie starred in the music video. The song's release had fueled speculation that the newest "power couple" was more about a short-term media b.u.mp than happily ever after.

Either way, this couldn't be good. For Jax.

Or a certain clueless cowgirl.

"You scram. You stay.

Fidelity depends upon the day.

It's a counterfeit courtship.

You laugh. I cry.

'Cause you've got a roving eye.

Counterfeit courtship.

Counterfeit courtship. Where to see, ain't to believe.

Counterfeit courtship. When it gets too real, you leave."

It's a counterfeit courtship."

Okay. So the lyrics probably weren't Grammy quality. But, I'm telling you, once that song got stuck in your head, you required a crowbar to pry it out.

"I paddle. You float.

You just have to rock that boat.

Counterfeit courtship.

d.a.m.ned if I do. d.a.m.ned if you will.

Phony as a three-dollar bill.

It's a counterfeit courtship.

Counterfeit courtship: What you see, ain't what you get.

Counterfeit courtship: h.e.l.l, you ain't seen nothin' yet.

It's a counterfeit courtship."

Before Jax could begin the next stanza a voice from the audience took over.

"'I'm here. You're there.

That ol' 'check is in the mail.'

It's a counterfeit courtship.'"

I squinted at the darkened audience. When the spotlight found its mark, I couldn't believe my own eyes. Keelie Keeler, mic in hand, sat on my date's lap.

"You're out. You're in.

The boot-draggin's wearin' thin.

It's a counterfeit courtship."

Quicker than you can say "Sonny and Cher" or "Kenny and Dolly" or "Alvin and the Chipmunks," the power pair blended their voices. I winced when Keelie hit a sour note, but the duet still had me-and the audience-spellbound.

"Counterfeit courtship Long-term rules do not apply.

Counterfeit courtship.

It's all just one big lie.

It's a counterfeit courtship.

I'm soft. You're hard.

Forever's not in the cards.

It's a counterfeit courtship.

You win. I lose.

Left to cry the blues.

It's a counterfeit courtship.

Counterfeit courtship Retreat's your fallback plan.

Counterfeit courtship It's all a big ol' scam.

Counterfeit courtship Imitations welcomed here.

Counterfeit courtship You can't dry a bogus tear.

It's a counterfeit courtship.

It's a counterfeit courtship.

Counterfeit courtship.

By the time the song neared its conclusion, Keelie stood in the center aisle, alone in the spotlight, staring at Jax. Jax stared back, a pulse beat clearly visible in his neck.

The song ended, joined voices trailing off into silence. The audience, picking up on the significance of the moment, sat hushed and quiet.

And suddenly it was as if the spell was broken.

"I hate you, Jax Whitver. Hate you! Hate you! Hate you!" she screamed. She let the microphone drop and turned and ran toward the doors at the rear of the auditorium.

"Keelie! Wait!"

Jax was just about to leap off the stage and race after her when several uniformed officers, including Patrick Dawkins, converged on the stage.

"Hold that man!" Vinny Vincent, waiting in the wings as they say, pointed a finger at Jax. "Serve him, officers!"

I blinked. Serve him? Serve him what?

A beefy Knox County sheriff's deputy I knew from...an, er, "joint investigation," ambled across the stage and handed Jax an envelope.

"Jax Whitver. You've been served. The No Contact Order contained therein states, in part, that you are restricted from having contact with one Keelie Keller. You may not have contact with her via phone, cellular phone, text messaging, email, or any online Internet or web sites. If you violate the terms of this Order, you may be held in contempt of court and be sentenced to jail time, a.s.sessed fines, as well as court costs. Are you willing to sign the receipt of service?"

Jax took the pen and signed, looking like he wasn't quite sure what had just happened.

I know the feeling. Well.

The audience sat in stunned silence as Jax walked off the stage. He stopped in front of Vinny.

"This isn't over, Vinny. Not by a long shot."

"Give it up, Whitver. You sound like a broken record. One that wasn't so hot when it was new."

"This way, Mr. Whitver." A deputy took Jax's elbow, but he jerked it away.

"Get off me! I'm not under arrest, am I?"

The deputy shook his head.

"Good. Stay the h.e.l.l away from me, or I'll be pursuing hara.s.sment charges of my own." Jax stalked out a side door. Two deputies followed at a not-so-discreet distance.

Director Harcourt took the stage again and announced the next hometown act, but for all intents and purposes, the show was over. Audience members who moments before had been hooting and hollering, became quiet and subdued. I headed back to my date.

"How come you got yanked up on stage?" Gram asked. "You can't carry a tune. Every time you sing, Bert and Ernie raise a ruckus to beat the band."

"You mean Butch and Sundance," I said. "And my guess? Jax Whitver was trying to make a point."

"What point?"

"I'm not quite sure. But I know that performance was all for Keelie."

"I don't know," Joe said. "From here, it looked like he was singing to you."

I caught the sudden grim set of Townsend's jaw.

"He's a performer," I said. "And an actor."

"Not a very good one," Joe said. "Did you catch him in that end-of-the-world flick cameo? Talk about your cardboard performances."

"Thanks for your incisive a.n.a.lysis, Mr. Film Critic," I snapped. "Can we go home now? I have to blog-" I put a hand to my mouth. "My blog! The performance! My...a.s.s!"

Townsend shook his head.

"Don't worry. I've got the video right here," he said, holding up his cell phone. "Well, as much of it as I could film around Keelie Keller's b.r.e.a.s.t.s."

b.r.e.a.s.t.s?

I looked at Townsend. "You've got video?"

He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"From start to finish?"

"Pretty much."

"Are you...can I-?"