Page 43 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

13

August

The sound of my phone ringing jars me into consciousness, and my eyes flinch at the blinding sunlight pouring in through the windows. I groan, rubbing my eyes and wondering who the hell would be calling so early on a Saturday morning.

Reaching for the phone, I see that it’s actually almost noon, and I also don’t recognize the number. It has a New York area code, so my immediate assumption is it’s someone from a podcast, radio station, or other music related promotional person because,oh yeah.

Scarlett’s single is releasing early next week, and I’ve still got a ton of shit to do even though it’s the weekend.

Sitting up straight, I clear my throat to sound less hungover and tired, and then answer. “August Hawkins.”

“Hey, August. It’s Lucky De Luca. How ya doin’ this afternoon?”

I fight the urge to groan.

I wonder what the fuckhewants after likely spending the night with Scarlett. He wasn’t supposed to call about something work-related until next week, so whatever it is can wait.

“Just fine, Lucky,” I say briskly, hoping I come off as sounding super busy so he’ll take a hint. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, I was wondering how Scarlett was doing today.” He pauses for a beat, and I squint in confusion. “I didn’t get her number yesterday, and I wanted to make sure she was all right.”

“Oh.” My brows draw together. “What makes you think she’s not all right?”

“Did she not call you last night?” A hint of concern flavors his thick New York accent. “I offered to call you for her, but she said she was going to.”

I throw back the sheet, suddenly flushed with worry, and jump out of bed to start pacing the floor. “I haven’t heard from her since I left you guys last night. Did something happen?”

“Well, it looked like she missed some calls around nine or so, and then after calling back whoever it was, she was pretty shaken. Then she needed to go to the ER at Tulane, like immediately. She didn’t say what was going on, but she was about six shades of pale and shaking like a leaf the whole time.”

My heart rate picks up. “She didn’t say why? Did she seem sick or like she wasn’t feeling well?”

“No, no, no, I think she was needing to go see someone there. She didn’t say who or why, but she did say she was gonna call you so could be there with her.” He pauses, and my mind hisses at me,it’s her grandmother. “She never called you?”

My shoulders sink. “No.”

Because I told her not to.

Something awful happened with her grandmother, and I told her not to call me.

The day she showed up with scratches on her face and then broke down crying at the piano replays in my mind, and I know whatever was going on at the hospital has something to do with her grandmother. That day, she’d sobbed that her grandmother was dying. She said her grandmother is all she’s got. And I know almost for a fact this situation is about that, and I told her not to call me.

My stomach churns with hangover nausea and dread.

“Huh,” Lucky says without much of a tone. “Well, I thought about trying to go back over there today, but I wouldn’t know who to—”

“I’ll call her,” I say hastily, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder while I grab a pair of slacks and start pulling them on. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“You bet. Give her my best, and I hope to hear from you guys about everything else soon. Y’know. If she’s still up for it after whatever all is going on.”

“Yep. Thanks, Lucky.”

Hanging up, I dial Scarlett’s number on speaker, then toss the phone on the bed as I finish pulling on the clothes I left in a pile next to my bed the night before. It rings until it rolls to voicemail, and I try again.

Four, five, six, seven calls, and nothing but voicemail.

Picking up the phone, I type out a text message.

August Hawkins: Call me. I just heard from Lucky that you had to go by the hospital last night. Where are you?

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