Page 18 of New Orleans Rush

7

Injecting fun into Huxley Marlow’s life proved harder than Bea had anticipated. Today’s rehearsal had her securing Axel in a straitjacket and locking him in a Plexiglas box. Fox instructed her in the art of choosing the best audience members for his hypnotic hypnosis acts. They then blocked the Flying Playing Card number, where she would have an audience member choose and write on a card. The boys proceeded to pass the marked card from one to the other, without touching it, each of them retrieving it from the oddest places.

She clapped like mad during the demonstration.

On short breaks, she stole Huxley’s top hat and wore it until he snatched it back. She danced with his cape like the fabric was a person. Huxley’s scowl only grew more severe.

Bea quit trying to make him smile and sighed. “Playing the part of Surly Smurf won’t win the crowd.”

Axel flashed her a sparkling grin. “I guess that makes me Sexy Smurf.”

She would not be duped by his excessive charm. “Nope. That makes you Cocky Smurf. And that one”—she winked at Fox—“is Sneaky Smurf.”

Fox’s expression remained as stark as his black wardrobe.

“Come on, Smurfette,” Axel said. “You haven’t even seen me with my wand yet. I’m Sexy Smurf all the way.” He swiveled his hips.

“I saw your wand, Cocky Smurf. It was smaller than expected.”

“You haven’t seen it in my hands, though. It’s an impressive sight.”

“His wand has a tendency to backfire.” This from Fox.

Huxley’s reddening face looked minutes from erupting, but playing along was too much fun. “Does it shoot sparks?” she asked.

Axel dialed up his smolder. “We should test it and see.”

“Enough!” Huxley’s face had morphed from tomato to eggplant, the puckered skin of his scars whitening. “Messing around won’t prepare us for tomorrow’s show. Or bring in more business.”

Bea pulled up her polka dot thigh-highs, stalling. She’d mused on their show since the other night. On the snippet she’d caught, at least. She wasn’t sure Huxley wanted outside advice from a novice such as herself, but sometimes fresh eyes cast illumination. “I had a thought about the show in general.”

“I’m all ears.” Axel snatched his straitjacket from the floor and began fastening the buckles. Fox tried to read her mind, but she made sure to only picture unicorns.

Huxley regarded her warily.

She clicked her pink patent heels together, a trick she used growing up when sharing her art with her father. No matter his faults, he’d never fail to praise her work and proclaim her a genius, but sharing her creations had always felt like baring her soul. Clicking her heels together made her think of the Wizard of Oz and finding her lioness confidence. “It’s about the music,” she told Huxley.

“There’s nothing wrong with the music,” said the surly brother.

That didn’t stop Bea. “Not if you’re a nineties club kid high on ecstasy, but that’s not who attends your shows.”

Axel tossed up his hands, praising the heavens. “Finally, someone who agrees with me. Modernization, that’s what the Marlow Theater needs.”

His agreement fueled her argument. “Popular music might get the teens off their phones. It would jazz up the numbers. I bet it would even motivate you to mix up your routines.”

Fresh music had certainly worked for her. Since recharging her phone, she’d chosen a new playlist and had spent a portion of her two illegal-squatting nights reworking her assistant costume. Having a theater with fabric and sewing accoutrements came in handy. She’d then painted into the wee hours of the morning. She doubted Huxley would be impressed she’d appropriated wood boards lying around his theater for her project. Or that his fascinating face had become her muse: his two-toned eyes filled her imagination, punctuating how people had so many colors trapped under their skin, layers of traits and quirks and desires.

He didn’t seem taken with her suggestion, either. “There’s nothing wrong with our routines, or the music. We simply have to market ourselves better.”

Straitjacket tucked against his side, Axel slung his free arm around Bea’s shoulder. “Maybe Bea and I will set out on our own. We’ll wow New Orleans with my wand and her cool music.”

She bumped her hip into his. “They already have those shows here. They’re called male revues.”

Huxley zeroed in on Axel’s hand on her shoulder. His light blue eye darkened to match his brown one—quite a possessive look for someone who growled at her more often than he spoke. “We’re taking a lunch break,” he said.

“It won’t work,” Fox told Huxley, apropos of nothing.

The odd comment earned him a Huxley Glare.