New Orleans Rush, page 19
She wanted to toss her arms around his neck and dance fully, celebrate with a kiss. She settled on enjoying the view of his scruffy jaw. “Maude the Dog. The client is flying me to New York next Monday.”
“Next Monday,” he repeated, his grip tightening on her hips. It was only nine days away, but their first date was also approaching. So much would change by then. After Thursday, they wouldn’t have to stand like this, touching with reserve, eyeing each other’s lips instead of licking them.
When Huxley said, “I should get going,” she remembered why there would be no licking or dancing or celebratory kissing.
“Right.” She moved out of his reach. “Have a good night.”
Her stomach turned over, an involuntary reaction. There were no lies here. This was his last poker night. He’d made that clear. Still, she pictured him in a smoky room, betting, winning, losing. The outcome didn’t matter. His honesty didn’t ease her anxiety reflex, either. Any and all betting wound her internal clock back to finding her rent money stolen from her secret Cookie Monster jar as a teen, to her zero balance in her adult savings account.
Huxley pulled off his top hat and raked his hand through his soft curls. She diverted her attention to Surly, Sneaky, and Cocky, cooing in their cage.
“Fox will walk you to your car,” Huxley said eventually. “Congratulations, again.”
His receding footsteps hurt her heart, but she didn’t dwell on the dull ache. For the first time, she felt like a bona fide artist, not a doodler or food sculptor. She was living in a colorful city with colorful friends and would soon be dating a colorful man, who no longer gambled. She didn’t need a fancy art college to be happy. She could take art classes on her own or draw Huxley in the privacy of their apartment. They could do a reverse Titanic, with him lounging on the couch, au natural, while she sketched the grooves of his hip bones and gave him sexy eyes.
She smiled at that reverie as she drove home. She ate a late-night Pop-Tarts snack. Her Titanic fantasies continued as she brushed her teeth and crawled into bed. They thwarted her sleep efforts until the front door opened and closed.
Huxley returning from his last poker game.
She listened as the kitchen tap turned on, then off. She pictured him leaning against the counter, his long neck tipped back as he drank his fill. He’d still be in his black slacks and gold button-down, looking ever the delectable magician. She wondered if he was wearing his cape.
His footsteps neared her door. He stopped. As did her heart.
Then it revved.
He was so close. They were so close to finally erasing the distance between them. She sat up, and the covers pooled at her waist. Her thin tank top brushed her sensitive nipples, each drag echoing between her thighs.
The softest thump sounded. His forehead resting on their barrier?
She padded to the door and pressed her forehead against the wood. It was like they were in the theater again, together but apart, while she’d listened to his private confessional. Two people whose thoughts were connected, their bodies divided by uncertainties. She could easily open the door, lift her top and unbutton his. If she pushed, he wouldn’t deny her this. But she’d smell the cigar smoke on his clothes and remember where he’d been and why they’d waited.
Even now, odd memories thwarted her. She’d often celebrate New Year’s with her father, just the two of them with bags of candy and streamers galore. Every year he’d tell her he was joining Gamblers Anonymous, that he’d get help and quit. He would say it with gummy bears in his mouth and streamers in his copper hair. She’d believe him, because he hadn’t been lying. He’d truly thought the next year would be different. And the next. And the next.
He’d wanted to change, but he’d been too weak to follow through.
This thing with Huxley could be history repeating itself. He might falsely believe he didn’t need the poker games, but she trusted otherwise. Their time as roommates—cooking together, laughing, sharing his living room while she painted and he read or fiddled with his puzzle box—had proven just how wonderful Huxley was. She wouldn’t doubt him again. Their date would unfold as planned. In just five days.
She stood still, breathing hard. She heard him exhale, followed by a soft scratching. She imagined him writing her a love letter on the door, a note worthy of an epic romance. A pledge to be faithful. A promise to rock her world. A vow to use his magic hands on her body until she levitated.
She drew a heart on her side. Then a castle.
Then a prince with a large sword.
