Page 15 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

“Yup.” I shake my hair again. “Manic Panic Electric Amethyst.”

“Oooohh…”Francisco gushes. “I love it.” He sweeps his fingers deftly through the strands. “It’s still so soft, too. You did a brilliant job.” He turns to August and clicks his tongue. “I’m kind of loving the irony of all this.” He picks up a lock and holds it against his palm as if inviting August to inspect it. “Scarlett withpurplehair.” Francisco chuckles as he turns back to me. “Talk about leaving the audience with a lasting impression.”

I haven’t even been here for five minutes, and I already love Francisco. “Yeah,” I say with a small laugh. “People love it.” I wink at August becauseheloved it that night he can barely remember. “Don’t they,boss?”

“We’re changing it,” August deadpans, arms stiffly crossed over his chest again, andhuh?

I’m sorry,no. We arenot.

I squint one eye at him, becausesurelyhe’s not serious. “What? No. Purple-headed Scarlett is kind of my thing.”

It’s not actuallymy thing. It’s my thing for Maw-Mawthat makes her smile every day, but, again, August is a dick, and we’re notfriends, therefore all he needs to know is he can’t make me change my damn hair color.

“You no longer havea thing,” August retorts with a razor’s edge in his voice. “You are being assigned animagethat is conducive to how we’re marketing you.” He lifts his index finger flippantly at me. “You will not bepurple-headed Scarlett.You will beredheadedScarlett because itmakes sense.”

My stomach sinks like a brick. “August…I’m not changing my hair color.”

“Yes, youare,” he hisses, narrowing his eyes to slits. “You are the one who insists upon having a sexed-up, peep show set, so you will be Frenchmen Street’s scandalous, ditzy, bombshell redhead, and you’ll be as equally known for your tits and ass as you are for your actual music.” He inclines his face close to my ear, holding my eyes with his in the mirror. “This is the way you sold yourself to the entire team, this is what you wanted to be, now this is what they all think you should be, so this is what you will be.” He stands up straight and gestures at Francisco. “Turn her into Marilyn Monroe with Lucille Ball’s color.”

My jaw falls open as I cover my head with both hands. “August.” I scoff. “No.You can’t change my—”

“Yes, I can,” he snaps, then pauses to glance at Francisco. “Can you give us about ten minutes?”

Francisco lifts his palms placidly and steps back. “No problem. I need a coffee anyway. Can I bring y’all anything from the cafe across the street?”

August levels his gaze on me again. “No.”

We stare each other down as Francisco’s high-heeled boots clip-clop across the hardwood floor and he pushes his way out the door.

“You’re out of your fucking mind if you think I’m going to let you change my hair color,” I assert, spinning the chair around to stare directly at his face.

“Wrong.” He grabs my arm again and jerks me to stand up from the chair. “Youare under contract, and that contract says you will comply with any and all marketing efforts to ensure a return on the investment we made in you. That includes the image we have chosen for you.”

“You mean the imageyouchose because you’re an uptight prick who has a big fucking problem with the fact that youhappenedto get drunk and fucked me, and now you’re scared shitless about what your ex-girlfriend might think if she finds out. Andthat’sbecauseyou—” I pull my arm out of his hand and point at his face. “—are just a giant pussy who’s bitter that she’s marrying someone else.” I cock my head and arch an eyebrow as he fumes at me, green eyes flashing and nostrils flaring. “Maybe if it didn’t take getting shit-faced to make you stop being a total fucking prude, you could’ve held on to her.”

August clamps his fist around my hand and jerks me to follow him down the long center aisle of the salon, and then he pushes open a door to a large dressing room.

Slamming the door shut behind him, he whips around and stomps to a rack of colorful, sparkling, costume-like clothing. After shoving through the hanging garments for a few seconds, he yanks something tiny, slinky, gold, and glittering off its hanger and pitches it at my chest.

“Wrong,” he says, voice surprisingly even, but also chilly as an icy blue norther, “you’re the one who presented yourself as a singing, dancing slut, and that is the image we’re going with. Now change into that, and get used to it, because that’s as much clothing as you’re ever going to wear for as long as you’re with this label.”

Holding the outfit in front of me, it looks like it’ll barely cover my ampleassets. Beyond that, it’s nothing like the vintage, pin-up style ensembles I normally wear from Maw-Maw’s time as a singer. It looks like something a nameless girl from a rap video would wear while lounging with champagne next to a hot tub.

I throw it back at his face. “I’m not wearing this shit.”

August balls up the costume in his fist and throws it back. “Yes, youare. Nowchange.”

I’m so fucking angry that I can’t even see straight, but I manage to see August turning and marching toward the door. On pure, furious impulse, I leap across the dressing room to slap the door shut just as he’s pulled it open.

“No,” I grit through clenched teeth, spinning the lock. “If you’re making me wear this, especially right now when we’re just at a fuckingsalon, you’re going to watch me change clothes.” I angle my chin up to him, and his shallow, rapid breath tickles my face. “You’re trying to humiliate me, but guess what,baby.”

A muscle in his jaw pulses. “I’m not your fuckingbaby.”

“I have enough self-respect that even if you paraded me around in public in nothing but a G-string, it wouldn’t even faze me.” I push my palm against his chest, shoving him flat against the door, and the green of his irises has darkened to emerald with either rage orheat. “You don’t understand why I do any of this the way I do, and you never will because inmyworld,youare the fucking nobody, so you don’t deserve any kind of explanation.”

August says nothing and remains with his back against the door as I drop the costume to strip off my tank top and shorts. I rarely bother with a bra when not on stage, and today is no exception. The subtle rise-and-fall of his chest practically screams how much he begrudginglylikesthat. I keep my eyes trained on his as I bend slightly to peel off my panties, then stand upright again, hands on my hips while I cock an eyebrow at him.

“Ready for me to put on the glittery dental floss?” I challenge him as his eyes do that same roam up and down my form, and I don’t miss the bulge that has appeared at his groin. “Or do you need a minute?”

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