Free Courtship of the Cake by Jessica Topper

wouldn’t it?”
    Riggs’s brow shot up. “You know more about this business than I had you pegged for, girlie. Vying for my job?”
    â€œNo thanks.” I stabbed at my salad. I had learned about touring through osmosis, feeling every one of Laney’s pangs when the road took Allen. Even during their off years, Laney took a vested interest in where he was at any given time, and where he wasn’t. And even though I wouldn’t admit it, I had gleaned a lot about the business through Nash.
    Riggs continued his shell game across from me, moving the creamers with his pinkies. Gold rings graced both of them, and I wondered whether Nash’s money had bought him his bling, or if there had been a long line of Nashes before this current one.
    â€œThe band has to take a week off tour when the festival moves up through Canada.”
    â€œHas to?”
    â€œNash has a . . . well, let’s just say Canada has a tiny issue with him crossing the border.”
    I practically choked on a chickpea. “Nash has a record?”
    â€œKid stuff.” Riggs shook two creamers like they were tiny liquidmaracas. “Even President Bush had a problem crossing the border when he was in office, and he had a DUI from 1976. Anyway, that was way before you were born. The fact is, this presents a lovely opportunity.”
    â€œFor?”
    Up went the creamers into a tower, end to end. “Nash is up for an award.”
    I laughed, swishing around the last of my lettuce. “What? The douchebag award?”
    Down went the creamers, rolling all different directions across the table. “You’ve got a dirty mouth, Doc Ivy.”
    â€œNowhere near as filthy as Nash’s.” Logging miles on his tour bus was like sailing unchartered seas aboard a pirate ship. Nash swabbed the deck daily with such slurs and sexual innuendo that I was ready to walk the plank just to get a break from him.
    Still chuckling, I gathered up my dishes and deposited them into the dish tubs lined up along the wall. Doubling back, I siphoned out some coffee from the urn into a large glass of ice, dumped in a pack of sugar, and plunked a straw into it. Back at the table, I stole three of Riggs’s creamers, ruining his perfect symmetry.
    â€œSo what’s this got to do with me?”
    â€œIt’s like you borrowing a kid for the afternoon to go see his Lemonwheel set. Same concept. But for one week. Then you can run back to your fun, little life.”
    I smarted a little at the “run” comment. As for my fun, little life—I had gotten fired from my summer gig and was currently at loose ends. What the hell was he proposing?
    Riggs reached into his pocket and set a black velvet ring box on the table. It looked very formal amid the scattered creamer cups and the cheery red and white checks of the tablecloth.
    â€œLook. It’ll be just as easy as a one-off.” Elbows on the table, Riggs folded his hands, and together we stared at the box between us. “Nashis being honored in his hometown, and it’s a big deal for him. He doesn’t want to show up without a lady on his arm.”
    â€œTell me there isn’t a ring in there.”
    â€œHe just needs to come across well.”
    â€œTell me,” I repeated slowly for clarity, “there isn’t a ring in there, sitting on a table in the middle of fucking catering.” Silverware clattered a few tables down, and a fat, bearded roadie gave an impressive burp amid the cheers of his co-workers.
    â€œIt’s one week, Dani. You show up with Nash, and everything else will be waiting for you there. Luxury hotel suite, wardrobe full of clothes, the works.” His chubby fingers wrestled with the box’s tight lid. I glanced around, in a total panic.
    â€œNot. Here.” My hiss caused Riggs to freeze, think better of opening the box, and push it toward me to do the honors. I let it sit next to my sweating cup of