New Orleans Rush, page 1
PRAISE FOR KELLY SISKIND’S PREVIOUS TITLES
Chasing Crazy: “With a swoon-worthy male love interest, and Siskind’s superb storytelling, this is one of the best New Adult contemporary romances I’ve read to date.”
—USA Today best-selling author K. A. Tucker
FALL IN LOVE WITH KELLY’S OVER THE TOP SERIES
My Perfect Mistake, Over the Top #1: “This has easily soared to one of my favorite books of the year and has earned itself a place on my all-time favorites shelf.”
—The Sisterhood of the Traveling Book Boyfriends
A Fine Mess, Over the Top #2: “Delicious, sizzling chemistry that leapt off the page! Lily and Sawyer will absolutely win your heart.”
—USA Today best-selling author Jennifer Blackwood
Hooked on Trouble, Over the Top #3: “…an awe inspiring story packed with humor, heat, passion and love.”
—Chatterbooks Book Blog
GET SWEPT AWAY IN KELLY’S ONE WILD WISH SERIES
Legs: “An intoxicating romance that lingers like a great Merlot and leaves you with one hell of a book hangover!”
—Scarlett Cole, author of the Second Circle Tattoo series
Stud: “A sexy and steamy read with loads of flirty and witty banter. Siskind knows how to write characters that have off-the-charts chemistry.”
—RT Book Reviews
Licks: “Kelly has blended a mystery into this compelling love story in a way that keeps the reader flipping pages. I couldn’t put it down!”
—USA Today best-selling author Ellis Leigh
EverAfter Romance
A division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004
New York, New York 10016
www.EverAfterRomance.com
Copyright © 2019 by Kelly Siskind
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
For more information, email info@everafterromance.com
First EverAfter Romance edition April 2019.
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63576-626-4
eBook ISBN: 978-1-63576-627-1
1
Seeing the world through rose-colored glasses was a cultivated skill. A sunny outlook could brighten partly cloudy skies and refract that brilliance into the world. Most days smiling through adversity was effortless. Tonight, Bea’s positivity had fled the building.
“Hit me with another, sir.” Her request came out faster than intended, each word knocking into each other.
The bartender in question cocked an eyebrow. “You sure that’s a good idea? Looks like you enjoyed a few before coming here.”
She squinted at the man’s gelled hair and fancy bow tie. He seemed the unflappable sort, the type who could have survived her gray day with a sip of tea and self-deprecating chuckle.
Bea planted her elbows on the bar, briefly grimacing at the sticky surface. “I appreciate your concern, but that was my first drink. And if we switched bodies in one of those body-swapping movies, and you had to relive my last thirteen hours, you’d realize I could win the Guinness World Record for Worst Luck. Denying me another drink would be barbaric.”
Except the alcohol was fogging up her usual rosy glasses. Or maybe it was the cold medicine she’d taken when she failed to find Advil in her purse.
The bartender cracked a smile. “Barbaric?”
“A crime against humanity.”
He shook his head and reached for the vodka on the shelf. “Maybe don’t inhale this one.”
Another lemon drop in hand, she swiveled on her stool and scanned the room. The low lighting made her eyelids heavy, the red carpets and mahogany walls adding to the bar’s sleepy warmth. It had a Rat Pack vibe, accentuated by the bow-tie-wearing servers and lampshade table lights. Jazzy music joined the hum of the crowd. A crowd as unfamiliar to her as the rest of New Orleans.
Move with me to the Mardi Gras City, Nick had begged. We’ll work the bar scene at night. You can paint all day. We’ll live each minute like it’s our last!
Her boyfriend—now of the ex persuasion—had neglected to mention that four days into their adventure he’d change the rules, leaving Bea homeless and jobless in the birthplace of jazz. She also hadn’t painted anything but artless amoebas the past month.
Sinking lower on her stool, she cupped her drink with both hands. She didn’t sip it right away, letting her tipsiness linger instead. Then a guy in a top hat and cape appeared.
