Read Online Courtship of the Cake by Jessica Topper - Free Book Online
Authors: Jessica Topper
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me. Never the Dramettes. And certainly never the other members of Go Get Her.
Despite the magic we accomplished each morning, when the tour bus was rocking late into the evening, I never came knocking. Besides, the artists werenât the only ones who knew how to party like rock stars. On the rare off nights when we didnât have to rush to pick up stakes, or had already set up camp somewhere in preparation for the next tour stop, the hospitality crew let its true hair down. Even Maxine would turn a blind eye to our midnight antics, as long as we cleaned up after ourselves and were ready to report to work come morning.
Spin the Bottle Karaoke was a crew favorite. Whoever was pouring the shots got to spin the bottle, and whomever it landed on was forced to sing the spinneeâs choice from the eclectic array of CDs we all brought. It often resulted in hilarious pairings, like Jade and Travis doing a death metal duet, or Deuce from catering shaking his massive ass in his striped Zubaz chef pants and channeling his inner Shakira to our screaming Waka Waka chorus.
âYou know I got it. These hips donât lie!â our hulk of a chef boomed,and aimed his Jack Danielâs bottle squarely on me. âLetâs see if our Blondie has a little Blackheart in her.â
âHa, youâre on.â Laney and I had caught many a Joan Jett show in our youth, from the Bowery to the Birch Hill. As Deuce cranked up âBad Reputationâ on the boom box, I let Joanâs trademark growl rip from my throat as I hopped up on the picnic table beneath the strand lights and did a low-slung air guitar to the opening riff as my colleagues cheered me on. Who needed black leather and eyeliner? I just widened my eyes, snarled my lip, and dove in. Not giving a damn, just like the song said.
What I hadnât noticed was the small entourage that had gathered on the other side of the wire fencing that separated production and hospitality from the talent. Nash stood with a few of the other headlining artists, arms crossed and legs splayed, one heel turning over in his expensive, broken-in rocker boots. Light from the hydraulic towers set up backstage to brighten the night pooled down, setting his blond hair ablaze like a fiery crown. His eyes were trained on me as I kicked my way down the Solo cups littering the picnic table in my ragged cutoff jeans and combat boots. Let him look. I didnât care.
No, no, no . . . not me, me, me.
I head-banged in time to the chorus, wishing I had Joanâs pin-straight, black shag that would never frizz in the damp night like my kinky pile of pale curls. Go Get Herâs bassist leaned in to commune with Nashâs ear. The lead singerâs brow lifted as he nodded, and I could only imagine the conversation going on in their Olâ Boys Club. While Joan could strut the strut with her training-bra chest, I was probably channeling sexy lumberjack in my tank top and the half-buttoned flannel Iâd donned to get through the unseasonably cool night.
War whoops and fists punched through the midnight air as I scissor-kicked myself over the keg and ended my song. âSpin, spin, spin!â mixed with chants of âChug, chug, chug!â and the Jack bottle was thrust into my hand.
Nash had leaned an arm forward, his fingers curled in the chain link. Now his other hand grabbed hold, as if he was thinking about scaling the fence. It looked like the VIPs were on the outside looking in, for once. A small smile played on his lips as I made my way over to him.
âWhatâup, Doc?â he drawled, gaze never leaving my lips as I took a fluid haul from the bottle.
âYou lost?â I rasped, the whiskey adding a layer to my usual husky tone. Behind him, laughter and conversation among the other musicians drifted in the smoke-filled air, and I smelled the skunky burn of pot.
âNot all who wander are lost, China Doll.â He fingered one of my curls,
Despite the magic we accomplished each morning, when the tour bus was rocking late into the evening, I never came knocking. Besides, the artists werenât the only ones who knew how to party like rock stars. On the rare off nights when we didnât have to rush to pick up stakes, or had already set up camp somewhere in preparation for the next tour stop, the hospitality crew let its true hair down. Even Maxine would turn a blind eye to our midnight antics, as long as we cleaned up after ourselves and were ready to report to work come morning.
Spin the Bottle Karaoke was a crew favorite. Whoever was pouring the shots got to spin the bottle, and whomever it landed on was forced to sing the spinneeâs choice from the eclectic array of CDs we all brought. It often resulted in hilarious pairings, like Jade and Travis doing a death metal duet, or Deuce from catering shaking his massive ass in his striped Zubaz chef pants and channeling his inner Shakira to our screaming Waka Waka chorus.
âYou know I got it. These hips donât lie!â our hulk of a chef boomed,and aimed his Jack Danielâs bottle squarely on me. âLetâs see if our Blondie has a little Blackheart in her.â
âHa, youâre on.â Laney and I had caught many a Joan Jett show in our youth, from the Bowery to the Birch Hill. As Deuce cranked up âBad Reputationâ on the boom box, I let Joanâs trademark growl rip from my throat as I hopped up on the picnic table beneath the strand lights and did a low-slung air guitar to the opening riff as my colleagues cheered me on. Who needed black leather and eyeliner? I just widened my eyes, snarled my lip, and dove in. Not giving a damn, just like the song said.
What I hadnât noticed was the small entourage that had gathered on the other side of the wire fencing that separated production and hospitality from the talent. Nash stood with a few of the other headlining artists, arms crossed and legs splayed, one heel turning over in his expensive, broken-in rocker boots. Light from the hydraulic towers set up backstage to brighten the night pooled down, setting his blond hair ablaze like a fiery crown. His eyes were trained on me as I kicked my way down the Solo cups littering the picnic table in my ragged cutoff jeans and combat boots. Let him look. I didnât care.
No, no, no . . . not me, me, me.
I head-banged in time to the chorus, wishing I had Joanâs pin-straight, black shag that would never frizz in the damp night like my kinky pile of pale curls. Go Get Herâs bassist leaned in to commune with Nashâs ear. The lead singerâs brow lifted as he nodded, and I could only imagine the conversation going on in their Olâ Boys Club. While Joan could strut the strut with her training-bra chest, I was probably channeling sexy lumberjack in my tank top and the half-buttoned flannel Iâd donned to get through the unseasonably cool night.
War whoops and fists punched through the midnight air as I scissor-kicked myself over the keg and ended my song. âSpin, spin, spin!â mixed with chants of âChug, chug, chug!â and the Jack bottle was thrust into my hand.
Nash had leaned an arm forward, his fingers curled in the chain link. Now his other hand grabbed hold, as if he was thinking about scaling the fence. It looked like the VIPs were on the outside looking in, for once. A small smile played on his lips as I made my way over to him.
âWhatâup, Doc?â he drawled, gaze never leaving my lips as I took a fluid haul from the bottle.
âYou lost?â I rasped, the whiskey adding a layer to my usual husky tone. Behind him, laughter and conversation among the other musicians drifted in the smoke-filled air, and I smelled the skunky burn of pot.
âNot all who wander are lost, China Doll.â He fingered one of my curls,
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