She groaned too loudly and his scratching ceased. Her fantasies didn’t. She imagined unzipping Huxley’s pants and touching the length of him, how hard yet silky he’d feel. Would his familiar growl fill the air? Was he the type of lover who would kneel above her to watch her every move, or would he press his chest to hers, skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart? She couldn’t decide which she’d prefer. She wanted it all.
He moved, his footsteps traveling toward his room. Sighing, she tossed her overheated body on her bed, more wound up than before. She wouldn’t sleep tonight. Or for the next five days. Not until their promised date, and his promise to turn her boneless under his skilled touch.
But steps neared her door again, then stopped. She pushed up to her elbows, entranced. His shadow spilled under her door and into her room, a folded paper sailing over the floor. She scrambled to her hands and knees and crawled over the hardwood toward the gift. Maybe he’d sent her a note asking her to rate him from one to ten. Or a “Which Disney Prince Would You Bang?” questionnaire. Tangled’s Flynn Rider, please and thank you.
What she got was so much better.
Dearest Beatrice,
You may not think I’ve touched you yet, but I have. Every time I close my eyes, I drag my hands over your hips and down your thighs. I press wet kisses to every inch of your skin. I’m not sure how I ever stood still when music played, but those days are done. Thursday night is just the start.
Yours,
Huxley
Mine. He is mine. He was the scorching oxygen searing her chest, the wet heat pooling between her thighs. He was better than Flynn Rider or Prince Charming, or that swoony cartoon man who kissed Snow White. He was flesh and bone. Too good to be true. A magic man who penned one hell of a love letter.
22
Huxley guided Beatrice into the packed club, his hand on her lower back as they navigated the crowd. He hadn’t been sure where to take her for their first official date, only wanting to be somewhere he could touch her at will and feel her dancing body against his.
Brimstone didn’t disappoint.
The alcohol and perfume-scented air swelled with the band’s sensual beats, gold lights highlighting the crimson couches they passed. Whispering couples ignored them. He followed close behind Beatrice, guiding her to the bar.
Her gray eyes twinkled as she took in the mass of arms and legs on the dance floor. “This place is amazing.”
“Axel suggested it.” Huxley couldn’t remove his hand from the dip of her spine or keep from glancing at the curves displayed in her red dress. The fabric cinched her waist and flared at her hips, teasing him to what lay beneath. He waved the bartender down, needing something for his parched throat. “Manhattan for me, with an extra cherry, and a lemon drop for the lady.”
The bartender nodded, and Bea pressed closer to his side. “You ordered for me.”
“Is that okay?”
Instead of confirming or denying her feelings on the matter, she said, “You know what I like.”
He did know. He had quite the mental file on Beatrice Baker, every nuance catalogued and saved for future reference. She liked lemon drops and Long Island Iced Tea and learning odd animal facts. She hated ketchup and green lollipops. She loved foiling CSI criminals and taunting him with her wins. He hoped she adored dancing in this club with him, too, and falling into their apartment later.
Already, Huxley considered his place theirs. He liked being in the small space with her and had no intention of letting her move out. Lately, he’d stressed less over the building repairs, not even donning his plumber or carpenter hat on his one day off. It wasn’t easy, stepping back from the theater, but reading on the couch while Beatrice painted and they both tapped their feet to swing or jazz settled his soul in an inexplicable way.
Tonight they would do more than tap their feet.
If he wasn’t worried about Big Eddie’s threats, he’d already be lost to the heady atmosphere and their impending night. As it stood, he scanned the inebriated crowd, searching for a tall man, as Beatrice had described: goatee, slight paunch, dark hair. He didn’t find the seedy character, but his sights locked on another unsavory sort.
“I know that mustache…” Beatrice said, squinting at Oliphant, then her eyes widened. “That guy was at the bar the night we met.”
Huxley would never forget that night, but he’d rather not have his nemesis here as a reminder. He tried to focus on his date, who skimmed her hand down the side of his dress shirt.