Yep. That just happened.
She looked into her full glass, then back at the mirage, wondering if she was drunker than she’d realized. She had consumed her first drink faster than usual, and mixing cold medicine and alcohol wasn’t the best idea. She squinted harder at the man. The top hat was still there, making its already tall owner stupendously taller. The cape was still there, too. Not just any cape. A midnight velvet cape with stars stitched through the material.
It was a galaxy far, far away. Right here. In a New Orleans bar.
The cape looked soft and plush. If Bea could rub her face in the fleecy fabric and roll into a cocooned bundle, she was sure she could sleep for a week and wake up in a different life. One that didn’t resemble a fifty-car pileup.
The top hat man focused on her, as though sensing the longing in her stare. Or maybe he’d heard her say, “I’d love to nuzzle your cape.”
A thought she’d accidentally unmuted.
He walked toward her like she was the only person in the jazzy room and stopped in front of her barstool. “You can touch it, if you’d like.”
The fabric looked even softer up close, but the sensual timbre of his low voice had her sitting straighter. “If you’re not referring to your cape, things might get ugly.”
She wasn’t above tossing her drink in his face.
His lips twitched. “I do mean the cape. Unless you’d like to try on my hat.” He tipped up the felt brim.
She loosened her grip on her glass, pleased she wouldn’t have to waste a perfectly good martini. But the way her day was going, the hat would probably give her lice. “I don’t accept hats from strangers. Or capes.”
“I believe that applies to candy, not capes.”
“What if it carries an ancient spell and whisks me away to some dark castle where I’ll be imprisoned and tortured until they learn I can’t command the cape’s magic?”
The edges of his eyes crinkled. “A valid point.”
His languid gaze slid down her body and up again. He studied her so long she finally sipped her drink, then he extended his hand. “I’m Huxley.”
The second her fingers—cold and damp from the chilled glass—slid into Huxley’s large grasp, heat shot up her arm. The cape most definitely had hidden powers. “Bea,” she said. “Fascinating to meet you.”
The most fascinating moment of her gray day.
Aside from the subtle blond scruff highlighting dramatic cheekbones and his aquiline nose, Huxley wasn’t traditionally handsome. Puckered skin overtook half an eyebrow, part of his right ear was missing, and a thick scar ran down his left cheek. His dirty-blond hair had a slight unruly curl, the ends licking at his neck.
Individually, his features weren’t particularly attractive, but as a whole this man was ruggedly elegant. Like when you stepped back from a Monet and all the paint strokes blended into a masterpiece.
Until he said, “Bee, as in the insect?”
Now he was more of a disturbing Picasso painting than a Monet masterpiece. “As in Beatrice Baker, but make a bee joke and I might borrow your cape after all. See if I can use its dormant magic to turn you into a colon rectum.”
He barked out a laugh. “Excuse me?”
She fixed him with her best menacing stare. “A colon rectum. It’s an ugly beetle.”
Frequently taunted with “bee” jokes as a kid, Bea had studied insects and animals. The odder the name the better. Using the insults against bullies would often confuse them into silence. It had a different effect on Huxley, whose striking cheekbones rounded, his lips curving upward like he’d stumbled upon a four-leaf clover in a barren land.
She found herself leaning toward him. “Are you from New Orleans?”
“I am. But you’re not.”
She froze, worry weaving up her spine. He wouldn’t know she’d just arrived from Chicago, unless he’d followed her here. Not impossible, but the one person who would have tailed her was even taller, with a slight paunch. Big Eddie could have sent someone else after her—an accomplice to intimidate and threaten. Except a gun for hire wouldn’t waltz around, brazenly, wearing a cape and top hat, and Big Eddie had no clue where she was.
She relaxed on her seat. “How’d you know I’m not local?”
“Deductive reasoning.”
