Free Bake This! (A 300 Moons Novella) by Tasha Black Page B

instrument with her life, if necessary, and would never allow herself to get caught up in an some silly prank, egged on by one of the pop princesses or boy band geeks, where she would scare Johnny into thinking something had happened to little Ruby.
    He tossed his beloved tenderly into Jazz’s slender hands and gave the kid a grin when she caught little Ruby as if the guitar had flown into her arms of its own volition. She grinned back and disappeared into the darkness offstage.
    He strode slowly back to the mic, grabbing a bottle of water off one of the amps along the way.
    The air hung hot and wet, like a damp sponge, even though the sun had set two hours ago. Ominous clouds had formed a dome over the field since morning. The kids selling umbrellas and disposable plastic ponchos had been making a killing all day. But it turned out to be an empty threat.
    At least the cloud cover probably cut down on the cases of sun-stroke in the medical tent.
    Johnny sucked down half the water bottle, then poured the other half slowly over his head.
    Screams, mostly female, rang out as the t-shirt went transparent over his lean, muscular frame. He let himself smirk and they got even louder. He tossed the empty bottle out into the crowd and tried not to watch as a sea of people reached for it.
    “You guys havin’ a good time tonight?” he asked mildly into the microphone, scanning the crowd.
    They roared back at him.
    “Me too. Me too. I was hoping we’d get to hang out with you a little longer, but we just got word from the park management that it’s time to shut things down,” he said sadly.
    “Booooooooooo,” they screamed.
    There was no word from anyone, of course. He was teasing them.
    They knew it. And they loved it.
    “They told me if we don’t get off the stage, they’re gonna pull the plug,” he told them with a confidential tilt of his head, like he was spreading a juicy rumor about a neighbor.
    “Booooooooo,” they screamed back.
    “You know what I got to say to that?” he asked, dropping the gossipy tone, and picking up his branded rebellious attitude.
    The crowd began to cheer loudly.
    “I said… You know what I got to say to that?” he asked, taunting them.
    They cheered frantically, louder than before.
    “Fuck that!” he screamed back.
    The whole crowd went nuts.
    Johnny literally couldn’t hear himself think.
    “Fuck that!” he screamed again, instead of trying. He pumped his fist, unsure if any mic in the world would allow them to hear him over their own sounds.
    But they heard him, they always did. They picked up his phrase and began to chant.
    “Fuck that…Fuck that…Fuck that,” their collective voice bounced off the back of the stage and echoed back to him.
    He smiled and stripped off his water and sweat-soaked shirt.
    More high-pitched screams.
    He let them take in his naked torso. He was glad he was built. Chicks went wild for the abs and the biceps. And the dudes seemed to get a kick out of his body too. Like somehow because they connected with his lyrics they felt like they were a part of him, like his body was theirs too, since it expressed their feelings.
    And of course, some of them just wanted to fuck him.
    He basked in it, glorying in sharing his beauty, though he knew from a certain point of view, it would be considered vanity.
    His foster sister, Darcy, for one, would never let him live this sort of thing down.
    But he was merely sharing with others what had been given to him freely - not earned. Shouldn’t he share it with the world, much as he shared his musical talent, which had also been bestowed upon him?
    Of course there was that other gift.
    Best not to think about it.
    He threw his shirt into the crowd and their screams ratcheted up higher. People literally dove to catch it.
    “I say we play one more. Let ‘em try to stop us!” he offered.
    He held up his right hand, and a guitar flew at him from stage right.
    A serviceable, but disposable, Fender Stratocaster.
    He