She wetted her lips. “I don’t think I mentioned how dashing you look.”
He’d taken a page from Fox’s book when dressing tonight, finding a black button-down and slacks he hadn’t worn in ages. If it made Beatrice look at him like he was an ice cream cone, he’d have to dress like this more often. “All eyes are on you, Honeybee. Your red lips and dress make it hard for a man to focus.”
“All men?”
“This man has forgotten if the world is round or square.” But he couldn’t forget the twitchy mustache eyeing him and his date. He didn’t want to leave her side. Not for a second. But Oliphant hadn’t wandered into Brimstone coincidentally.
When Huxley had announced he wouldn’t play poker again, Oliphant had nearly choked on his cigar. He’d launched a slew of insults, but Huxley had barely flinched. Name-calling and ranting were nothing compared to the notion of disappointing Beatrice, and playing another poker game would do more than disappoint the woman on his arm.
Battling the guitar solo and boisterous crowd, he raised his voice. “I need to speak with that mustache. I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t be long.” She pressed her lips to his neck, a soft kiss that echoed through him.
He wouldn’t be long. He also wasn’t going to be kind to Oliphant for interrupting his long-awaited date. After another quick glance around to confirm Big Eddie’s absence, he pushed his way to Oliphant.
“I’d say it’s fancy meeting you here, but there’s nothing fancy about it.” Huxley moved so he was facing Beatrice. Her upper body swayed to the music.
Oliphant hooked his thumbs on his suspenders. “Is enjoying a night of jazz a crime?”
Getting between him and his date was a federal offense. “Quit pretending like you aren’t stalking me.”
“Just thought I’d check to see if you changed your mind about a rematch.”
“I’m not sure what part of ‘I’m quitting the poker scene’ wasn’t clear to you, but I’ll dumb it down a notch.” A head taller than Oliphant, he loomed over the older man. “Nothing you do or say will bring me back. You lost fair and square. Give it up. Move on. It won’t happen in this lifetime. I’d also appreciate you fessing up about the blight complaint. I wasn’t proud of the theater’s appearance, and it’ll be good as new before the hearing, but that was a dick move.”
A bearded man approached Beatrice, and Huxley cut his tirade short. She smiled at the uninvited guest. She smiled at everyone. The asshole took it as his cue to plant his elbow on the bar behind her. Huxley ground his molars.
He was about to blow past Oliphant, but the swine opened his slimy mouth. “She’s a sweet-looking dame. The trusting sort. Wouldn’t want her to trust the wrong person.”
Huxley curled his hands into fists. “You look at her, you talk to her, or you breathe in her general direction, and I swear to God…”
The older man waved off Huxley’s implied threat. “No need to get physical. I’ve just noticed shady sorts eyeing her.”
Unease spilled down Huxley’s spine. It wasn’t Oliphant’s style to issue threats. He was underhanded, a coward who lurked in the shadows and used false names to lodge complaints. If he had seen a man watching her, it could have been Big Eddie. He glared at his nemesis. “Did you see a tall man with a goatee?”
Oliphant smoothed his shirt, a sudden glint in his dark eyes. “I did not. But there’s a bearded man intent on your date. And I’m glad to hear the theater construction is done. I’m sure it was expensive and stressful.”
Stressful didn’t begin to describe the past month, but he’d be handing over Trevor’s final payment next week. Axel’s snake hadn’t needed surgery. The theater was looking great. Closing this aggravating chapter of his life was a huge milestone. But he didn’t understand why Oliphant looked pleased. Gleeful, even. Assuming Oliphant had placed the blight complaint, he’d be itching for Huxley to fail. Fox’s warning that the scum would retaliate if not given a rematch reared its ugly head.
Time to set him straight. “I’ve pawned everything I’ve won to pay for that work. There’s nothing left—nothing for you to win back in another game. I’ll stay out of your face if you stay out of mine, but mark my words…if you mess with me, or anyone I care about, you won’t be able to lift a deck of cards for the rest of your life.”
