Page 48 of New Orleans Rush

“It was an act, like in the show. Just to boost business.”

“I know,” she said, steadying her voice. “I don’t care.”

“I think you do.”

“We’re just friends, Huxley. Roommates. You can do whatever you want.”

“There’s only one woman I want to date, Beatrice.”

It should be illegal, him using her full name, undoing her with three syllables. Her weakness didn’t change the facts, or the fifteen days ahead of them. “I don’t think that girl wanted a date.” More likely a magic lesson between the sheets.

She couldn’t see his expression, judge if he was annoyed with her or himself or the situation. A faint scratching came from his side. “There’s only one woman I want to not-date, too,” he said softly, the subtle suggestiveness filling her mind with images of his hands caressing her body.

She was caught in an undertow, dragged between her growing affections for this man, her jealousy, her past, his gambling, and another fifteen days or more of this uncomfortable insecurity. The audience would grow over the coming weeks. More women would attend. More after-show photoshoots would occur. Flirting. Smiling selfies. But entertaining patrons would help their word-of-mouth business.

“It’s fine,” she repeated, lifting her forehead from the door. “I get that it’s part of the job.” So why was her voice cracking?

She thought she heard a low growl but couldn’t be sure. The silence dragged. Maybe she’d missed his retreating footsteps?

“There’s a gold bodysuit in the closet,” he said, startling her. “Check it for size. I’d like to do a late rehearsal tomorrow, after the show—practice for the fire routine. You’ll need to wear it and no fishnets. No additional feathers or added flair, either. I’ll see you at home.”

His steps echoed away from her, and her body deflated. She didn’t want to deflate, to be a marionette, a new man playing her emotional strings. This wasn’t Huxley’s fault, but her usual Teflon skin had thinned. Her ability to smile and move on proved challenging, which meant she needed to up her effort. She wouldn’t care if Huxley slept with a woman while they were roommates. She wouldn’t let her jealousy ruin their friendship. She was also curious about the gold bodysuit and what Huxley had in store for her.

She focused on gold and fire, and the new art Della had agreed to let her sell in the booth. She would paint more in the coming days, throw herself into her art. Work on her secret project for Huxley. She’d smile harder.

But the current effort had her cheeks feeling stiff and sore. It was a Kraft-slice smile, when all she wanted was a Cheddar grin. Last time she smiled this hard, she wound up drowning in lemon drops and keying a stranger’s car. The Kraft-slice grin slipped from her face. No matter what happened, she couldn’t let herself fall apart like that again.

18

The next night, Bea took her bow then slipped offstage, preferring not to witness Huxley in his portrayal of Flirty Smurf. The show had gone well, the seats half-full again. Axel was cocky Axel. Fox was sneaky Fox. Huxley’s intensity had been a tangible thing, his hand a brand on her hip, her arm, her back as they’d worked the stage together. His whipped cream chides had been conspicuously absent.

Last night, after she’d walked the New Orleans streets awhile, he’d been asleep when she’d returned home. He’d left before she’d awoken that morning. He’d probably realized he could have any number of women who didn’t require a waiting period before they dated. Or not-dated.

She rested in her dressing room now, relaxing on the small bed. The three doves coo-coo-cooed. She’d named them Surly, Sneaky, and Cocky. The cozy red walls comforted her. It was nice having a dressing room. It made her feel like a diva, the sort of woman who’d bark orders and would only drink bottled water from Nepal and eat Japanese strawberries dipped in Belgian chocolate.

Her smile came easier, although still strained.

Her phone buzzed with an incoming text, and her heart migrated to her feet. Huxley could be texting her, explaining their evening rehearsal had been canceled. That he’d like to retract his fourteen-day-from-now date. She shouldn’t care. It would be for the best. She wouldn’t have to worry about poker games and squandered money and broken hearts.

Then why did her insides feel like they’d been jostled in a martini shaker?

Ignoring her discomfort, she sat up and pulled up the message. It was Huxley, only letting her know he was ready for their rehearsal.

A measure of relief flooded her that he wasn’t putting her off, but her father’s messages were still on her phone, still unread. She stared at the first one—his one word help—and gripped her cell until it bit into her palm. She’d never yelled at Franklyn Baker. Even after he’d emptied her bank account, she’d practiced enough yogic breaths to earn her downward-dog black belt.

Bitterness spun inside her now, a mini storm of repressed anger. The tornado he always inspired. She resented her father. She also loved the man. There was no even ground with him that didn’t feel like a fracturing fault line. He was responsible for her current baggage, the reason Huxley was flirting with audience members instead of kissing her. The tornado spun faster, burned hotter. Maybe her history teacher had been right and Bea’s unaired grievances were bound to erupt into a mushroom cloud of squelched outrage.

She nearly called her father, opening that puzzle box of awful, so she could finally yell at him through the safety of her phone, but she stopped. And finally blocked his current number. She still hadn’t gotten her head around changing hers. If he got another phone, he might reach out again, but this felt like a first step. Plus, she’d warned him about the threats. She’d done her part. He could deal with the rest.

Annoyed with her phone for provoking unpleasant thoughts, and sending a masturbating text, she unhooked it from its charger and stashed it in her purse. She changed into her gold bodysuit. The material was tightly woven, thick and shiny, squeezing her waist like a corset. Her legs were bare, as Huxley had requested. Her heart felt bare, too. Raw and chafed from thinking about her past and present.

She painted on a layer of watermelon gloss and plastered on a Cheez-Whiz smile—better than Kraft slices, but just barely—then went to join Huxley on stage. The earlier loud music, whistles, and raucous cheers had vanished. Only her heels echoed off the wooden floor. She paused at the stage’s threshold and gasped.

Candles.

Thirty or forty candles decorated the stage, including two human-sized candelabras and smaller votive-lined pedestals. In the center of the stage was a black table.

“You took a while.” Huxley’s deep voice made her jump. The low baritone came from behind her. “Everything okay?”