Page 11 of New Orleans Rush

“None?”

“Zero.”

Axel no longer looked ready to laugh. “And Huxley hired you?”

“Yep. The surly brother.” Her joints joined her head’s mutiny, all extremities turning heavy at once. “Is it okay if I lie down?” Not waiting for his answer, she lay on her side and tucked her knees into the fetal position. Today was not an upright day.

Footsteps sounded from the entrance of the theater again. The owner of the slow stride appeared next to Axel. He didn’t question Bea’s horizontal status or ask who she was. He simply stared at her so long her eyelids drooped. Then he said, “Why did Huxley replace Ashlynn with a drunk painter?”

She forced her eyes open. “I’m not drunk.” She didn’t like being anything like her father, and the word drunk characterized the man whose gambling and drinking had been responsible for Bea going to work instead of finishing high school.

The new arrival lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

She called his eyebrow and raised him a stink-eye. “I’m in a sleep fog, for your information, from last night’s cold medicine and martini combo. And how’d you know I was a painter?”

“Ignore Fox,” Axel said. “He reads minds and performs as a mentalist. He’s the clever one.”

More like the sneaky one. Where Axel was affable with a thick head of messily styled auburn hair and casual threadbare clothes, Fox’s tailored black ensemble emphasized the serious set of his sly features. His ponytail was precisely tied.

She blinked at their sideways selves. “So Max is your father, and there’s Huxley and Axel and Fox…I’m sensing a pattern here.” Stuck with the name Beatrice, she’d spent countless hours obsessing over other people’s names.

Axel scratched his chest lazily. “Our other brothers are Paxton and Xander. Dear old Dad thought the letter X was an underused consonant.”

She smiled. Overusing an underused consonant was quirky perfection. “You should have—”

“The name was taken,” Fox cut in before she suggested they name their magic ensemble the X-Men. Mind reader, indeed.

Fox continued his silent staring.

Axel beamed at her. “You’ll fit in fine here. Where did Hux run off to?”

She gathered her knees tighter and yawned. “I couldn’t say. He was late to meet me, then he disappeared. He was angry I wasn’t in costume.”

Axel crouched until they were nearly nose-to-nose. “Did you say Huxley was late?”

Another yawn. “Late as a bad date.”

He stood and faced Fox. Fox did his crafty mind reading and said, “Yes.”

Bea tried to follow the remainder of their one-way conversation, which involved Axel’s tone rising in worry over Huxley’s lateness while Fox did an excellent impression of a brick wall. Apparently, Huxley was a time stickler. A rule stickler in general, if she had to guess.

The longer Axel spoke, the heavier her eyelids became. “Is it okay if I go lie down for a bit?”

“You’re already lying down,” Axel said.

She patted the hard floor. “The dressing room cot is a tad more comfy. I’ll just take a quick nap.”

Fox didn’t add his two cents.

Axel shrugged. “As long as you don’t mind dealing with a pissed-off Huxley, go for it.”

She hadn’t quite figured out Huxley yet. He’d been flirty last night, kind but gruff this morning, and bluntly curt not long ago. Pissed off didn’t seem a stretch for him, but her body felt heavy, the ache in her temples crowding her vision. A bit more sleep was worth poking a growly bear.

5

Bea woke to the sound of an all-night rave. It took a moment to remember why she was in a dressing room, and that she was supposed to be rehearsing, not sleeping. At least she felt halfway human. Instead of a cape, a ratty quilt was draped over her body—one she didn’t recall finding—and techno tunes pumped through the walls. She tapped her toes and wiggled her hips, doing a jig in her cozy position. If music played, she danced. It was a sickness.

As she shimmied, she lifted to sitting.