Free Courtship of the Cake by Jessica Topper Page B

on the dick of a rock star? For groupies, that was probably as rare a find as a unicorn horn.
    â€œ
My
proposal? That was
his
idea. I just said I wouldn’t go home empty-handed.”
    Nash ceased his nipple-toking and cupped his precious junk (ring included) with both hands. “Go. Later.”
    The girls responded as if he had called them by their names. Go moved to grab her halter. Later extinguished the joints in the ashtray.
    He had his harem. What the hell did he need me for? I didn’t exactly fit into his collection. Thanks to mainstream media, I knew exactly what he considered women good for. “I’m never going to be a lady on your arm and a whore behind closed doors!” I informed him.
    â€œGee, quoting my interview articles now?” He leered sarcastically. “And here I thought you said you weren’t a member of the Nash Drama fan club.”
    â€œI’m not,” I muttered, ignoring the girls’ titters. “But I read
Rolling Stone
once in a while.”
    â€œI have no doubt that you’re a wildcat in bed.” His heavy-lidded eyes cruised the length of me. “But that’s not why I allowed Riggs to ask you,” he said to me. “Come on. Let’s take a ride.”
    â€œNo. I’m not going anywhere with you. Not in that asinine T-shirt. You look like an idiot.”
    â€œFine!” Nash stood up, shoved the ring box into his pocket, and stripped off the tee. “No fucking T-shirt.” He tossed it onto the couch cushion he had just vacated, and the girls pounced on it as if it were warm meat. They clocked heads in the scrabble to stake a claim on their favorite singer’s piece of clothing, and ended up laughing, locking lips, and rubbing boobs together. Perhaps it was a show for Nash, but his eyes never left me. “Happy now?”
    His bare chest rose and fell as we stared each other down. It struck me how intimately familiar I was with this stranger’s torso before me, from each time he climbed on my massage table during this tour. Trusting me with it. I knew every curve of muscle and every sinew, his thews on display as he twisted to grab his laminate and keys.
    â€œLet’s take that ride,” he repeated.
    I followed him out of the trailer to where his golf cart waited. This time, he bypassed the flat avenue of merch tents and opted to head straight toward the sloping hill that acted as a natural amphitheater for the stage. That day’s festival ground was a small ski resort in winter, but come summer, the concerts blazed at the bottom of the mountain while the fans raged at varying heights of the grassy slope.
    â€œCan the cart make it up this terrain?” I hollered as we bumped and careened higher and higher. It was a golf cart, for heaven’s sake. Not an ATV.
    â€œTrust me,” Nash yelled over the rushing wind, gunning the pedal harder. “I’m a professional.” His sarcasm bit as sharp as the wind at my face. We reached one plateau, but not high enough for Nash, or far enough from the crowds that were already clustering around the dark stage, waiting for Go Get Her’s set. The band wasn’t even scheduled to start for another forty-five minutes.
    Finally we reached a summit that satisfied him, and he threw on the brake. We sat down on the long, wild grass. Nash’s fingers priedthe box from his pocket. He said nothing, just palmed it back and forth between his hands.
    â€œWhy’d you send Riggs to ask me?” I finally asked.
    â€œBecause I trust him. He’s done nothing but spin my antics into gold.” He cracked the box open. “And platinum, apparently.” Smirking, he handed it over to me. “Riggs has always been good with damage control.”
    The diamond bore down on me like an all-seeing eye. I quickly snapped the velvet jaws of the box shut. Riggs’s recitation of
they don’t pay me nearly enough for this
revolved around my mind