Page 7 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

“Tu wey pocky wey!”the whole damn club chimes in, and now we’re getting thefuckafter it.

Just in front of the stage, a mid-fifties woman in a billowing, emerald green tent-dress hops off her stool and stomps her foot as she claps her hands in perfect rhythm. “Yes, honey!”

I lift one hand off the keys for a hot second to point at her in acknowledgment, then splay all ten fingers across the aged ivory, forcing the piano to warble and sing like it’s got a voice of its own. Letting the crowd carry the lyrics, I discreetly glance sideways and see a handful of them boogying their way across the sticky, splintery, wood floor to stuff cash in the jar. It’s the end of my set, and from the looks of it, this is a damn good night.

Flitting my fingers across the keys in rapid succession, I draw the old song into a dramatic and satisfying close with the help of the drummer slamming his sticks on both the high tom and the low tom, then smashing the cymbals with the perfect climax. The crowd hoots and hollers, and claps and whistles, and my tip jar is full, and this is even better sex. It always is. Even better than the lastreally goodsex I had about a month ago with Grumpy Mr.-Get-to-the-Fucking-Point.

What was his name again?

I don’t remember, but I know it was kind of an oddly common word that wasn’t really a name. But it also doesn’t matter what his name was, because he gave me exactly what I needed. Which was the inspiration to get me out of my writing rut and allowed me to create five new songs that I debuted in this exact show. And given that the tip jar is fuller than usual, I definitely owe Grumpy Mr.-Get-to-the-Fucking-Point-Whatever-His-Name-was.

Standing up next to the piano bench, I throw my hands over my head and wave at everyone. “Thank y’all so much! It’s always a pleasure!”

Another drunk male voice rises above the ruckus. “Come sit that sweet ass down over here and I’ll show you some real pleasure, baby!”

I make a big show of laughing amiably and then give him a standard wink-and-smile, because letting that guy believe I’ll actually do that increases the likelihood of more tips. He doesn’t need to know that I’m one change of clothes from getting the hell out of here.

I offer one more wave and a quick bow before hiking up the long, gold skirt of Maw-Maw’s dress and carefully step down the stairs in preparation to get the hell out of here, when a pretty brunette woman touches my forearm.

“Scarlett?” she queries. “Do you have a minute?”

I pause and glance at her, offering a bright, automatic smile.

With a sleek, tailored white blouse tucked into an equally sleek, tailored gray pencil skirt and designer stilettos, she doesnotlook like anyone who normally hangs out in this club. Her hand that’s resting on my forearm is adorned with a diamond so fuckinghugethat I’m shocked this slender woman is able lift her arm. Just behind her is a handsome, young-Clark-Gable-looking dude wearing an expensive, slate gray suit, and I’m suddenly having flashbacks to Grumpy Mr.-Get-to-the-Fucking-Point-Whatever-His-Name-was.

Who dresses like that in New Orleans? In thesummer,for God’s sake?

“Hi,” I reply after not too much of a pause. “Sure. What can I do for ya?”

She holds out her hand to me, and I meet her palm with mine. “My name’s Liza Deneau,” she says, shaking with me and then nodding sideways at Young Clark Gable next to her. “This is my fiancé, Brennan Riley, and our colleague…” Liza turns her head farther around and then reaches through the crowd of people to grab another guy’s arm. “August Hawkins.”

Just as the crowd parts and she pulls him forward, it’s like a lightning bolt of recognition when I meet his green eyes.

Ohhhh…right.

His name wasAugust.

And here he is again.

Small world in the Big Easy.

This doesn’t have to be awkward or weird, and if he doesn’t mention it, I’m not going to either.

I shake with Brennan, who nods cordially and says something complimentary about my set, but it goes in one ear and out the other. At the moment, I’m slightly deaf with both curiosity andlustfrom what Idoremember about the last time I saw August.

But August merely offers me his hand in an equally gentlemanly fashion as Brennan did, and says, “A pleasure to meet you, Scarlett. Your set was fantastic.”

I retract my hand and smile with amusement. “Thank you.”

Five of those songs were inspired by the splendid use of your cock. So yes,thank you, indeed.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a minute to sit down with us to chat, would you?” Liza asks.

“Oh.” I glance at the aged clock on the wall made from a neon Abita Beer sign. I would really rather get back to Maw-Maw and her puzzle, but these people arereallyfucking decked out, and I would venture to guess they stuffed a shitload of cash in my jar, so I should at least be polite and humor them. I also kinda want to humor myself by seeing how long it takes poor, oblivious August to recall that he’s been balls-deep between my thighs in the not-so-distant past.

“Sure.” I gesture for Liza to take the lead. “After y’all.”

I follow the three of them to a table in a back corner of the club. August is a step or two behind Liza and Brennan, and it causes a fuzzy memory of our brief conversation to resurface in my mind.

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