Page 1 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

1

August

“You can touch it if you want.”

My gaze flicks from the young woman’s long, shiny purple hair to her eyes, which are either blue or gray, but it’s hard to tell in the low, red light of this club.

“I beg your pardon,” I say. I can’t tell if I sound rude or not. At this level of intoxication, I feel a little like I’m talking with a mouthful of marbles, but the low moan of a jazz trumpet from the guy on stage is loud enough in the small room that I can’t really hear myself.

“My hair,” she says, crossing her long legs, exposed by short denim shorts, toward me. “You’ve been staring at my hair for the past five minutes.” Her lips are full and pouty, but naked, and they curl into a beguiling and tipsy smile. “You probably think it’s a wig. It’s not.”

I narrow my eyes to slits, absently tugging my tie looser and then popping open an extra button at my collar. It’s July, and the heat in New Orleans doesn’t fuck around. Nevertheless, I’m not going to come to a jazz club underdressed, just in case I encounter a potential hot new musician. I’ve already found one in my brief time as the head of artists and repertoire for Frenchmen Street Records, and I’m overdue to find another one. This purple-headed minx is not it, but I’m also too drunk right now to try to talk business with anyone anyway.

“I didn’t think it was a wig,” I clip, albeit kind of sloppily, “because I wasn’t staring at it, and therefore wasn’t thinking about whether or not it was a wig.” I pick up my glass of scotch and spin on the stool to face her. Only one stool separates us, and I rest one foot on the bottom rung so I can lean toward her. “However, now that you’ve mentioned it, it does look like a wig, and I’m calling your bluff.”

She tilts her head to one side, the long, purple waves falling over her slender shoulder as she lifts a beer bottle to her lips. She draws her eyes to the ceiling as she takes a long sip, and I use the opportunity to slide my gaze down her neck, over her clavicle, and to her breasts. They cause her red tank top to stretch to its limits, and they’re way out of proportion to her otherwise diminutive frame. And now I’m thinking they’re as fake as the purple hair that’s definitely a wig.

She lowers her eyes again to meet mine. “What bluff would that be?” Resting the beer bottle on the bar, she spins the neck between her short, chipped-polish fingernails.

I gesture at her with my scotch. “One: that is definitely a wig. And B: you’re not actually inviting me to touch it.”

She pulls her lips between her teeth, arching one brow. “So one comes before B in the alphabet?”

I squint as I consider my verbal inconsistency and then shrug it off. “Yes.”

An impish smile tugs her mouth as she drops her face toward the floor and laughs so quietly that I can’t hear it above the jazz trumpet. Bracing her forearm on the bar, she pushes herself to stand up and then straddles the stool right next to me, caging my knee between her thighs.

“You made me laugh,” she says angling her chin toward me, “so, yes, I am inviting you to touch it.”

I’m still new to the Big Easy, and I guess this is just another facet of culture shock, because nobody has ever so blatantly come on to me. Not to mention, I’m also really fucking drunk, so I’m not entirely sure how to respond. “No, you’re not.”

She laughs again, a little louder this time, her ski-slope nose crinkling, and then sets her bottle down on the bar so she can pick up my free hand. I let her, and she leans forward, guiding my fingers to the waves that fall over her shoulder.

It’s mesmerizing how soft it is, and it definitely doesn’t feel like a wig. Clasping a handful of it, I slide my lazy gaze to hers. “Not a wig, huh? Can I pull it?”

Her small smirk morphs into a devilish grin of blinding white teeth. “I was hoping you would.”

Tugging firmly, but slowly, I lean forward while simultaneously pulling her even closer to me. “Are you trying to fuck me?”

She offers a lazy hitch of one shoulder. “I thought that was obvious.”

Holding her close to my face with a handful of purple hair, I lower my voice. “What’s your name?”

Her gaze flicks to my mouth and then back up to my eyes. “Scarlett. What’s yours?”

“August.”

A far cuter smile plays on her full lips. “I like that.” Flicking her gaze back to my mouth, Scarlett hesitates for a beat and then inclines her head sideways as she leans close enough to brush her bottom lip across mine. “I’ve been watching you since you got here, and I gotta say, you are the crankiest guy I’ve ever seen in here before.”

She already broke the ice by stroking her lips against mine, so I set down my glass and reach for her tiny, little waist. Dragging her stool so close to me that she’s basically straddling my lap, I grip her silky hair harder and locate her ear. “Well, Scarlett… if you had to work with someone you were in love with and their new fiancé, you’d be pretty fucking cranky, too.”

“Ooohh…” she coos, totally patronizing, but I don’t give a fuck. “That sucks.” She grips my thigh, squeezing it then skating her thumb close to my stiff cock. “So, August,” she murmurs, “when I’m fucking you here in a few minutes, are you going to be thinking of her?”

She leans even closer, and I feel those pouty lips on my neck. I suddenly don’t give a fuck that we’re in a bar, and I draw my hand up the side of her ribs so I can palm the side of her too-large tit and circle her nipple through her tank top. It hardens immediately, and she skates the tip of her tongue across my neck.

“It’s okay if you do.” She nips my skin. “It’s okay if you think of them both.”

The last fucking thing I ever want to think of is Liza screwing Brennan, her playboy billionaire fiancé—who, by the way, was a total dick to her before they got together—and I can’t restrain my disgusted scoff.

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