Page 10 of New Orleans Rush

Huxley fisted the car keys in his hand, mulling over the name. He didn’t know a Loretta Welsh, but he did know a Great Otis Oliphant, who would give his left nut to acquire the Marlow Theater. A horrifying prospect. He could picture Oliphant at their poker games, bragging about buying his birthright for a song and dance, relishing twisting that knife in his gut. He sensed Oliphant’s twitchy mustache all over this development. That didn’t change his predicament.

Without the money to get the building up to code, he’d lose everything.

“Got it,” he told the enforcer, unable to curb his curtness. “I came into some cash. The theater will be good as new before the hearing.” The lie tasted bitter.

Evans cowered slightly, shoulders hiked, like he was waiting for a sucker punch. When none came, he relaxed. “Well, that’s swell to hear. I usually get yelled at or assaulted. Maybe it’ll take me a bit longer to request the title search.”

It was a decent gesture, but he’d need more than an extra few days to fix this mess.

Leaving Evans to finish estimating the theater’s time of death, he entered the building, his temper growing with each stride. Oliphant was a weasel in need of neutering, but the fact that Huxley had let the Marlow Theater fall into this level of disrepair was the bigger blow.

Before his death, Max Marlow had planned to restore the declining building, returning it to its pristine glory. The dream had died with the great man, when he’d shackled his wrists and sealed himself in a water-filled barrel. He’d normally had sufficient room to execute his dramatic escape, but a dent in the side had sealed his father’s fate and lungs.

It had also thrust Huxley into the role of Surly Brother, as Axel often quipped. The responsible one. The demanding one. The one who couldn’t even convince their sorry excuse for a mother to lend them money.

Now the Marlow Theater was reduced to one ugly word. Blight.

He needed to increase daily attendance. He needed to up the stakes at his weekly poker games. He needed a goddamn miracle.

What he had instead was a new assistant with stage fright and no experience, whose perfectly odd uniqueness had already caused him more distractions than he could afford.

Bea sat on the stage, legs dangling over the edge, her head still soupy from last night’s events. When Huxley finally walked in, she pretended to study the watch she didn’t own. “You’re late.”

“You’re wearing the same thing you slept in,” Huxley said, terse. “Where’s your costume?”

Since he didn’t glance at her, she wasn’t sure how he knew she was still in last night’s outfit. Maybe it was one of his magic skills. “I didn’t think I needed to be half-naked for the rehearsal. Plus, it’s cold in here.”

“You need to get comfortable in the costume. If you put it on your first night, you’ll be self-conscious.” He said this while stomping up the stage stairs, eyes on the ground. He disappeared behind the side curtains.

Bea picked at the paint forever stuck under her nails. She had been late meeting him and worried he’d be annoyed. Turned out she’d been more on time than he was, which was a first for her.

Bea was the type to forget a minute only held sixty seconds. There were just so many things to explore in every given moment, and this theater was teeming with fascinations. Aside from old posters on the walls, and the other dressing rooms filled with fanciful costumes, she’d stumbled into a prop room laden with dummies and cages and feathered hats. She’d even found a dinosaur skull. A mecca of magical curiosities. So magical, her fingers had twitched, as though her creative dry spell might come to an end.

Excited to sneak in at night and paint, she’d found a cracked second-story window and had opened it a smidge—her perfect secret entrance.

Squatting in this theater at night could be just what Bea needed. She didn’t, however, relish the idea of rehearsing in the chilly space wearing little more than a bathing suit. Not that it mattered. She may have been pretending to go along with their arrangement, but she wouldn’t be performing in front of a crowd ever, so Huxley needn’t worry about her self-consciousness.

He remained behind the curtains, but another man strode in from the entrance, clad in worn jeans. He wore a pair of Secret Service sunglasses, and his white T-shirt was printed with the word Jenius. He stopped inches from her kicking legs. “You’re not Ashlynn,” he said.

She looked down at her torso, confirming she had not indeed swapped bodies with anyone. “Nope. I’m Bea.”

He pulled his glasses down his nose and peered at her over the frames. “What happened to Ashlynn?”

Deducing that the mysterious Ashlynn was the assistant Bea had replaced, she said, “I believe she was sawed in half.”

The man nodded as though death by saw was the most normal thing in the world. “I’m assuming the surly brother hired you. I’m Axel, the charming one.”

He offered Bea his hand, and she extended hers in response. Gaze a smolder, he brought her knuckles to his lips for a gallant kiss.

Axel was indeed a charmer, and a looker. His reddish eyebrows were both intact, and there were no scars on his clean-shaven cheeks or flesh missing from his ear. His strong chin and defined biceps were attractive, but she found herself wanting to search for Huxley. To catch another glimpse of the surly brother who’d bought her a toothbrush and had tucked her under his cape. She also had no urge to paint Axel’s pretty profile.

He removed his sunglasses and hooked them on the front of his shirt. “Who have you worked for?”

She studied the cracked plaster ceiling, silently running through her résumé. Fresh murkiness clouded her thoughts, like she was there but not there, but she powered on. “Depending how far back you’d like me to go, there were the Debrovsky and Wheeler families. The Debrovskys had a hot tub, so babysitting there was fun, but the Wheelers stocked Skittles. I worked for Ace Painters on and off for a few years. I painted interiors and exteriors for them, but only if the owners wanted rainbow colors. Taupes make me itch. My waitressing list is long, mainly because I—”

“Let me stop you there, Rainbow Brite.” Axel’s lips flattened as though holding in a laugh. “Magic experience only. I don’t need your biography. Just tell me which shows you’ve worked.”

The edges of her vision turned hazy, and she pressed her hand to her temple. It didn’t help much. “None.”