“Because you’re a clairvoyant with a photographic memory and can tell me every meal I’ve eaten the past week?”
Amusement lit his eyes. “My ways are much simpler than that.”
“Do share.”
&nbs
Right. The Chicago Bulls tag. A gift from her ex-boyfriend on their third date. She didn’t love basketball, but the keepsake had been sweet. It was now a sour memory. She removed it from her purse zipper and tossed it onto the bar. “Now I’ll blend in.”
Huxley’s posture shifted, shrinking the distance between them. “A woman as beautiful as you doesn’t blend.”
Whoa.
Her pulse tapped up her neck, her rapid breaths chasing the erratic beat. She tried to decipher the odd color of his eyes, but the dim lighting made it tough, and a man bellowed Huxley’s name from the back of the room, breaking the moment.
Huxley turned, and she gawked at the hollering man…because mustaches like his were extinct. That was a mustache wearing a face, the type of hairy handlebar that could serve as a playground for miniature children. A monkeybar-stache! She snickered at her internal joke and checked her drink again. It was still half-full, but her day no longer felt half-empty, thanks to the cape-wearing man before her.
“I’ll be back,” he said, all wonder eclipsing from his Monet face.
Once he joined the owner of the monkeybar-stache, Huxley glanced at her, but the mustache man’s aggressive hand gestures drew his attention away. She sipped her drink and watched the odd interaction, wishing she could read lips.
When she finished her lemon drop, she turned and flagged the bartender. “One more, please.”
He accepted her extended glass. “How ’bout we call this your last? You should head home after, sleep this Guinness Record Day off.”
A brilliant idea, if she had a home, or a bed.
It hadn’t taken much effort to stuff her clothing and paintbrushes back into her duffle bag this morning. She’d then loaded her yellow Beetle—the trusty automobile being the only mainstay in her life—and had sat in her parked car for an unhealthy length of time, replaying today’s disaster.
“Here’s the thing,” Nick had said when she’d woken up this morning. “I’ve changed. I don’t want to be in a committed relationship. It’s best we know this now, before we get in too deep. It’s been fun, and you’re great, but it’s time we moved on.”
She had tugged at her ear, sure her hearing had failed her. “I’m sorry, but it sounds like you’re breaking up with me?”
His answering nod had been all sympathetic puppy-dog. “It’s for the best. I mean, I was getting coffee this morning, and a girl in line asked me out. I wanted to say yes, which means there’s something missing between you and me. If we stay together, I might regret it and hurt you in the process. And you know I’m a stickler for honesty.”
Getting dumped four days after following Nick to New Orleans had been humiliating. Listening to him admit he’d accepted the coffee girl’s date for tonight had driven her mortification home. All because Nick believed in honesty. So much so, he reminded her the apartment he’d rented was in his name. He then graciously suggested she crash there until she found something new, no hint of irony in his voice.
Bea had stared at him. And stared. She hadn’t screamed and cursed, because she wasn’t a screamer or curser. She’d simply looked at the man who’d convinced her to quit her waitressing job, leave Chicago, drive across four states, upend her life for a dream, and she’d said nada.
The fact that he’d never blessed her when she’d sneezed should have been a red flag, along with his Kardashian-sized shoe collection. But Bea had wanted to escape and delve into her art and forget about her father, and the mess her sperm donor had made of her life. The matter of a certain loan shark threatening her bodily harm may have also expedited her departure.
Now here she was, the victim of another sabotaging man.
She dragged her newly filled martini glass closer, ignoring the pull of the caped man behind her. She was in no state to find any man intriguing. Not on a Guinness Record Dumping day. Sipping her lemon drop was no longer an option, either. She tried to suck that puppy back, but the straw jammed into her cheek. Huffing, she pushed it aside and downed the martini, finishing by wiping her wrist across her mouth. The room took a lazy spin.
