New Orleans Rush, page 10
He caressed her upper arms. “Perform for me, Beatrice. Not for them. Just for me.”
“Will there be more kissing?”
His fingers stroked seductive figure eights on her bare arms. “After. There will be lots of kissing after.”
She wanted lots of kissing. And more figure eights. So she said, “Okay,” but her voice wobbled. Her belly was a mix of nerves and inebriated butterflies, throwing her off-kilter. Inhaling deeply, she shimmied her shoulders and forced a smile.
“Okay,” she repeated, steadier this time. She followed him on stage.
12
Huxley knew coercing Beatrice on stage was a risky move, but her deer-in-the-headlights performance still shocked him. She froze a handful of times. She turned the wrong direction more than the right. She grappled with Axel’s straitjacket buckles so long a teen heckled her. Her stunning eyes snapped wide with worry when Huxley shoved the first metal sheet through the zigzag box, and she fell onto an old man’s lap while working the audience.
Pleasure swamped him at each fumble.
Axel punched his shoulder afterward. “That color lipstick suits you.”
He touched his lips, remembering the feel of Beatrice against him. He hadn’t bothered wiping it off. “I’ll add eyeliner next time.”
“I’ll bring the blush.” His brother glanced down the hall, to where Beatrice had disappeared. “She was pitiful.”
Pitifully perfect. “She’ll get better.”
Axel removed his shirt. “At least she didn’t puke.”
“She did great.”
He smirked. “Man, you have it bad.”
He wasn’t sure how to define his feelings for Beatrice Baker, vandalizer, below-average assistant. All-around astounding girl. He just needed to see her and make sure she wasn’t crashing after her performance. Her adrenaline had no doubt ebbed. Anxiety could be setting in.
He strode down the hall and knocked on her dressing room door. When she didn’t reply, worry snaked through him. He shoved the door open. To find her dancing.
She twirled on the spot, face lit with joy. “I did it!”
Her brightness filled the room…and his chest. “You did.”
“I mean, I sucked, but I didn’t pass out.”
“We’ll call that a win.”
“I think I’m ready for the Bellagio.”
“Let’s get a few more nights under your belt first.”
She twirled again, ignoring him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the fishnets that clung to her shapely calves, the feathered accents she’d added, the red handkerchief poking up from her cleavage, which matched the ruby lips he’d kissed.
Her lips had been exquisitely soft, as he’d expected, her little sounds of pleasure ruining him. He hadn’t planned to kiss her. Not then, at least. He could declare he’d done it to distract her from her stage fright, but the truth was simpler. He’d needed to kiss her. Claim her. Give in to his desire. Desire that surged through his bloodstream now.
She stopped spinning and her red curls fell over her shoulders. She stared at him, breathing hard. “Are you going to kiss me again?”
“I am.”
“I’ll be better this time. Less like a cardboard cutout.”
He closed the distance between them and cupped her cheeks. “Just be you. I only want you. Although I was surprised you didn’t taste like watermelon.”
“Oh, wait!” She twisted from his grasp, and he missed the contact instantly. She grabbed a tube from the makeup table, applied a layer of something shiny, then danced back into his arms. “Try this.”
He wanted to do more than try. He wanted to wake up with her in the morning and make her coffee and cook her breakfast. It would mean exposing his body to her, not always a smooth event with women. Some who’d seen his scars had winced at the sight, excuses eventually made as to why they’d had to leave. One woman thought they were cool and loved touching them. He could only hope Beatrice would look at his scars the same way she beheld his face: with passionate heat.
For now, he’d try. He pressed his lips to hers, a soft brush that made his body ache. There was no halfway with Beatrice. No way to tamp his cravings for this woman. She made him ravenous, and she did taste like watermelon.
“Delicious,” he murmured.
She cooed like his doves. She knocked off his hat, twined her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, and swiped her tongue along his. His answering groan was dredged from a slumbering well deep in his chest. One kiss, and she pulled his desire to the surface, opened up the fun and excitement he’d denied himself for so long. Her body continued to dance, bumping against his. His hands fell to her full bottom, perfect and lush.
