Page 34 of Steal My Heart

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.