Page 71 of Mr. Big Shot

“I’m not.”

“I see you got my flowers.”

They’re on her kitchen island, in a place of honor.

She sees me notice them, walks over, and swipes them right off the counter into the trash, vase and all. “I forgot to throw them away the other day.”

I smile. “Get changed.”

“Are you hard of hearing, old man? I’m. Not. Going.”

I walk past her into the bedroom on the right. It’s neat and tidy and it smells just like her. There’s more personality in this one room than there is in my whole house. She has framed artwork covering a whole wall, stacks of coffee table books beside framed family pictures. She has that white fluffy bedding that looks like it’d be as soft as a cloud. I’d keep looking around, but I’m on a mission.

Her closet is as orderly as the rest of her apartment. I pass over her work clothes and land on a section of dresses. I have no idea what she’d prefer to wear, but I know I love her in blue, so I grab a pale blue dress off its hanger and bring it out into the living room.

Scarlett’s on the couch, underneath a throw blanket, watching a recorded episode of Dateline, totally unbothered by the fact that I’m in her apartment. On screen, the reporter tells a gruesome story of dismembered bodies found stuffed into wooden barrels on some farm in Arkansas. I suspect Scarlett is getting ideas for what to do with me, and she confirms it when she asks how tall I am.

“Six three.”

She frowns at the screen. “Right. Well I’d probably need two barrels then.”

I toss the dress at her and it lands on her lap with a plop.

“What’s this?”

“Your outfit. Where’s your hairbrush?”

“Are you saying my hair isn’t fine the way it is?”

I narrow my eyes like I’m studying it. “I’m saying it’s fine if you think it’s fine.”

She reaches for her remote and turns up the volume.

“Authorities assumed the murders took place the night of November 5th, but—”

I check my watch. “We need to be in the car in fifteen minutes if we’re going to be there on time.”

“Well good.” She points to the door. “If you leave now and hurry down the stairs, you should have no problem.”

“Scarlett. I will haul you out of this apartment over my shoulder if I have to.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

I arch my brow, and she groans angrily and throws the blanket off her legs so she can stand and confront me. I’m so used to dealing with her in high heels at work I forget how small she actually is. She walks right up to me and pokes me in the chest with her finger.

“Listen up. You don’t get to wreak havoc on my life and then expect me to hop to it when you come calling. You can drag me to your mom’s house kicking and screaming, but I’m not going to play along with your schemes. I’ll tell your mom the truth.”

“Fine. Do it. Now get dressed and let’s go.”

I’m not worried about her threats. Oddly enough, I don’t really care what she does. I just want her in that car, whatever way I can get her there. I know it might be more respectful to give Scarlett the space she’s asking for, but it feels imperative that I push for more. We’re at a crossroads, and if I let her have her way, that might be it. Whatever we are, it’ll be done, for good. I can’t let that happen.

“Give me one good reason why I should do anything for you after the way you left things on Saturday night.”

“Scarlett, I—”

She holds up her hand. “No, actually, don’t start. I don’t want to hear your pathetic excuses. It’ll only enrage me and Moira. She hates bullshit.”

“Fine. I won’t get into it. But truthfully, I need you.”

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