She sat awhile, twirling the empty glass, waiting for her equilibrium to settle. The weight of her troubles hunched her shoulders. She still had no job. No place to live. The alcohol provided no insight, nor did the monotony of the spinning glass. She couldn’t reverse time, so telling Nick where to shove his “it’s for the best” face was off the table. Time to call it a night.
Tip left for the bartender, she hopped off the barstool. The walls did a tilt-a-whirl—a questionable sensation. She’d only had three drinks. Enough to make her mind feel loose, but not enough to turn the room into a merry-go-round. The cold medicine she’d used to Band-Aid her headache must have been the culprit. The aching no longer plagued her, but the room’s drowsy spin could pose a problem.
Bathroom. She just needed to make it to the bathroom, splash a little water on her face, and she’d be rain as right. Or right as rain. She’d shake this wooziness and figure out a plan. Translation: she’d sleep in her car tonight and hope to wake up in one of those body-swapping movies.
Maybe she could become Emma Stone. That girl had a sassy spine, no qualms about mouthing off to deserving men. They both had the red hair, freckle thing going on. Emma’s boobs were smaller, so wearing fitted tops wouldn’t make Bea feel like a Hooters waitress trolling for tips. But Bea had an hourglass figure with a daylight saving’s hour padding out her rear, which she loved. Come to think of it, Bea liked her body just fine. It was her life and backbone that were in need of swapping.
So lost in her hypothetical switcheroo, she didn’t recall walking to the bathroom or flushing the toilet or even leaving the stall. She hoped she hadn’t sat directly on the seat.
Beside her, a black woman with peroxide blond curls reapplied red lipstick. She cut a look Bea’s way and whistled. “Someone’s had a rough night.”
Bea sighed at her bleary reflection. “I made a bad decision.”
One that shouldn’t derail her life. Nick’s name did rhyme with prick, but she was in New Orleans. A colorful city with men in capes and monkeybar-staches. The perfect place to replenish her drained creative juices. She didn’t need Nick the Prick to start fresh. To prove her capability, she fumbled for the watermelon lip gloss in her purse and managed to paint on a layer. Everything in the world could be made better by watermelon gloss.
The woman curled her top lip and wiped some excess red from her tooth. “You’re preaching to the choir. My bad decision is named Miles, and he has a special ringtone.”
She pocketed her makeup and pulled out her phone. A few swipes of her thumb later, Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” blared from her rhinestone-covered cell. Bea bobbed her head as Carrie sang about keying her cheating boyfriend’s car and smashing his headlights.
When the chorus ended, the woman shoved her cell into her purse. “That, girlfriend, is how you remind yourself to avoid bad decisions. Miles calls every few days. He leaves a voicemail apologizing, and I don’t call back. I could block his number, but I like remembering I’m no man’s doormat.” Her pointed look was as fierce as her leopard-print dress.
Bea was still wearing the pink pedal pushers and turquoise polka dot blouse she’d pulled on this morning. The outfit exuded more bubble gum cheer than Hot Tamale attitude, but she’d always been a Double Bubble gal. She also wasn’t sure Nick had earned a Carrie Underwood ringtone. Definitely a Taylor Swift lyric jab or two, but Carrie could be pushing it. They had, after all, broken up prior to his date tonight, but accepting the date before his “it’s for the best” speech made the situation suspect.
Still, she didn’t want to key his 1978 Mustang Cobra, which he loved more than his shoe collection. Life was too short for revenge.
With a wink, the woman left the bathroom. Bea followed. A little too fast. One hand on the wall, she closed her eyes as the tilt-a-whirl whirled again. Eyes open were preferable. Air was also in order. She tried to strut outside with Hot Tamale attitude, but it likely resembled a dizzy stumble. She made it outside and sucked back air like a drowning swimmer breaching the water’s surface.
Her first breath cleared a layer of fuzz from her head. The second restored clarity to her blurry vision. She wished it hadn’t. There, across the street, was none other than Nick, walking hand-in-hand with his date.
