Page 59 of New Orleans Rush

Molly Baker had been fun growing up. She’d encouraged Bea’s art and had taught her that if music played, the Baker girls must dance. She believed positivity was contagious and made people around her happier. She was an entertaining friend, but she hadn’t been there when Bea had dropped out of high school to work full-time, or on the days Bea had cleaned up her father’s puke. She hadn’t earned Bea’s love, just like her father hadn’t earned Bea’s respect. But they were still her parents.

She eyed her phone warily, worried the latest messages weren’t a scheme. Big Eddie could have made good on his threat to hurt Franklyn Baker.

“I admire you,” Huxley said.

“Because I come from a dysfunctional family?”

“Because you come from a dysfunctional family and you’ve found it in your heart to forgive them. None of us speak with our mother. She cheated on my father often and didn’t follow his wishes from his will, squandering his insurance money instead of helping with the theater. I have no idea why he trusted her, or why he even married her. The woman didn’t even cry at his funeral. Not that any of it matters. He’s gone, and I’ll never speak with her again.”

“Why?”

His matter-of-fact tone turned somber. “I’m afraid of what I’ll say.”

“Because she didn’t give you money?”

He shook his head vehemently. “Sure, I was pissed about that. She knew Dad wanted some of her payout to go to the theater. But her inability to mother is what tipped the scale. Fox and Axel were rough after Dad died. I was rough, but Paxton and Xander were worse. They had issues with our father. I think they maybe had a fight with him before he died, and our mother should have been there for them after. Helped them through it. But she did nothing.”

He rubbed the scar on his pinky finger—short, agitated strokes. “They eventually moved away, and I haven’t spoken to them in years. Right or wrong, I blame her for a lot of that. She also knowingly ruins people’s lives, just to earn a buck. So, yeah, I don’t want to know her, or be anything like her.”

Just like Bea didn’t want to be like her father. It was why she strived to make people happy and brighten their world. Huxley, on the other hand, kept his promises to a fault. “You could hate your mother,” she said, “or you could thank her.”

“For not loving her kids?”

“For turning you into a loyal, caring man.”

The tense lines around his mouth softened. “You certainly enjoy torturing this hero in your romantic tale, don’t you?”

He wasn’t the only one facing painful torment. Her skin still sparked from his gentle stroking of her arm. Her lips were parched from not tasting his. “Do you want to kiss me again?”

His familiar growl rumbled between them. “I want to kiss you many places.” Instead of fulfilling his delicious promise, he held out his hand. “Right now, I’d rather you pass me your phone.”

“Why?”

“I think you want to know your father’s okay, but you don’t want to look. You’re worried reading his words will suck you into his problems. If I tell you what it says, it’ll be easier.”

She hesitated handing over her phone, still worried those texts would embroil them both in a nastiness she’d hoped to avoid, but she suddenly craved Huxley’s support. The fact that he understood her fear of becoming a tornado was a testament to how well he knew her, the simple gesture intuitive and sweet. If Fox ever gave up his mentalist duties, Huxley could fill his sneaky shoes.

She held out her phone. “If he’s going on about something schemey, I don’t want to know. If he’s asking for money, don’t tell me. I just want to hear he’s okay.”

That a loan shark hadn’t sent him to the hospital.

The possibility had guilt constricting her chest, but she squashed that nonsense. She wasn’t the one who’d gambled beyond her means or tangled with the wrong men. She was tired of feeling responsible. After confirming her father wasn’t hurt, she would do what she’d avoided until now. She’d switch her number and lose contact with him for good.

Come to think of it, she should do it now, before Huxley read his messages. Quit being such a pushover.

She reached for the phone, ready to erase Franklyn Baker from her life, but Huxley was clutching it tightly, squinting at her messages. He stood and paced. His angular jaw hardened into stone, his lips thinning into a grim line. “Is there a man who’s threatened your life?”

His question was so low, so wound tight with bridled anger, she held her breath.

“Beatrice…” He scrubbed a hand down his face and crouched in front of her. “Did you promise to pay off one of your father’s lenders? Or is he fabricating stories?”

She suddenly felt small on the uncomfortable couch, the larger world too big to contemplate. “I did.”

“Christ.” Huxley was back to pacing, wearing an angry path on the hardwood floor. “I need to know everything: who the guy is, what he threatened, how much he thinks you owe.” Why the hell she hadn’t shared the minor fact that she was in danger. He’d missed the signs when she was homeless, squatting in his theater. Now this.

“He’s a loan shark, but there’s no way for him to find me. I don’t use credit cards or anything, and I turned off my phone’s GPS.”

He glared at her cell, unsure why she thought the GPS was her solution. “A phone can be tracked without activating its GPS.”