New Orleans Rush, page 2
The bar wasn’t far from his apartment, something she should have considered before setting up camp inside, and her uncharacteristic anger returned. She didn’t love Nick. Moving to New Orleans and leaving her past had been as much for her as for him. But she’d trusted the man wouldn’t leave her high and dry…for another woman. After four days.
Because he was honest.
She contemplated stomping across the street and telling him to screw off. She detested confrontation more than she hated green lollipops, but calling him a spiny lumpsucker or tufted titmouse would leave her with a modicum of satisfaction.
Then she noticed his black Mustang. Half a block down, his treasured automobile sat parked at the curb. A gift from the Carrie Underwood gods. Nick was walking the opposite way, and Bea’s attention lasered in on his vehicle. She wasn’t a malicious girl. Her back was basically made of Teflon, all resentment and stress sliding to its demise. Yet she was ogling Nick the Prick’s muscle car with devious intent, and she barely recognized herself.
She’d worked since she was old enough to deliver papers. She’d then cut lawns and babysat and eventually waitressed. She’d dabbled in house painting––anything to add color to the world and money to her pocket, all while pursuing her art in private. Growing up, she’d been the levelheaded one who had kept the electricity on and heat flowing. She prided herself on being the only member of the Baker clan to never procure a mug shot.
See? Totally levelheaded.
Which meant her next action could only be blamed on Nick’s “honesty” and the brilliant Carrie Underwood. She’d also revised her cheating theory: dating a woman the same calendar day of a breakup was definitely considered running around.
She walked to the side of his Mustang.
If he wants honesty, he’ll get honesty.
She lifted her car keys from her purse.
I honestly think you’re a fungus beetle.
Fisting the keys, her mind drifted to her father. To the feeble shrug of Franklyn Baker’s shoulders when he’d admitted to gambling away her life savings, and how she’d caught nothing but a mouthful of flies in reaction. Her wicked grin faded. Her keys bit into her palm.
I am no man’s doormat.
2
Huxley Marlow was used to being the center of attention. He’d spent the majority of his teen and adult years on stage. He had no qualms walking around in a top hat and costume, but it wasn’t often a sexy redhead asked to nuzzle his velvet cape. Most women giggled and gawked, understandably. Some even winced when they noticed his scars. This woman wore the brightest pink pants he’d ever seen, her turquoise polka dot top had his lips curving into a smile, and her imaginative cape story had him struggling not to laugh.
Him. Laugh. A guy who spent most of his days scowling.
Then there was her colon rectum comment.
Before he could ask her to explain her odd animal insult, or why she was alone with a hint of sadness behind her playful quips, his beady-eyed archnemesis dragged him away.
The Great Otis Oliphant narrowed his gaze at Huxley. The curled ends of his mustache twitched. “You cheated.”
“Of course I cheated.”
“Your skills are uncultured. Nothing but a bag of cheap tricks.”
Huxley offered a condescending smirk. “Who’s walking out of here with a stack of twenties and a new gold Rolex?”
Oliphant ran his thumbs under his suspenders, his evil glower locked on Huxley’s wrist. The heavy Rolex hung loosely. Oliphant glared harder. “Your execution is sloppy.”
Huxley tipped up his hat. “Call my handwork sloppy again, and I won’t give you the chance to win back your cash and save your pride.”
“That’s against the rules.”
It was. Huxley knew it. He also knew his comment would get under Oliphant’s twitchy mustache.
Three rules governed Club Crimson’s weekly underground poker games.
Rule One: Only skilled magicians were permitted.
Rule Two: The winner always gave his or her competitors a rematch.
Rule Three: Sleight of hand was not only allowed, it was encouraged.
If you could count cards, false shuffle a deck, or exploit other handwork skills to win, you deserved to rule the poker table. You also gained bragging rights as king or queen of the New Orleans magic scene. Huxley’s winning streak was the stuff of legends.
