Page 36 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

That just seems wrong on all kinds of levels.

So, instead of turning my head to kiss him and let that new, deeper desire run a-fucking-muck, I pull away slightly and incline my face toward the floor for long enough to get control of myself.

Sniffing away the last of my tears and wiping my nose with my hand, I lift my head and meet his gaze with the snarkiest expression I can muster right now. “You’re kinda throwing me off my game being so nice like this.”

August chuckles amiably and steps beside me, moving his hand from my shoulder to my back. “Your game is perfectly intact, and I agree with Francisco.” He nudges me back toward the rack of clothes while mimicking Francisco’s double-snap. “You’re gonna slay all day.”

I laugh, and that’s better. Keeping things light is good. I can’t deal with any more of that soul-bearing honesty we just dabbled in, because I can’t let that concerning, deeper desire take root because it would just cause a bunch of problems that I don’t have the emotional capacity to deal with.

The tragic reality of my near future is barreling toward me like a freight train with shot brakes. Maw-Maw’sdying. I can’t do anything to stop that. It’s going to happen. That is going to break me in a way that I still don’t know how orifI’ll be able to survive.

The last thing I need to add to that is heartache over letting myself fall for a man that I can’t and won’t ever be with.

11

August

The final stop on Scarlett’s pre-single-release promo blitz is an interview with one of the local jazz radio stations at the open-air Palace Market on Frenchmen Street. It’s early evening, and we’ve been going non-stop since around seven in the morning, and I’m ready to call it a damn day.

Scarlett, on the other hand, is still as bright and fresh and captivating as she has been all day, and is perched on one of the funky, neon-lit couches set up at the center of the art market. Strings of white lights crisscross overhead, casting everything in a soft, white hue that causes her gray eyes to appear silver below her fluffy, black lashes and makes her creamy skin give off an ivory glow. The outfit she chose—a tight, red pencil skirt that hits at her knees and a fitted, short-sleeved, gold satin blouse that she tied into a knot at her navel—accentuates her curves in a way that none of the burlesque costumes ever did. I kind of hate to admit she was right about this being a far more fitting look for her. Her lips are ruby red and spread in a blinding white smile, and the fat, red corkscrew curls have grown out enough that her hair bounces and swishes with every sassy tilt of her head as she cracks bawdy jokes and teases the two DJs interviewing her. She’s on top of her game, sexy and sassy, but with an air of vintage class.

I amexhausted, but the sight of her in her element like this is so refreshing that it’s breathing life into my work-weary bones. It’s also threatening to breathe life into the erection that always seems to remember the first night we shared a lot better than I do. To avoidthat, I have to keep turning away from the interview and focusing on the various and sundry tables set up nearby where artists are selling their work.

When I hear the DJs wrapping up the interview, I turn back toward them in time to see Scarlett standing up to wave both hands at the small crowd flanking the sitting area. The gathering of spectators applaud and whistle, and Scarlett offers them a little shimmy of her shoulders and blows a few kisses before stepping away.

She trots over to me in her shiny, saddle Oxford pumps with a swing in her hips and a smirk on her face. She stops about half an arm’s length in front of me and grabs the lapels of my suit jacket.

“Why do you look so sleepy, August?” she chirps, giving me a shake. “The night is young, and this has been a great day!”

Despite my exhaustion, I can’t help chuckling and smiling at her because, lest we forget, I have developed seriousfeelingsfor this spunky, sassy, firecracker woman—feelings that are just going to leave me disappointed like the last time I felt this way about someone.

“It has been a great day,” I agree, lifting my arm to place it between her shoulders and nudge her away from the art market and to the street so we can wait for the car. “You completely slayed, just like we knew you would. Nevertheless, twelve hours of work is a lot, and I’m kind of ready to go home and veg out.”

“Awwww…! You’re such a party pooper,” she whines in that way that’s more teasing and put-on than an actual complaint. She wraps her hand around the crook of my elbow and shakes me again. “I was thinking we could hit up one of these bars for a round of body shots.”

I laugh and shake my head, but the idea ofthatforces me to reach down to discreetly adjust the front of my slacks to ensure everything is still laying properly. “I stopped participating in body shots way back in college, so I’ll have to pass. But if you’re hungry, we can stop for a bite to eat before I drop you off.”

Scarlett gives me a dramatic sigh and bumps the side of my leg with her hip. “Okay, I guess that’s probably the moreresponsible—”

“Excuse me, miss,” a male voice pipes up in an Italian-New Yorker accent that I haven’t heard since I migrated down to the Big Easy.

Scarlett and I both turn to see a lanky, yet suave guy in his late twenties approaching us with long, confident strides, one hand in the pocket of his slacks while the other casually holds a smoldering cigarette between his index and middle fingers at the level of his chest. His hair is ink-black and slicked back, and he’s wearing a navy, pin-striped, three-piece suit that completes this whole 1920s Italian mafia vibe he’s clearly going for. And I’m probably still a little fucked up from the drugging incident a couple of weeks ago because I instinctively pull my arm closer to my side, trapping Scarlett’s hands in place where she’s still holding my elbow.

Scarlett, on the other hand, is completely unfazed as she takes one look at this guy and playfully narrows her eyes. “Yes?”

The guy drags his cigarette as he closes the distance between us, and then gestures at us with it. “You’re Scarlett, right?” he queries, his dark blue eyes focused on her like mother fuckinglasers. “Scarlett with the vintage pipes and no last name.”

Scarlett releases my arm so she can turn directly toward him, placing her hands on her waist and throwing one hip to the side. “Iam.” She bats her lashes, and I don’t even know this fucking guy, but I already hate him. “Andyouare Lucky De Luca, the piano man.”

Lucky De Luca.

Fuck me.

I do know this guy.

At least, I knowofthis guy.

He’s a pianist who’s been playing the jazz club circuit in New York for the past six or seven years, and he recently rose to a respectable amount of fame via viral YouTube videos of his retro set. I’ve seen his stuff. It’s fuckinggreat. Andworse, it’s exactly Scarlett’s kind ofthing, and that instantly makes me hate him that much more.

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