Free Courtship of the Cake by Jessica Topper Page A

iced coffee.
    â€œLook. Help him out here. He needs some good press. Rumor mill has it that the label might drop Go Get Her if Nash doesn’t get his personal act together. And the band . . .” Riggs fiddled nervously with his pinky rings, twirling them simultaneously with his thumbs. “Let’s just say he’s on pretty thin ice with them as well.”
    My eyes widened as I sucked coffee through my straw and came up for air. Now
that
surprised me. Go Get Her’s sound was like nothing I’d heard before. It had a fiery spirit and an urgency about it that was infectious. Nash added a slithery groove with his voice and guitar playing that begged the body to move, his wordplay and rhythm designed to delight and excite every kind of fan, and convert the unbelievers on the spot. Together, Nash and the band brought the crowd screaming to their knees night after night with their debauched and sensual set. Each song built heat, and it was amazing to watch as they kept the tunes alive, kept them breathing and growing.
    â€œI don’t understand. Go Get Her is pure magic with Nash fronting them.”
    Riggs smirked fondly at me like I was born yesterday. “Labels don’t believe in magic anymore. Magic doesn’t always equal the Midas touch. Nash’s pageantry and penchant for ‘drama’”—he air-quoted—“hasn’t won him any popularity contests with the suits crunching the bottom-line numbers.”
    I nodded, thinking about the private tour bus, as well as the extravagant after-parties and trashed backrooms that made headline news. That probably didn’t fly with the promoters and execs.
    â€œI can see that, but . . . the band?” They were so good together.
    â€œEver date someone that you just can’t stand . . . but the sex is so damn good, you can’t bring yourself to break up with them?” Riggs was saying. “Yeah. That’s Go Get Her and Nash. But even they’re reaching the tipping point.”
    I picked up the ring box.
    â€œPose with him for one week, back in his hometown. Get him some good press and show the world Nash Drama has calmed down. In the end, you’ll get a new wardrobe and a diamond ring to keep for your troubles.”
    Oh, this guy knew dick-squat about my
troubles
.
    â€œYou think I need new clothes?” I demanded, scraping the chair back.
    â€œSorry.” Riggs gave a sheepish grin but his teeth were still sharklike. “But your hippie, earth-mother flower-child look isn’t going to cut it, Holly Hobbie. Not on Nash’s arm.”
    I made an angry beeline out of the catering hall toward the artist compound. Musicians and their guests loitered about, drinking at the picnic tables and enjoying the sunshine. Marching right up the stairs of the trailer labeled
Go Get Her
, I yanked on the latch and burst in.
    Nash was playing house inside with two topless groupies. The lights were dimmed and the air hung heavy with pot smoke. He lounged between them on the couch, wearing a black tee that proclaimed in white writing FUCK YOU, YOU FUC KING FUCK , his long arms thrownover their bare shoulders. Each girl offered a smoldering joint between a thumb and forefinger to his lips, and he’d take turns smoking between them. All the while, he rolled their nipples between his own thumbs and forefingers, and they giggled and squirmed in delight. He’d exhale smoke across a belly and lick the closest breast above it before moving back to their waiting fingers. It was hypnotizing, but I wasn’t there to watch their show.
    â€œTell
Riggs
this is what I think of YOUR proposal!”
    I tossed the ring box, which bounced off his shoulder, rolled down his chest, and settled into the creases near his button fly. Slightly to the left of his massive hard-on that was obvious under the straining denim. The girls gasped and their gaze landed on the box. A diamond ring, sitting