And so went their usual post-poker chit-chat, with Oliphant lamenting his losses, shit talking like the little brat he was. He may have been ten years older than Huxley’s thirty-five, but the man was a snotty former street urchin, whose mustache was larger than his IQ. Huxley had even caught the man picking pockets at the bar, preying on drunk patrons. If the owner, Vito, knew Oliphant was jeopardizing his livelihood, Oliphant’s suspenders would be the only part of him left.
Huxley glanced over his shoulder. Beatrice Baker was gone, and disappointment sunk into his chest. Instead of chatting with an alluring woman, he’d gotten stuck with Otis Oliphant. Annoyed, he made a show of checking his new Rolex. “As exciting as these conversations are, I need my beauty rest. See you next week?”
Oliphant grumbled under his cigar-tinged breath and shoved past Huxley. He’d take that as the yes he needed. The burst pipe that had flooded his theater boiler room this morning was just another addition to his ever-growing Fix-It List, right below tending to the warped ceiling, patching the crumbling plaster, and avoiding electrocution from the sparking spotlights. At this rate, it would take five years of poker games to repair the dilapidated building.
Rubbing his eyes, Huxley pictured his father scowling down on him with regret, wondering why he’d entrusted The Marvelous Max Marlow legacy to his eldest son.
His father couldn’t have been clearer about the items bequeathed to Huxley in his will. The theater, where he and his four brothers had grown up learning magic and watching their father mesmerize crowds, would thrive under Huxley’s caretaking. The 1977 midnight blue Mustang Cobra, with the white pinstripes down the hood, would be his to keep pristine. Max Marlow had passed his prized velvet cape to his eldest son, with the message: Be magical. He’d also left him a small puzzle box.
The attached note had read: If you can open it, the world will be your oyster.
Max Marlow died nine years ago. For those nine years, Huxley had tried every trick imaginable to open that damn box. Needless to say, the world had not yet become his oyster.
The box tormented him with endless frustration, but it was the aging theater that ate at him most. The Marvelous Marlow Boys were supposed to honor their father with a successful dynasty and extravagant shows. Instead his two youngest brothers had disappeared without a trace, leaving the remaining three to perform in front of half-filled rooms, while the building sagged under the weight of Huxley’s self-reproach.
He needed to do better. He would do better.
His cell vibrated and he frowned, unsure who’d be calling. Pushing back his cape, he pulled his phone from his pocket and tensed at Ashlynn’s name. There was only one reason his assistant would be calling, and it wasn’t good. He could ignore her call, claim a drained battery, but delaying this conversation wouldn’t change the outcome.
Moving to a barstool, he forced bravado into his voice. “Just the lady I wanted to hear from. I’ve had an idea for a new number, something that’ll highlight your skills.” Which included folding her thin frame into a myriad of boxes.
Her answering sigh told him all he needed to know. “Hey, Hux. I got the job. The one that actually pays me money.” A pause. Another sigh. Then, “I was hoping to give you notice, but they need me to start tomorrow.”
Huxley swore under his breath. “You can’t quit on me, Ash. You know we’re great together. And I just won a big poker round. I have a Rolex with your name on it.”
“You know I love you boys, but I can’t keep living poker game to poker game. You’ll have to rework your acts without me. I’m sorry, but tonight was my last show.”
The world was most definitely not his oyster.
Huxley’s father had drilled teachings into his kids, one of his mainstays being: distract your audience with beauty. Man or woman, it didn’t matter, as long as their allure drew focus and mesmerized the crowd, pulling attention away from your trickery. Huxley was now a magician without an assistant, a performer without a beautiful distraction. A man losing hold of his dream one calamity at a time. “I understand, Ash. Thanks for everything.”
They hung up and he pocketed his cell. He ran his thumb over the puckered scar on his pinky finger. He needed to think, regroup. Find a new assistant and more consistent cash flow.
There was only one place where Huxley did his optimal problem solving, and that was behind the wheel of his Mustang. The purr of the engine lulled his mind, soothed his nerves. He’d worked on every inch of that car with his father: nights drinking Scotch, tinkering, talking.
