Page 14 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

And my career depends on my reputation.

And, once again, my career is the only thing I’ve got going for me in life.

So, it sucks to beher, and it sucks to beme.

And by that measure, I think Scarlett and I just might be strangely perfect for each other.

4

Scarlett

“Ihate to make it sound like this,” Antoinette, Maw-Maw’s newly-hired, in-home nurse is saying to me. We’re in the kitchenette across the tiny apartment from where Maw-Maw is thumbing through a photo album. “But you called me at the right time.” She gestures with a nod at Maw-Maw. “She seems all right for the most part, but when I was talking to her just now, did you notice that pause and the way her eyes kinda…drifted?”

I offer a small nod, and a stab in my chest forces me to swallow the lump that threatens to rise in my throat. Antoinette doesn’t need to say anything else. I’ve already heard from a dozen or more doctors what that means.

Antoinette offers a kind smile. “She’s starting to fight to stayhere. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah.” I draw in a breath and exhale silently, and again, I knew this was coming. Maw-Maw’s particular type of dementia has a tendency to sit largely dormant for months or even years, but once it starts showing symptoms, it’s like a snowball effect. Good thing fate swept in and handed me over to Frenchmen Street Records and that ridiculous financial advance, otherwise it would be me having to stay home with her, rather than out earning money to keep us in this crappy apartment.

Fortunately, at the moment, I don’t have to worry about money—at least for a while. Given the stick up August’s ass, I’m not sure how long he’s going to let the label keep me on. And if he cuts me, I guess I’ll just be in a bunch of debt. Oh fucking well. I don’t have the luxury of worrying about repercussions like that. I will go to debtor’s prison before I just sit on this pile of cash instead of using it to get Maw-Maw the help she needs.

I offer Antoinette an appreciative smile before pocketing my keys and approaching Maw-Maw. “Hey, Maw-Maw.”

Maw-Maw stares at the album for an extended beat before she glides her gaze up to meet mine. A smile pulls across her weathered face, and she reaches for my hair. “Sure do like this color on you,cher. Like Carnival on your head.”

I smile like I always do, every single time she says it, every single day. “It’s pretty fun, right?”

She nods and pats my cheek. “Real fun. Reminds me of Carnival.”

I lean down to kiss her head, then point at Antoinette. “You know Ms. Antoinette’s gonna hang out with you while I go to work, right?”

Maw-Maw drifts her gaze toward Antoinette, then back to me, and then she blinks.

Picking up on Maw-Maw’s obvious, brief disorientation, Antoinette speaks up. “Hey, Hazel. You can show me those pics from your USO shows again.”

Maw-Maw’s eyes light up at the reference to her career as a headlining act with the USO way back in the early forties. “Oh… yeah… that was some good times.” She smiles at Antoinette as a shadow of recognition drapes her gray eyes, and I can tell she put together the pieces of the introduction from earlier this morning. “I got pictures. I’ll show you.”

I cast a wary glance at Antoinette, which she returns with a pat on my shoulder. “Just hang in there, Scarlett. I’ve got her.”

I kiss Maw-Maw again and then offer them both a wave. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

* * *

Arriving at the salon,I pull open the front door to see August with his arms crossed over his chest, jaw ticking, and toe tapping. Today, I’m apparently getting my official Frenchmen Street Records “image overhaul,” or whatever-the-fuck he called it, and getting Maw-Maw settled in with Antoinette made me late.

“You’re late,” he snaps, underscoring the obvious, his tone sharp as always.

Two weeks into this business relationship, the stick up his ass seems to have been shoved even deeper. I have no interest in casting my pearls before swine by explaining what was holding me up.

“Awww,honey,” I coo, flouncing over toward him to grip his stiff bicep and plant a big,loudkiss on his cheek. “I missed you,toooo…”

His jaw ticks again as he pulls his arm out of my grasp. Then, he grabsmybicep to practically drag me across the large, open-concept salon to a chair where a beefy, tattooed man is waiting with a pleasant expression.

August points at the chair. “Sit.”

In an effort to fuck with him that much more, I do a quick spin before plopping into the chair, crossing my legs, and sitting with my signature “tits up, ass out” posture. Turning to smile at the stylist, I offer him my hand. “I’m Scarlett.”

“Iknow,” the stylist says with exuberance, shaking my hand before threading his fingers through my hair and giving it a toss, “and I’m Francisco, andI lovethis color on you.” He retracts one hand to gesture at my reflection in the large, bulb-framed mirror. “Did you do it yourself?”

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