Page 46 of New Orleans Rush

Her go-to friend.

Keeping the physical out of their relationship would protect a portion of her heart, but their growing friendship was solidifying him in her life. “Do you think Huxley will keep his word? Not gamble again after he quits?”

Before Della could reply, a bespectacled man barked at a woman, grumbling about her spending too much time at the adjacent booth. He then ranted about cutting up her credit cards. Aggressive hand on her elbow, he led her away.

Della’s face puckered. “That man is a grade-A asshole who would probably lie about a business meeting to bone his secretary. Huxley is not that kind of subhuman. He’s a good guy. If it were me, I’d believe him. But you’ve been through a lot. You’ve got a couple weeks before your date. If you’re still not sure, push the deadline. If you rush things before you’re ready, it won’t work, no matter how trustworthy Huxley is.”

If it were up to Bea’s body, that deadline would be null and void, but Della’s advice felt right. Rushing into something wouldn’t do them any favors. As it stood, she’d been flirting with Huxley one minute, putting on the brakes the next. Friendship before boyfriendship was the safe option, no matter how long it took. They weren’t dating yet. He couldn’t hurt her irrevocably yet.

She still dreaded seeing him tonight.

“Please come to the show.” Bea pressed her hands into prayer. “Knowing you’re there will calm me, and you can watch me humiliate myself with Huxley. And maybe Fox will finally read your mind.”

Della shifted her jewelry display, lining up already even bracelets. She repeated the unnecessary task with the earrings, her shoulders sitting high and stiff. “Fat chance on the mind reading, but I could video Axel doing his magic-strip number. Post it on YouTube for you guys. I bet it would get some hits and drum up business. I’d also be an idiot to miss you embarrass yourself over that sexy text. Huxley’s reaction will be priceless.”

She grinned, and Bea groaned.

Her phone was officially public enemy number one.

17

Tormenting Beatrice was wildly entertaining. And she deserved it. Receiving her dirty text this morning had been a new form of torture. Huxley had been forced to take an extra-long shower, imagining whipped cream and his assistant, and several scenarios that ended with them panting and sweaty. By the end of his fantasy, he had one hand braced on the tile wall, his release nowhere near satisfying.

He was still determined to maintain their platonic roommate status, prove to her he could be trusted and would uphold his word. His fantasies, however, couldn’t be controlled. He often imagined slipping his hand under her tank top, caging her against the kitchen counter, sneaking into her room to run his tongue along her ear and tell her she was the most spectacularly unique creature he’d ever met.

If a unicorn took human form, Beatrice Baker would be it. Her artistic talent blew him away. Her ability to turn his aggravating puzzle box into an amusement was miraculous. He didn’t relish eating her crunchy eggs, but the fact that she’d tried to cook for him had filled him with an unfamiliar joy.

Then that text.

She hadn’t looked him in the eye since arriving at the theater, and she’d never replied to his teasing texts. Either her embarrassment was exponential, or her ancient phone had died, as she often lamented. He assumed the latter, which made torturing her all the more enjoyable.

Axel’s music blasted into the half-empty auditorium—half-full, he reminded himself. Foreigner’s “Urgent” pumped like a sex drug through the room as Axel strutted out in a three-piece suit. The mostly female audience was already whistling, primed for his act. It had been like this since he’d taken to stripping during his routines. He got off on it, flexing and swaggering like the peacock he was. The attending women were vultures dying to feast their eyes on his skin.

The lewd numbers still revolved around their regular magic acts, but they’d been forced to instill an eighteen and over age limit. No one wanted their impressionable teens getting a face full of Axel’s gyrating hips as he pulled a dollar bill out of a freshly opened lemon. The change had been good for business and Huxley couldn’t complain, but he missed the kids who used to attend. Most had stared at their phones instead of the stage, but some had clapped and gasped like Beatrice had the first time she’d seen their show. It had been a special part of the job.

Beatrice stood beside him now, refusing to glance his way while they watched Axel. “It’s his new act,” she said, stating the obvious.

Axel’s jacket, vest, and shirt hit the floor. Huxley wanted to bleach his eyeballs, but Beatrice tapped her toes and shook her shoulders. She couldn’t stand still when music played. She did, however, freeze when Axel gripped his pants and yanked them off. “Definitely new,” she said.

“Our father would be horrified.” Huxley also wasn’t sure where a man purchased Velcro dress pants that could be ripped off.

The women whooped; Axel grinned. He then performed a basic Cups and Balls number, flexing his abs and arms as he shifted upturned martini shakers, his red ball always appearing under the least expected cover. When he asked the audience to guess where the ball would appear next, the most popular reply was “From your ass!”

He wore a purple G-string.

Sex sold. It was a twenty-first-century fact. No point swimming against that current, especially when he had a brother who oozed sex. As did the woman beside Huxley, who was conveniently ignoring the dirty-text issue.

“We’re up,” he said, ready to expose the elephant in their midst. No better place to confront her than on stage.

Beatrice glanced at him, as she always did before they performed. Her shoulders were hitched upward, her teeth lodged into her bottom lip. Her heart probably felt like it would explode. His often did as well, but for a different reason.

Hating that she still battled her fear, he gripped her upper arms and repeated the words he said each night. “Perform for me, Beatrice. Not for them. Just for me.”

Usually her eyes would glaze, a look of longing eclipsing her face. Tonight she nodded sharply then sashayed on stage, high heels clicking, bodysuit hugging her every curve. Her feathers trailed as she walked a dramatic circle.

He couldn’t wait to torment her.

He followed a moment later, pushing his zigzag box. They did their usual act, spinning the box and making a show of banging the metal sheets they’d use. When Beatrice was firmly in the contraption, her hands waving the yellow handkerchiefs, he whispered so only she could hear, “I bought three brands of whipped cream for you. They’re in the fridge at home.”