Page 3 of New Orleans Rush

His answering nod had been all sympathetic puppy-dog. “It’s for the best. I mean, I was getting coffee this morning, and a girl in line asked me out. I wanted to say yes, which means there’s something missing between you and me. If we stay together, I might regret it and hurt you in the process. And you know I’m a stickler for honesty.”

Getting dumped four days after following Nick to New Orleans had been humiliating. Listening to him admit he’d accepted the coffee girl’s date for tonight had driven her mortification home. All because Nick believed in honesty. So much so, he reminded her the apartment he’d rented was in his name. He then graciously suggested she crash there until she found something new, no hint of irony in his voice.

Bea had stared at him. And stared. She hadn’t screamed and cursed, because she wasn’t a screamer or curser. She’d simply looked at the man who’d convinced her to quit her waitressing job, leave Chicago, drive across four states, upend her life for a dream, and she’d said nada.

The fact that he’d never blessed her when she’d sneezed should have been a red flag, along with his Kardashian-sized shoe collection. But Bea had wanted to escape and delve into her art and forget about her father, and the mess her sperm donor had made of her life. The matter of a certain loan shark threatening her bodily harm may have also expedited her departure.

Now here she was, the victim of another sabotaging man.

She dragged her newly filled martini glass closer, ignoring the pull of the caped man behind her. She was in no state to find any man intriguing. Not on a Guinness Record Dumping day. Sipping her lemon drop was no longer an option, either. She tried to suck that puppy back, but the straw jammed into her cheek. Huffing, she pushed it aside and downed the martini, finishing by wiping her wrist across her mouth. The room took a lazy spin.

She sat awhile, twirling the empty glass, waiting for her equilibrium to settle. The weight of her troubles hunched her shoulders. She still had no job. No place to live. The alcohol provided no insight, nor did the monotony of the spinning glass. She couldn’t reverse time, so telling Nick where to shove his “it’s for the best” face was off the table. Time to call it a night.

Tip left for the bartender, she hopped off the barstool. The walls did a tilt-a-whirl—a questionable sensation. She’d only had three drinks. Enough to make her mind feel loose, but not enough to turn the room into a merry-go-round. The cold medicine she’d used to Band-Aid her headache must have been the culprit. The aching no longer plagued her, but the room’s drowsy spin could pose a problem.

Bathroom. She just needed to make it to the bathroom, splash a little water on her face, and she’d be rain as right. Or right as rain. She’d shake this wooziness and figure out a plan. Translation: she’d sleep in her car tonight and hope to wake up in one of those body-swapping movies.

Maybe she could become Emma Stone. That girl had a sassy spine, no qualms about mouthing off to deserving men. They both had the red hair, freckle thing going on. Emma’s boobs were smaller, so wearing fitted tops wouldn’t make Bea feel like a Hooters waitress trolling for tips. But Bea had an hourglass figure with a daylight saving’s hour padding out her rear, which she loved. Come to think of it, Bea liked her body just fine. It was her life and backbone that were in need of swapping.

So lost in her hypothetical switcheroo, she didn’t recall walking to the bathroom or flushing the toilet or even leaving the stall. She hoped she hadn’t sat directly on the seat.

Beside her, a black woman with peroxide blond curls reapplied red lipstick. She cut a look Bea’s way and whistled. “Someone’s had a rough night.”

Bea sighed at her bleary reflection. “I made a bad decision.”

One that shouldn’t derail her life. Nick’s name did rhyme with prick, but she was in New Orleans. A colorful city with men in capes and monkeybar-staches. The perfect place to replenish her drained creative juices. She didn’t need Nick the Prick to start fresh. To prove her capability, she fumbled for the watermelon lip gloss in her purse and managed to paint on a layer. Everything in the world could be made better by watermelon gloss.

The woman curled her top lip and wiped some excess red from her tooth. “You’re preaching to the choir. My bad decision is named Miles, and he has a special ringtone.”

She pocketed her makeup and pulled out her phone. A few swipes of her thumb later, Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats” blared from her rhinestone-covered cell. Bea bobbed her head as Carrie sang about keying her cheating boyfriend’s car and smashing his headlights.

When the chorus ended, the woman shoved her cell into her purse. “That, girlfriend, is how you remind yourself to avoid bad decisions. Miles calls every few days. He leaves a voicemail apologizing, and I don’t call back. I could block his number, but I like remembering I’m no man’s doormat.” Her pointed look was as fierce as her leopard-print dress.

Bea was still wearing the pink pedal pushers and turquoise polka dot blouse she’d pulled on this morning. The outfit exuded more bubble gum cheer than Hot Tamale attitude, but she’d always been a Double Bubble gal. She also wasn’t sure Nick had earned a Carrie Underwood ringtone. Definitely a Taylor Swift lyric jab or two, but Carrie could be pushing it. They had, after all, broken up prior to his date tonight, but accepting the date before his “it’s for the best” speech made the situation suspect.

Still, she didn’t want to key his 1978 Mustang Cobra, which he loved more than his shoe collection. Life was too short for revenge.

With a wink, the woman left the bathroom. Bea followed. A little too fast. One hand on the wall, she closed her eyes as the tilt-a-whirl whirled again. Eyes open were preferable. Air was also in order. She tried to strut outside with Hot Tamale attitude, but it likely resembled a dizzy stumble. She made it outside and sucked back air like a drowning swimmer breaching the water’s surface.

Her first breath cleared a layer of fuzz from her head. The second restored clarity to her blurry vision. She wished it hadn’t. There, across the street, was none other than Nick, walking hand-in-hand with his date.

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.