Max Marlow would wax on about the time he’d made an elephant disappear while traveling with the Newbright Circus, how he’d ruled Club Crimson’s poker room for a decade. Their sweat had rebuilt that engine. Their bonding had turned it into a prized possession. Aside from nights alone in the theater, it was where he felt most connected to his father.
Cape flowing behind him, Huxley stalked out of the club, ready to put his mind to work and his pedal to the metal.
He stepped outside. He turned toward his car. He saw red.
A redhead, to be precise, the one with the cape-nuzzling fetish. Beatrice Baker was hunched beside his car, intent on something. The disappointment he’d felt at her disappearance lifted. As did his curiosity. He cocked his head, unsure why she’d crouched by his Mustang. Normally Huxley enjoyed unpuzzling unpuzzleable puzzles. His appetite for understanding the bizarre made him an exceptional magician. In this case, the ear-splitting squeal of metal-on-metal clued him in to this woman’s nefarious activities.
He saw red for a different reason.
Five furious strides later, Huxley latched his arm around Beatrice’s waist and hauled her away from his car. Breathing hard, he gaped in horror at the words scratched into the side of his beloved Mustang: Assface. Isopod. Kerivoula kach…
Deciphering the final word proved challenging.
He read it several times, ignoring the writhing woman locked against his chest. He should yell at her, demand to know what the fuck she was doing. Instead he asked, “What’s a kerivoula kachi…nini?”
“Not kachinini. Kachi-nen-sis.”
The pronunciation seemed to drain her energy, plus it clarified nothing. It also wasn’t exactly what she’d written. “What’s a kerivoula kachinensis?”
She sagged into his chest. “An ugly bat. The kind that breaks promises and goes on dates in the same calendar day. The worst kind of bat.”
Huxley replayed their bar interaction, wondering if he’d said something rude, offending her in some way. But she’d been the one who’d called him a colon rectum then, and a kerivoula kachinensis now. “And why did you key its name into my car?”
She deflated farther. “He wants honesty.”
Her voice trembled and hitched, but the longer he looked at his vandalized car, the hotter his anger burned. He’d been drawn to her in the bar, would have been happy spending the evening talking with her about magic capes while enjoying her colorful outfit and beautiful profile. All he saw now was his damaged paint job.
Hand still secured around her waist, he tried to dig his cell from his pocket. “I’m not sure who wants your honesty, but I’m calling the cops.”
Her spine snapped straight. “No. God, please. No.”
Huxley tipped to the side, ready to give this woman an earful, but the sight of her face had him swallowing his tirade. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her pale skin had turned red and blotchy. The sadness he’d noticed behind her playfulness earlier was on full display, as was the extent of her drunkenness. He should dial nine-one-one, place her under a citizen’s arrest, but instead he found himself gentling his tone. “Who wants your honesty?”
“Nick the Prick.”
He knew no magicians by that name. All signs pointed to boyfriend trouble. “And you thought he wanted it scratched into my car?”
“Not your car. His car. He lied to me. They all lie to me. They think they’re being honest, but they’re not.” She shook her head, and her cheek rubbed against his cape. She nuzzled closer, mumbling, “Soooo soft.”
His stomach tightened. He didn’t remember the last time he’d held a woman this close. She was three sheets to the wind, had vandalized his beloved Mustang, but her distress loosened something in his chest. He glanced again at the jagged letters keyed into his perfect paint job and gritted his teeth. He arranged her boneless body against the side of his car and waited for her to gain her equilibrium.
“Sorry about the prick,” he said, stepping back. “But this isn’t his car. This is my car.”
Her half-mast eyelids shot up. “No, no, no. It’s his black Mustang. 1976. A Cobra! I know this car. There was sex in this car.”
That visual heated his blood, but he reined in his focus. “Sex may have happened in a black Mustang, but this lovingly restored 1977 Mustang Cobra is midnight blue, not black. And it belongs to me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, no, no,” she said again. She stared at the paint job, her eyes growing impossibly wide as she traced the white pinstripe on the hood. “No.” This time it was a whisper.
