Page 4 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

The real reason is not only none of his business, but also too long of an explanation for his drunken state, so I offer an amiable chuckle.

“I don’t know. Why not?”

“Hmmm…” he hums, fingers slipping away from my hair to fall against the mattress. “I love it. You’re a unicorn.”

I laugh again, more quietly as I locate my shorts and climb out of the bed. “Thanks.”

By the time I’ve collected my tank top from the living room and returned to the bedroom for an obligatory goodbye, August is deep in a drunken slumber. I smirk at him, but pause to get a good look at his face for the first time. In the low light of the bar, I could see that he was a marginally attractive man underneath his obvious disgruntled state, but here in his bedroom in the soft white light of a bedside lamp, he’s more than marginally attractive.

He’s actually really handsome, especially with his sharp, aristocratic features relaxed amidst sleep. Judging from his boujee loft and fancy suit, it’s clear he’s also really successful. And wouldn’t that be nice.

Wouldn’t it be nice for some super handsome, super successful man to fall in love with me and vow to lift me and Maw-Maw out of the New Orleans slums and take care of both of us for the rest of our lives.

It would be nice.

Just like it would be nice for a prince to ride in on a white horse and save me from all the shit in my life.

Both are completely implausible and the stuff of unrealistic movies.

Nobody in this world takes care of me and Maw-Maw but me.

And the only way I know how to really do that is to get my music career off the ground enough to earn a stable income. Hundreds of amateur musicians in New Orleans manage to do it. I can do it, too.

At least, I hope I can.

In an effort to be courteous, I cross the room to switch off the lamp before I leave.

“Sleep tight, August,” I whisper into the darkness. “It was nice meeting you.”

August

ONE MONTH LATER

After perusing all the videos I’ve recently collected of potential new artists for about an hour, I rub my temples and then drop my chin into my palm with a frustrated sigh. It’s been a year and a half since I signed Sylvia, the most recent jazz phenom to emerge from New Orleans, and a girl of only sixteen years old. Sylvia is incredible. She sings and plays a mean jazz trumpet. She’s what we refer to in this industry as a unicorn—someone so unique and rare that you can’t believe your good luck when you stumble upon them.

But one unicorn isn’t enough to sustain Frenchmen Street Records or keep it relevant. This label only has one other unicorn, Oscar Quinn Washington, who was discovered by Liza and her recently-deceased first husband, Connor, six years ago. The label has a handful of artists, but these two unicorns are our bread and butter, and they hired me in the recent aftermath of Connor’s death to fill the void he left.

And given that Liza and I had dated for a few years long before she married Connor, and then she randomly showed up in my life again with an offer to be the label’s new head of artists and repertoire, I naturally assumed I would eventually fill every role left empty in Connor’s wake.

But no.

No, because when Liza showed up at the first meeting in Manhattan to discuss hiring me, she’d brought her best friend, venture capitalist and the label’s financial partner, Brennan Riley, who all but whipped out his dick and marked his territory with regard to Liza. Brennan had also been married, but the plane crash that killed Connor had also taken out Brennan’s wife, Skye, so it seemed like a natural progression that he and Liza would ultimately seek solace in each other and their shared grief. But before they arrived at that natural conclusion, Brennan—for God knows what reason—lost his ever-loving mind and treated Liza like shit for half a year. And then, I thought maybe I might have a foot in the door to get back together with her.

But, again, no.

Liza decided she wanted Brennan, and what Liza wants, Liza gets, and Brennan eventually got the fuck over himself and proposed to her. That was about two months ago.

So, for two months, I’ve had a begrudging front row seat for their love fest here at the record label. And I’m supposed to act like none of it bothers me while also trying to find another unicorn that will validate the hefty salary they’re paying me.

With my chin still in my palm, I mindlessly scroll up and down the collection of videos, just as a muffled giggle drifts into the hall from Liza’s closed office door. She and Brennan have been in there the entire time I’ve been perusing videos doing I know exactly what, albeit quietly enough that the audio from the videos spared me from hearing it.

I roll my eyes so hard they nearly fall out of my head, but then I wipe the irritation off my face and sit up straight just as her office door opens. I maintain my pleasant facade as I hear another quiet laugh from Liza and a kiss before the sound of shoes knocking against the hardwood floors approaches from the hall.

“How’s it going, August?” Liza queries as she and Brennan pause in the center hall of the nineteenth-century house that serves as the label’s headquarters.

I spin in my chair to offer them both a pleasant smile and casually gesture at my screen. “Unfortunately, I’m still at a bit of a loss. These folks are great, but I’m just not getting that it factor. Y’know?”

She offers a slow nod, tilting her head to one side to shake out her cascading brunette hair, which is still all mussed up from the private “meeting” she and Brennan just stepped out of. Brennan is standing at her side, hand rubbing the small of her back, and I have to fight to keep my eyes trained on Liza’s to avoid glancing at either of their mouths, which are both totally swollen from them sucking each other’s faces and other body parts for an hour.

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