Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Angelo
“This is why I didn’t want a vet involved!” Remi stops her foot. “Nola’s mine, and I don’t care what any microchip says.”
“A secret for a secret. Do we have a deal?” I could force her to tell me, but our little back and forth is so much more enjoyable.
“Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine,” she retorts.
My hands move to my belt buckle.
“Wait, I didn’t mean that literally!” Remi’s eyes go wide. “And not in front of Nola!”
“Nola, would you mind if I had a moment alone with your human?” I open the door.
Remi snorts a laugh. “Good luck getting her to listen.”
Nola stretches lazily before sauntering out of the room.
Watching the range of emotions playing out on Remi’s face—from shocked to disgruntled—I grab the intercom phone and call Maks. “ Assicurati che Nola non esca. E voglio che la piscina sia a prova di gatto .”
“ Sì, capo, ma non so cosa significhi una piscina a prova di gatto .”
“ Nemmeno io!”
Hanging up the phone, my fingers return to unfasten my belt. Remi goes to protest, but I cut her off. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to continue our discussion in dry clothes.” She follows my gaze to the couch, where a towel and a stack of clothes are neatly folded.
Her cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink as she turns around to give me privacy.
Peeling off my wet pants and boxers, my cock is keenly interested in what might happen next. In this game with Remi Landry, who the fuck knows.
Giving my body a quick rubdown with the towel, I ignore my cock as I step into a pair of dry boxers and jeans. Buttoning the top button, I yank the tee over my head and tell Remi, “You may turn around now.”
She does so, and I take great satisfaction in her surprised look. “You think I only wear a suit?”
“I figured you were born wearing a tailored suit and a scowl; like the one you’re giving me at this moment, actually,” she says with laughter in her eyes.
“Tell me how you came into possession of Nola.”
“Tell me the meaning of your tattoo,” she counters.
Remi
“Ladies first,” he says, his voice full of tempting promise.
How is my brain supposed to function with Angelo Calvani being so disarming in a T-shirt and jeans?
In the suit and tie, the man’s formidable, but dressed casually, he’s not quite so intimidating.
Which makes him even more dangerous, like a cobra lulling you into a false sense of security before it strikes.
“The hard way or the easy way.” The threat hangs heavily.
Since this isn’t even the worst part of my story, I decide it’s not worth testing Angelo. “Sienna D’Amico was Nola’s original owner. Do you know the woman?” I ask, taking a seat on the couch and tucking my bare feet under me.
“Yes,” Angelo says without inflection, taking a seat beside me.
I try to discreetly shift away from him; a relaxed Angelo has me everything but. “Figured you would, since she and her husband own Hotel D’Amico in the Quarter.”
“Deceased husband,” he corrects me. “Michele D’Amico passed away recently.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.” Not that I’m particularly sad about the news. The few times I interacted with the man, he gave off total creep vibes. “Anyway, my boyfriend, Ellis, was a musician.”
“Boyfriend?” Angelo’s nostrils flare.
“My ex,” I clarify, lost in thought.
Remi
A few months ago…
Jazz in the Quarter on a beautiful sunny day. Is there anything better? Well, yes, if I were the one playing instead of hustling, for starters.
A crowd congregates around the lively sound of my dad’s clarinet, with me on the prowl.
An older man reaches into his front pocket and pulls out a wad of cash.
Separating a dollar bill from the twenties, he drops it in the tip bucket.
This gentleman’s now an easy mark—as I know exactly where he keeps his cash—but it feels wrong to steal from someone who appreciates music.
Instead of targeting him, I keep my eye on the couple who’ve been here for a few songs without tipping. They turn to walk off, and I pay their dues for them by lifting the man’s wallet.
Dropping it in my pocket, I casually stroll in the opposite direction until I reach an alleyway. Hopping over disgusting puddles, I position myself behind the dumpster and take inventory.
Tennessee driver’s license. The Volunteer State. Thank you, sir, for volunteering to pay the tourist tax. Placing half of the cash in my bra, I fold the other half and place it in my money belt hidden beneath my flowy dress.
Two credit cards and a debit card remain tucked in the wallet’s slots. Petty larceny is one thing; credit card fraud is a whole other can of worms that I refuse to open. Using my handkerchief MawMaw embroidered for me, I wipe my fingerprints from the wallet before chucking it in the dumpster.
She’d be rolling over in her grave if she knew the turn my life has taken. Let’s see, following in my old man’s footsteps since the age of eight, and dropping out of school at seventeen, to name a few.
I tuck the butterfly handkerchief into my pocket and round the corner of the alley. My body slams into someone, and I fall on my ass. “Owww.”
“I’m sorry.” A cute guy flashes a lopsided grin as he extends his hand. My stomach dances as I place my hand in his, and he hoists me to my feet.
I fake a stumble so I can bump into his chest while my other hand fans the front right pocket of his jeans. Feels like a wad of cash there, and I keep my left hand on his chest as a distraction as my right hand pleats the fabric of his pocket.“Thank you,” I tell him.
“Any time.” He flashes a panty-melting grin. “What’s your name?”
Go for the cash. Don’t be a fool.
But my mouth has a mind of its own, and I find myself answering honestly. “Remi.”
“Remi.” He grins. “My name’s Ellis.”
“You a musician?” I nod to his case, aborting my grab.
“Yeah, I’m headed to my gig at Hotel D’Amico.”
“Really? That’s so cool,” I say in awe. It’s one of the best jazz bars in the city. “What do you play? Besides pretty girls?”
His easy laugh makes me smile. “Trumpet. Why don’t you come watch me? Since you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever ? —”
“Knocked on her ass?”
He grins. “Exactly.”
“I might check out the show,” I say nonchalantly, trying to play it cool.
“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.