Page 44 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

I pace my bedroom in impatience as a couple of minutes pass. There’s no reply.

August Hawkins: I’m coming by your place, but give me a call when you see this anyway.

I never get a call or a text message, even by the time I’ve reached her apartment.

I knock on the door and wait.

Nothing.

I knock again. “Scarlett? Are you home? It’s August.”

Still nothing.

Stepping away from the door, I call her phone again, and just then, I hear the faint ring of a phone on the other side of the door. So, sheishome, but she doesn’t want to talk to me. Or maybe she’s sleeping…? I would venture to guess she may have been up late if this situation with her grandmother had a worst-case-scenario outcome.

I knock again. “Hey, Scarlett. Can you hear me?”

I wait and listen for a few seconds, and then the lock turns, and the door slowly swings inward. By the time it opens enough for me to see her, Scarlett’s slowly meandering away from the door toward a small, round kitchen table off to the right of the entryway. Her hair is frizzy and disheveled, her red curls flattened in places. She’s wearing a vintage, satin robe in a cream color that might otherwise set off her milky skin, but her complexion is so washed out right now that it nearly blends in with the fabric.

“Scarlett,” I say gently, approaching her. “What happened?”

She doesn’t say anything and merely reaches for a red, patent leather pocket book at the center of the table and fumbles to open it one-handed while holding the robe closed at her sternum with the other.

“Lucky called me this morning and said he had to take you to the—”

“I already saw your text messages,” she mumbles, finally working the zipper on the pocket book all the way open and then laying it flat on the table.

I take another couple of steps closer. “Is it something about your grandmother?”

She answers by harshly clearing her throat and picking up a pen to scribble on something inside the pocket book. Looking a little more closely, I can see that she’s filling out a check, and all of these little mundane activities make her seem like a ticking time bomb.

“Scarlett, will you talk to me please?”

She sets down the pen and then rips out the check. Shoving the chair back from the table, she stands up, still clutching the robe closed at her chest, but now she approaches me while holding out the check. She doesn’t look at me, and I have no idea why she’s handing me a check.

I don’t take it from her and just stare at her downturned face in hopes that I can get her to look up at me. “Honey,” I say, because it worked the last time. “Look at me.”

At that, Scarlett lifts her chin, meeting my gaze with defiant eyes that are puffy and red, but she doesn’t falter and holds the check between us. “Take this.”

I keep my eyes trained on hers. “What is it?”

She waves it at me. “It’s what’s left over from the advance. I can work on paying back the rest, or you can just take that from whatever royalties I get from the single.” She lifts one shoulder. “I actually don’t need any of that money, so you guys can just keep it, too.”

So sheistotally cracking under the weight of what Iknowis a massive amount of grief.

“Scarlett,” I try again. “Please talk to me.”

She drops her gaze to the check. “I only needed this contract so that I could afford to take care of my Maw-Maw, and that’s not a thing anymore, so I’m giving it back.” There’s an audible quaver in the back of her throat, and she shakes the check. “I quit, August.”

I swallow thickly. “It doesn’t work that way.”

“Likefuckit doesn’t,” she snaps, but still doesn’t look at me. “I quit. Do your deal on y’all’s end. I’mout.”

I reach to hold her shoulders and say carefully, “Scarlett, I know you’re—”

She bucks off my hands. “Don’t fuckingtouch me.” She grabs the front of my shirt, tugging it slightly as she stuffs the check into my pocket and then gives me a firm push away from her. “Don’t act like you suddenlycare,August. Don’t act like you’re not totally fuckingthrilledthat you don’t have to deal with me anymore. Don’t act like you don’t completelyhate me. I’m doing you a favor. So why don’t you just get lost already?”

“You lost your grandmother,” I say as gently as I can muster. “You’re devastated. You’re grieving. Let me help you right now.”

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