“Beatrice.” Her name escaped him between smaller kisses.
She hummed against his busy mouth. “I used to hate my name.”
“I love your name.”
“I love how you say it.” She feathered her fingers through his hair, grazing his mutilated ear. He stiffened, but she didn’t. She swayed against him, explored his ugly defect, and kissed him harder.
Lust blasted through him. “Come home with me tonight. I’ll whisper your name all over your skin.” It was a bold request, but he was past sense and worrying about her reaction to his body, or her becoming a bigger distraction in his too-distracting world. She was the first woman he’d connected with in years.
She pressed her watermelon lips to his neck. “I would—”
“You two need to get a room.” Leave it to Axel to interrupt their moment.
Sighing, Huxley rested his forehead against hers. “We’re in a room. You invaded it.”
Beatrice poked her head around Huxley’s arm. “I didn’t pass out.”
Axel chuckled. “You also took an hour to fasten my straitjacket, but I won’t fire you.”
“You can’t fire me if I don’t get paid.”
“Why don’t you get paid?” At his brother’s aggressive tone, Huxley turned to find a still-shirtless Axel glaring at him.
Fox strolled in. “Because she keyed his car.”
Axel cringed. “The Mustang?”
Huxley thought he’d parked it far enough to avoid detection. Nothing was ever far enough from Fox.
As a teen, Huxley would “borrow” his father’s cape and sneak out to perform on street corners. The all-seeing Fox would file away Huxley’s misdemeanors until he’d need an alibi for his villainous endeavors, such as filling Mr. Wessick’s car locks with cement. The math teacher had told their youngest brother, Xander, he was dumb as a post, and Huxley had been coerced into corroborating Fox’s cover story. The time the jock who bullied Paxton got a sudden case of the shits “supposedly” happened when Fox and Huxley were riding their bikes.
Fox considered himself judge, jury, and executioner when family was involved. If he’d known about the vandalized car and hadn’t retaliated against Beatrice, he must approve of Huxley bribing her into performing.
That didn’t ease his guilty conscience. “I offered to pay her.”
“After he blackmailed me,” she piped in. “But I deserved it. I mistook his Mustang for my ex-boyfriend’s, after mixing cold medicine with alcohol and hearing a Carrie Underwood tune. It wasn’t pretty, and I couldn’t cover the damages.”
Axel scratched his head, a move that allowed him to flex his arm. “I’d like to meet this bitter, feisty Beatrice. She sounds fun.”
Huxley tucked her into his side. “You will do no such thing.”
Fox’s annoying contribution: “That color lipstick really brings out your eyes.”
He needed new brothers. He also liked being branded by Beatrice, red lipstick and all. He imagined burying his face between her thighs, drinking her in, covering his scruffy chin and cheeks in her feminine scent. Not thoughts he should entertain in front of his aggravating siblings. “If you two are done annoying me, it’s time to move along.”
And for Beatrice to reply to his request. He’d bet the theater she was about to agree to spend the night with him. But she extricated herself from his possessive hold, approached Axel, and studied his snake tattoo. Axel tipped his lips into what he deemed his lady-killer smile.
Beatrice stood back and planted her hands on her hips. “Is that a puff adder?”
He angled his inked ribs toward her. “A woman who knows her snakes. I think I’m in love.”
Huxley considered tampering with Axel’s straitjacket so the thing would imprison his obnoxious brother. “Why are you still here?”
“Because your girl is staring at me.”
“I bet the ladies love that ink,” she said.
Axel winked. “You know it.”
“Which gives me an idea.”
“You want to touch my snake?” Axel waggled his eyebrows at Beatrice, while Huxley glowered.
Fox tapped his middle finger against his thigh—his mind-reading pose. “It’s not the worst idea.”
Huxley wasn’t sure which brother to smack first, but Beatrice faced him. “Have you told the boys about your music decision?”
