Page 35 of Steal My Heart
“I look forward to seeing you. Oh, and Remi?” He leans in, and my heart feels like it’s stuck in my throat.
“Yeah?”
“‘Tourist tax’ doesn’t apply to musicians.” He winks, sauntering off.
I slap both my hands over my cheeks in disbelief. Kissing the dog. I’ve allowed a mark to see my face and learn my name, both big no-nos in the pickpocketing world.
My dad begins the last song of his set, but I’m so off-kilter from my encounter with Ellis, I call time on our hustle. Weaving through the crowd, I make my way to the outskirts of the Quarter, unlocking our shotgun rental house.
I plop cross-legged on the floor of my room, grabbing the cash from my bra. Straightening out the bills, I count out my cut. Dad doesn’t know I’ve been skimming from the top for a little over a year, but in my defense, he pisses away most of our money on booze, women, and blackjack tables, so I don’t feel bad about it.
After moving the floorboard underneath my bed and grabbing the small box, I dump out my savings. Lying to myself that I’ve miscounted, I do a recount, but the total comes out the same.
Damn. I’m a little short, but here’s hoping the music shop owner doesn't notice.
The shop owner’s fingers dance over an old school calculator. “You’re $300 short, Remi.”
“Come on, cut me some slack! I’m only $300 short, and this keyboard isn’t even in great condition. Please?” I clasp my hands together, giving him my best puppy dog eyes.
“If it gets you outta my hair, then fine,” the old man says begrudgingly.
“You don’t have any hair,” I tease him.
“Because of you musicians always shorting me,” he grumbles, disappearing to the back.
I bounce excitedly from foot to foot as he returns with the case. “Congrats. You’re the proud owner of a previously ‘loved’ keyboard.”
“Thank you!” I squeal, jumping up and down.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, placing the case on the counter.
I grab it, nearly dropping it on my foot. “Ooff.”
He laughs. “That thing’s bigger than you are.”
“I can handle it.” So maybe I haven’t figured out how I’m going to transport the keyboard, plus an amp, a bench, and a tip bucket to my street performances, but one worry at a time.
“Tell your old man I said hello.”
“Will do.” Another fib, as I haven’t told my dad about my plans to go straight and solo; but I’ve promised myself I’ll break the news to him at dinner this evening.
Dread fills me at the thought of having that conversation as I lug my new keyboard through the city. I return home, and much to my relief, Dad isn’t back yet. I stuff the case under my bed and mentally rehearse my speech.
I want to be a legit musician, and in order to do that, I have to go solo. And no more hustling.
He’ll argue. He’ll beg. He’ll promise me the moon. But this time, I’m standing firm.
Time ticks by, but no Dad. My phone vibrates, and I grab it.
Hey baby girl. Can we get a raincheck on that dinner? An opportunity fell into my lap and I gotta move quick.
Sure, Dad.
His flaking only cements my resolve. I leave his cut of today’s hustle on the kitchen counter as I head for the door.
Since I’ve already kissed the dog, I might as well watch his show.
Chapter Eleven
