Page 5 of New Orleans Rush

He needed to do better. He would do better.

His cell vibrated and he frowned, unsure who’d be calling. Pushing back his cape, he pulled his phone from his pocket and tensed at Ashlynn’s name. There was only one reason his assistant would be calling, and it wasn’t good. He could ignore her call, claim a drained battery, but delaying this conversation wouldn’t change the outcome.

Moving to a barstool, he forced bravado into his voice. “Just the lady I wanted to hear from. I’ve had an idea for a new number, something that’ll highlight your skills.” Which included folding her thin frame into a myriad of boxes.

Her answering sigh told him all he needed to know. “Hey, Hux. I got the job. The one that actually pays me money.” A pause. Another sigh. Then, “I was hoping to give you notice, but they need me to start tomorrow.”

Huxley swore under his breath. “You can’t quit on me, Ash. You know we’re great together. And I just won a big poker round. I have a Rolex with your name on it.”

“You know I love you boys, but I can’t keep living poker game to poker game. You’ll have to rework your acts without me. I’m sorry, but tonight was my last show.”

The world was most definitely not his oyster.

Huxley’s father had drilled teachings into his kids, one of his mainstays being: distract your audience with beauty. Man or woman, it didn’t matter, as long as their allure drew focus and mesmerized the crowd, pulling attention away from your trickery. Huxley was now a magician without an assistant, a performer without a beautiful distraction. A man losing hold of his dream one calamity at a time. “I understand, Ash. Thanks for everything.”

They hung up and he pocketed his cell. He ran his thumb over the puckered scar on his pinky finger. He needed to think, regroup. Find a new assistant and more consistent cash flow.

There was only one place where Huxley did his optimal problem solving, and that was behind the wheel of his Mustang. The purr of the engine lulled his mind, soothed his nerves. He’d worked on every inch of that car with his father: nights drinking Scotch, tinkering, talking.

Max Marlow would wax on about the time he’d made an elephant disappear while traveling with the Newbright Circus, how he’d ruled Club Crimson’s poker room for a decade. Their sweat had rebuilt that engine. Their bonding had turned it into a prized possession. Aside from nights alone in the theater, it was where he felt most connected to his father.

Cape flowing behind him, Huxley stalked out of the club, ready to put his mind to work and his pedal to the metal.

He stepped outside. He turned toward his car. He saw red.

A redhead, to be precise, the one with the cape-nuzzling fetish. Beatrice Baker was hunched beside his car, intent on something. The disappointment he’d felt at her disappearance lifted. As did his curiosity. He cocked his head, unsure why she’d crouched by his Mustang. Normally Huxley enjoyed unpuzzling unpuzzleable puzzles. His appetite for understanding the bizarre made him an exceptional magician. In this case, the ear-splitting squeal of metal-on-metal clued him in to this woman’s nefarious activities.

He saw red for a different reason.

Five furious strides later, Huxley latched his arm around Beatrice’s waist and hauled her away from his car. Breathing hard, he gaped in horror at the words scratched into the side of his beloved Mustang: Assface. Isopod. Kerivoula kach…

Deciphering the final word proved challenging.

He read it several times, ignoring the writhing woman locked against his chest. He should yell at her, demand to know what the fuck she was doing. Instead he asked, “What’s a kerivoula kachi…nini?”

“Not kachinini. Kachi-nen-sis.”

The pronunciation seemed to drain her energy, plus it clarified nothing. It also wasn’t exactly what she’d written. “What’s a kerivoula kachinensis?”

She sagged into his chest. “An ugly bat. The kind that breaks promises and goes on dates in the same calendar day. The worst kind of bat.”

Huxley replayed their bar interaction, wondering if he’d said something rude, offending her in some way. But she’d been the one who’d called him a colon rectum then, and a kerivoula kachinensis now. “And why did you key its name into my car?”

She deflated farther. “He wants honesty.”

Her voice trembled and hitched, but the longer he looked at his vandalized car, the hotter his anger burned. He’d been drawn to her in the bar, would have been happy spending the evening talking with her about magic capes while enjoying her colorful outfit and beautiful profile. All he saw now was his damaged paint job.

Hand still secured around her waist, he tried to dig his cell from his pocket. “I’m not sure who wants your honesty, but I’m calling the cops.”

Her spine snapped straight. “No. God, please. No.”

Huxley tipped to the side, ready to give this woman an earful, but the sight of her face had him swallowing his tirade. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her pale skin had turned red and blotchy. The sadness he’d noticed behind her playfulness earlier was on full display, as was the extent of her drunkenness. He should dial nine-one-one, place her under a citizen’s arrest, but instead he found himself gentling his tone. “Who wants your honesty?”

“Nick the Prick.”

He knew no magicians by that name. All signs pointed to boyfriend trouble. “And you thought he wanted it scratched into my car?”

“Not your car. His car. He lied to me. They all lie to me. They think they’re being honest, but they’re not.” She shook her head, and her cheek rubbed against his cape. She nuzzled closer, mumbling, “Soooo soft.”