“We’re modernizing the music,” he told them. Now they knew. And they could leave.
“Seriously?” Axel’s eyes lit up like the Christmas their dad got him his pet gopher snake. He loved that reptile more than flexing for beautiful women.
“I’ll work on the music,” Fox said. “You have enough going on with the construction, and I don’t trust Cocky Smurf.”
Beatrice clapped. “You made a joke!”
Fox remained straight-faced. “We’ll see who’s laughing when you suggest the performance change.”
Huxley’s spine went rigid. “Performance change?”
She clicked her heels together, an adorable move he’d noticed a few times. She gestured to Axel’s bare chest. “He’s quite the looker, and those Magic Mike shows do bring in crowds.”
Axel dialed up his smolder to eleven. “If you want me to strip for you, all you have to do is ask.”
Huxley grumbled.
Beatrice shushed him. “I did some research, and there are a couple Australian magicians who perform half-naked. It’s a gimmick, but the ladies love them. I thought it would be a great way to shake things up, market yourselves to women for girls’ nights or bachelorette parties.”
“No way.” Huxley wouldn’t put his damaged body on display for a bunch of drunk women. As it stood, he was hesitant for Beatrice to see his angry scars and puckered skin. Not enough to keep him from pursuing her, but not all women could handle the sight.
“Count me out, but he’ll do it.” Fox jutted his chin toward Axel.
“Damn straight. First the music, now this. Rainbow Brite keying your car could be the best thing to happen to the Marvelous Marlow Boys.”
Huxley couldn’t argue with that. He was also desperate enough to let his brother perform commando if it brought in business. “We’ll try it.”
Beatrice looked at him like he’d hung the moon. “Really?”
His throat turned scratchy. He undid the top button of his shirt. “Thank you for thinking about us. About the show.”
“My pleasure.” Her low tone matched his.
They stared at each other, an electric charge vibrating between them.
For a moment, his brothers disappeared. His worries vanished. Her gray gaze slid down his body, and his blood trumpeted. He craved this consuming connection, to feel like they were the only two people in the world. If her rapt attention was any indication, she was as eager as he was to pick up where they’d left off.
“Time for you two to get gone.” He spoke to his brothers but kept his focus on Beatrice. “We’ll start the new act and music Saturday.”
“I’ll work on promoting it,” she said, sliding closer to his side.
“This is gonna be a blast.” Axel smacked the door jam on his way out. “Look out New Orleans!”
Fox dipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a gold ring and watch. He dropped them on the makeup table. “Use these at Saturday’s poker game. And make sure you win big. I’ve got the music covered.”
Half his attention still on Beatrice, Huxley didn’t miss how her head jolted, like she’d been slapped, or the slight heave of her belly in her tight bodysuit. Her gaze was fixed on Fox’s loot—spoils he’d likely picked from a pickpocket’s pocket. The risky stunt would normally send Huxley into a rage, but he couldn’t focus on much besides Beatrice’s glassy eyes.
The poker game. Gambling. He expected this to be a trigger for her. He’d just hoped to get to know her better, build a foundation, before explaining the games.
His insides twisted.
Fox left, taking the warmth in the room with him.
“It’s not what you think.” Huxley spoke too fast, the way a guilty person spewed untruths. She was looking everywhere else but at him. His words flowed into the tense silence. “It’s a game between fellow magicians. We’re allowed to cheat. We do it for bragging rights more than to win, but I need the cash to fix the building. It’s not an addiction for me. Not like your father.”
The more he went on, the more her shoulders curved forward. He was talking himself into a sinkhole and didn’t know how to stop. “Beatrice, please. It’s just a stupid game. It’s not a big deal.”
She flinched, and he regretted his words instantly.
“It shouldn’t be a big deal, but it is for me.” She met his imploring gaze, her usually rainstorm eyes drizzly and somber. “I won’t date a man who gambles, and I know we haven’t known each other long, but hooking up with you would be too intense to be casual.”