Oliphant’s mustache twitched. “False threats don’t intimidate me.”
There was plenty of wind behind this particular sail, but Huxley wouldn’t show his final cards and lose the upper hand. If the idiot thought picking pockets in Vito’s club was smart, it was his funeral. Vito’s glare alone could snap a man’s neck. If the Italian giant knew Oliphant was ripping off his customers, they’d need dental records to identify Oliphant’s body, and Huxley would do almost anything to protect his own. Including snitching to Vito about Oliphant’s activities.
“It’s been lovely seeing you, as always.” Huxley stepped away, not bothering to hide his contempt.
“Just like your father,” Oliphant said, desperate for the last word. “Always thinking you’re better than everyone else. Not an ounce of class in either of you.”
Huxley swiveled back. “You need to learn when to shut up. And that stupid dinosaur skull you’ve been lusting after since my father won it? I pawned that, too.”
Oliphant’s beady eyes narrowed into evil slits. He could scowl as much as he wanted. Huxley’s leverage wouldn’t change, or the fact that their conversation should have ended five minutes ago.
He turned to stride back to Beatrice and his stomach bottomed out.
She was gone. Their drinks were on the bar, but she wasn’t there. Neither was the bearded man, a man who could be working for Big Eddie.
The room spun, the romantic light now too dark and claustrophobic. Dread winded his chest. Bile built in his throat. Huxley shoved his way toward where she’d been, ready to bulldoze the place to find her. Then she popped up, studying something in her hand, unconcerned, like he hadn’t just been picturing her drugged and dragged from the club.
The second he reached her, he crushed her to his chest.
She hugged him back. “I missed you, too.”
Fuck. He couldn’t slow his pulse or let her go. He also didn’t want to scare her. She’d already complained that his vigilance was making her crazy. “Five minutes away from you is too long.”
“I found a good-luck penny,” she said, too adorably sweet for him to stay stressed. “And I ate your extra cherry.”
He slowed his breath and stretched his neck, gradually easing his hold on her. “That’s why I got the cherry, and I hope you made a wish.”
“I did.” They settled against the bar, her shoulder nestled into his side. She sipped her lemon drop and swayed her hips. “A man asked me to dance.”
“Did you find this man handsome?”
“Ugly as a star-nosed mole.”
Her ridiculous animal knowledge relaxed him further, and he forced himself to quit scanning the room. She was safe. Nothing would happen to her with him around. He couldn’t ruin this night with his overreactions. “He didn’t look so bad from where I stood,” he said, focusing his attention on the prettiest woman in the club. “A bit hipster, but no star-nosed mole.”
She lifted a hand and traced his burned eyebrow, then the scar on his cheek. “He was boring. Bland as every man in here. Except you.”
“I have scars on my body.” He blurted that truth before the thought had even crossed his mind. He couldn’t understand how a woman as fascinating as Beatrice Baker found his ugly mug attractive. He also didn’t want her to be surprised when they got home.
Her eyes drifted to his chest. “Della mentioned it.”
“Does it bother you?”
“I have a birthmark above my belly button. It’s shaped like a wilting daisy. Will that bother you?”
Heat sped his blood. “I can’t wait to meet this wilting birthmark of yours.”
She tipped up her chin, her eyes so full of emotion he was sure an illusion had vanished every other person in the club. “I can’t wait to meet your scars.”
Where did I find this woman? Except he knew the truth. He hadn’t found her. She’d keyed her way into his life and heart. Because of her, he’d been spending more time with his brothers and less obsessing over the theater. The Marvelous Marlow Boys were performing to a full audience. He’d still like to find a way to entertain kids again, not just horny women, but he’d finally found some balance. Beatrice was the magic ingredient.
She shifted her hips, subtle moves timed to the slide guitar. They ordered another round. His worry dissipated. They talked. She danced against him, her body matching his subtle cadence until he was leading her to the dance floor, every step fueled by Brimstone’s sultry mood and his need to have his hands on his woman.
