Page 28 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

A lifelong love that never flees,

Save us both from broken hearts,

Couldn’t we pretend.”

Scarlett stops singing, but continues to play, drawing out the conclusion of the song as long as the intro, and I glance at Jimmy again. He gives me a thumbs up with one hand while dabbing his eyes with the back of the other. My gaze flicks to Liza and Brennan across the studio, and she’s got a white handkerchief clutched over her nose and mouth, spilling eyes pressed shut, and even helooks a little fragile.

EvenIfeel a little fragile, and I chance a look at Scarlett. Her eyes are softly closed, long lashes wet and matted, but she keeps playing, and there’s something about all of it.

Something that makes me want to wrap my arm around her, and pull her close to my side, and keep her there. Something that makes her look like the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen, and also seems to cause a deep, stabbing sensation straight through my heart.

Eventually, Scarlett lifts her hands off the keys and folds them in her lap, so I push the mic away. We sit there on the piano bench, both of us with slightly hunched shoulders and downturned faces, silent and still.

After a long pause, I angle my face slightly toward her. “That was really good, Scarlett.”

She offers a small nod.

We descend into silence again, motionless, until I see in my periphery that she turns over her hand and inches her open palm toward me. It feels like accepting the small invitation for truce will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back with regard to the faltering boundary I’ve erected between us, but I set my hand in hers anyway.

She folds her fingers between mine, and we stay like that for so long that I lose track of time.

8

Scarlett

“Well?” I prompt August, raising my eyebrows at him, totally expectant, because he might as well be on a different planet.

We’re back at the salon and back in the large changing room where I…ahem…you knowa couple of weeks ago. But I’m not doing anything like that this time because needling him is no longer fun, and Maw-Maw’s steadily deteriorating state combined with all this album stuff is exhausting me. I don’t need him retaliating, so I’m done provoking him, and my give-a-fucks have reached a record low. Which is why I need him to pick something for me to wear to this “New Local Artists” shindig hosted by one of the radio stations this evening. And he’s just staring at his damn phone.

He doesn’t even look up to answer. “Well what?”

I grab handfuls of the clothes and shake them. “What do you want me towear?”

August cuts his eyes up at me and then toward the clothes. “Just…um…” He looks back down at his phone and doesn’t finish his sentence.

My eyes widen in exasperation because my hair and make-up are all done, and the car taking us to the event is supposed to arrive in about fifteen minutes. “Is it going to take another hand-job for you to pay attention to me?”

At that, he snaps his face up. “JesusChrist, Scarlett.Stop it.”

I throw my hands down at my sides. “Then freakingpick something already!”

August looks at me for all of two seconds and then turns to the rack, combs through it for another two seconds, then grabs something tiny off a hanger and holds it out toward me while looking the other direction. “Here.”

I let it hover between us as I purse my lips. “Why do you always want me to dress like a stripper?”

He still won’t look at me. “It goes well with the whole come-fuck-me persona that you insist upon maintaining.”

I swipe the outfit out of his hands. “I don’t have acome-fuck-mepersona. I’mretro. I’mpin-up. It’svintageandclassy.” I hold the tiny, sparkly, blue strappythingand inspect it. “The only person who thinks it’scome-fuck-meisyoubecause you’re still all paranoid about the fact that you alreadycame-and-fucked-me.” I smirk and arch an eyebrow even though I really need to stop needling him, but sometimes it’s just too much fun. Especially lately, because he’s been acting more awkward around me than ever. “Or I guess foryou,it was more like youfucked-me-and-came.”

August growls deep in the back of his throat before pivoting and marching away. “Just get dressed and meet me out front.”

I scoff as he shuts the door loudly, and then inspect the outfit once more before starting to change clothes. When I’m finished, I inspect my appearance in the mirror andJesus Christis right. Just like the previous costume he wanted me to wear, the sparkly blue thing looks like it came straight out of the Miley Cyrus’ collection of most scandalous outfits. It consists of boy shorts that show off the bottom half of my ass cheeks, which are attached by a veritable web of strappy…thingsthat connect to a bra, which hoists my bigger-than-average tatas way up to nearly touching my chin. All of it is covered in royal blue beads and sequins, and I look fucking ridiculous, and this is how I’ll be officially introduced to every mover and shaker in the local New Orleans music scene.

But whatever.

Like I said, my give-a-fucks are waning.

Maw-Maw’s getting worse. She’s the whole reason I desperately needed the money from this, and if something happens to her, I’m going to find it really hard to continue to tolerate any of this at all.

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