Her admission of their undeniable attraction lodged in his throat. He’d joined the poker match nine years ago, because his father had played. It was another way to keep Max Marlow’s legacy alive. To feel close to the man. It was fun and challenging and sharpened his sleight of hand. It paid the bills now, but it didn’t make him see sunshine on a partly cloudy day. It was a pastime. Nothing more. One that was coming between him and a woman who’d painted the word smile on her steering wheel.
“There’s been a blight complaint against the theater. If I don’t get it up to code in a month, I could lose it. Your suggestions to increase attendance have been great, and more appreciated than you know, but it won’t be enough. I need to play.”
“The fact that you need these wins is too much for me. I can’t have that in my life.” She picked a stray feather from her hip and released it. His hope hovered with the plumage, until it hit the floor. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get changed and head home. I told my friend I wouldn’t be too late.”
Right. Her friend. She was seconds from agreeing to a night of abandon with him, but his obligations had once again derailed his life. Angry with himself and his situation, he turned to leave, but paused. He couldn’t let her go, couldn’t walk out the door without leaving it open a crack. “I’m sorry for saying it isn’t a big deal. It is. It was insensitive of me.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He swallowed roughly. “You were right about something else, too.”
“About what?” Her breathy voice was hesitant.
One foot out the door, he said, “Nothing between us would be casual.”
13
Huxley used to enjoy his weekly poker games. He’d get off on pulling the wool over his associates’ eyes or calling them out when catching a false shuffle or sloppy deck stacking. He’d head home with a piece of jewelry or two, a stack of bills and an easy contentment, then pawn what he could to pay his brothers. It kept Edna on the payroll, so she could doze in the ticket booth and terrify potential vandals. The rest of his winnings would cover his rent and get siphoned back into the building. The gambling had been his mainstay, a moment away from his worries and a way to keep afloat.
Tonight was the second game since meeting Beatrice, and he resented every puff of Oliphant’s cigar, every bat of Ms. Terious’s gold eyelashes. The only place he wanted to be was with a woman who had quit him cold turkey.
The past ten days he had rehearsed and performed with Beatrice, but her natural brightness had dimmed. She still laughed with Axel and poked fun at Fox until both men were putty in her hands. With him, her interactions had felt muted, like an invisible fog separated them. She hadn’t tried to dance with him or tease his surliness. When their routine had her touching his arm or back, she’d break contact at first chance.
She’d steal glances at him, though, lingering past discretion, her brow lifted in longing. Frustration and hunger would pool in his gut.
They both wanted each other. They both kept away. Him, out of respect for the hell her father had put her through. Her, out of fear. He understood the why of it and had given up hope they could surmount their differences. That didn’t make inhaling her watermelon scent easy to bear.
“Call or fold.”
Oliphant’s blunt tone tore Huxley from his melancholy. A reminder why he was here. “I’ll raise you fifty.” He added his bills into the growing pot. At least the poker game was going according to plan.
Oliphant’s mustache twitched, predictably. Huxley had forced a slow play, folding on hands he could have won, drawing out the games to let his money dwindle and feign desperation. Until his final deal. Five-card draw was his game. Simple. Clean. Tough to win unless you were dealt a killer hand. Thanks to his deck-stacking skills, he’d made sure everyone’s hands were exceptional.
Oliphant matched the raise.
Ms. Terious was next, twisting the diamond stud in her ear. “Y’all won’t be satisfied until I walk outta here broke and bare as the day I was born.”
The visual made Huxley shudder. She was his mother’s age, with a thick mole on her cheek, enough makeup to sink a ship, and stray chin hairs. Her late-night act involved disappearing objects down her expansive cleavage.
Dazzling Delmar scrubbed a thick hand over his dark beard, considering his cards. A delay tactic. Huxley kept his face blank. He knew Delmar held four of the five cards needed for his full house. He knew because he’d dealt him those cards purposely, just like he’d expertly switched to a new deck of cards last round. Passing Delmar his missing king on the final deal would be child’s play.