“Afraid so. Which means you’ll have to pay for damages.”
Her tormented gaze didn’t stray from the scratched car. “I can’t believe…I mean, I’m so, so sorry—this isn’t me. I don’t do this.” More tears followed her fumbling apology. “I’ll pay for it. I don’t have a job, or money, but I’ll find a way.” She sucked in a sharp breath and clutched his shirt in desperate fists. “I’m the only one without a mug shot. I can’t be arrested.”
When he caught up with her verbal whiplash, his agitated mind settled, and his call with Ashlynn suddenly became less troublesome. Jobless. Broke. Maybe he didn’t need a long drive to puzzle out his current dilemma. Not when one Miss Beatrice Baker had offered him an answer in a petite, drunk package.
Gingerly, he loosened her fists from his shirt and eased her back against his car. “If you can’t pay me now, and you don’t want the cops involved, I have a solution.”
She bit her lip. “I thought it was his car. I swear. I didn’t mean it.” A dreamy look overtook her sad features. Her attention moved to his face. Like in the bar, she didn’t cringe at his scars. “I really like your hat. And the galaxy.”
Her fascination with his costume was unexpected. As was the animal vocabulary, the mug shot quandary, and her criminal activities. This woman was both mystifying and infuriating. He should still be livid with her, but Huxley found himself entranced by her as she spoke. Beatrice had spectacular lips and stunning gray eyes. Even unfocused, her eyes resembled the stirrings of a rainstorm.
Huxley loved tipping his face up to the rain.
Beautiful women didn’t usually care for his cape or hat or line of work. They often frowned at the burned half of his eyebrow and scarred cheek with disgust. She likely would, too, when sober. “Well, Miss Beatrice Baker, if you didn’t mean to key my particular car, then I might be willing to offer you a deal.”
Her reply: “You’re tall.”
“You’re short.”
“That’s rude.”
“So is calling someone tall.”
She pursed her kissable lips.
“As I was saying, I can offer you a compromise.” When she didn’t interrupt with random nonsense this time, he went on, “I’d like you to work for me.” The proposition wasn’t ideal. It meant living with his father’s defaced car, the insults visible for everyone to see, but he’d dealt with worse.
She scrunched her face. “Are you a pimp?”
“I am not a pimp.”
“Do I have to wear skimpy clothes?”
He considered her request. “Yes.”
“But you’re not a pimp?”
“I am not. I’m an illusionist. You can work for me, as my assistant, until this damage is paid off. But if that doesn’t suit you, I can call the cops.” The threat had a hint of blackmail to it, a new low for him. But the theater came before everything, and letting her off with unpaid work was kinder than charging her.
Her gaze lingered on his cape, in particular on the stars embroidered on the blue velvet. She ran her fingers over the fabric. “People say I’m too trusting. It usually gets me hurt.” Her rainstorm eyes caught him in a downpour. “Can I trust you?”
He was unprepared for the lucidity in her voice, the honesty in her pained gaze. He also didn’t like hearing people had hurt her. “You can trust me.”
“Okay.” She petted his forearm. “Sign me up. As long as you’re not a kerivoula kachinensis.”
Unsure how to reply to that odd statement, he reached for his phone to enter her details, but she swayed. Huxley caught her before she slipped to the ground.
3
Bea’s mouth felt like it was filled with sawdust. Her head throbbed and there was drool caked on her cheek, but something soft swaddled her tender body. She tugged the blanket higher. It smelled faintly of cigars and brandy, like a gentlemen’s club. Not that she’d ever been to a fancy club, gentlemanly or otherwise. Still, its cozy weight dulled the stabbing in her temples, its warmth gradually lulling her. She began to drift back to sleep.
Then someone clapped by her ear. “Time to wake up.”
Bea went to pull the blanket over her head and cuddle deeper into the sheets, when she remembered she didn’t have a bed to sleep in. She cracked an eye open. “Where am I?”
A tall man stood over her, arms crossed. His unusual features reorganized themselves as she focused, becoming handsome. And familiar. “You’re the Monet.”
