Page 7 of New Orleans Rush

Unsure how to reply to that odd statement, he reached for his phone to enter her details, but she swayed. Huxley caught her before she slipped to the ground.

3

Bea’s mouth felt like it was filled with sawdust. Her head throbbed and there was drool caked on her cheek, but something soft swaddled her tender body. She tugged the blanket higher. It smelled faintly of cigars and brandy, like a gentlemen’s club. Not that she’d ever been to a fancy club, gentlemanly or otherwise. Still, its cozy weight dulled the stabbing in her temples, its warmth gradually lulling her. She began to drift back to sleep.

Then someone clapped by her ear. “Time to wake up.”

Bea went to pull the blanket over her head and cuddle deeper into the sheets, when she remembered she didn’t have a bed to sleep in. She cracked an eye open. “Where am I?”

A tall man stood over her, arms crossed. His unusual features reorganized themselves as she focused, becoming handsome. And familiar. “You’re the Monet.”

The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Not sure about that, but I am Huxley Marlow, and you’re in my theater. You passed out last night, so I brought you here.”

Passed out? Bea shot to a sitting position and regretted it instantly. Her head felt slushy and her cozy blanket slipped to her lap. She took stock of her clothes, pleased her polka dot top and pedal pushers were still on. At least sex didn’t happen. Then she noticed the blanket on her lap wasn’t a blanket at all. It was a cape, midnight blue, embroidered with gold stars. She remembered this cape. Specifically, wanting to nuzzle it.

Snippets of her night floated back: mixing cold medicine with alcohol. Cape. Nuzzle. Carrie Underwood. Keys. Car. Holy hell. “I keyed your car,” she croaked.

“That you did. Which means you now work for me.”

He wasn’t wearing the top hat she remembered, or any fanciful clothing. He was in dark jeans and a fitted thermal shirt. Ordinary by all accounts. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous, and she didn’t remember accepting a job from him. She smoothed her hands over the cape. Only vampires wore capes, or superheroes, or seedy characters. “Are you a pimp?”

“We established my non-pimping last night.”

“Do you sleep in a coffin?”

“I prefer beds.”

She massaged her temples. “Last night is hazy.”

“I imagine it is. I brought you coffee and beignets.”

There were a barrage of questions she should have launched, but her brain snagged on the word beignet. She rolled her tongue around her stale mouth, salivating at the thought. “I’ve never had a beignet.” The longing in her voice was almost embarrassing.

“That, Honeybee, is a travesty in need of reform.” Huxley jerked his chin toward a table by the far wall.

Ignoring the Honeybee chide, she approached his offered gifts. The coffee and beignets sat on what looked like a makeup table—a mirror filled the wall behind it, bright lights framing the rectangle. Tucked in the corner was a pretty cage that housed three doves. Its inhabitants regarded her sternly. On the opposite wall, a closet overflowed with glitzy, shiny, velvety clothes.

Her hazy mind, still seeing the world in slow-mo snippets, connected the surrounding dots: Top hat. The cape. The theater. The birds. Extravagant clothes. Dressing room. “Am I being sold to the circus?” As she spoke, she snagged a still-warm beignet and shoved it into her mouth. She moaned and sank onto a chair.

She’d been dying to try a beignet. It had been one of Nick the Prick’s selling features when pitching their runaway adventure. They were going to try every beignet New Orleans had to offer. Her anger from yesterday returned, but there was no sadness. No desire for the man who’d dumped her on a whim. Only frustration with her own naiveté, always assuming the best in people.

Pollyanna, her history teacher had labeled her as a teen. Idealistic. Too trusting. Too nice. The woman had claimed Bea was a dormant volcano packed with unaired grievances that would one day erupt and bury her friends under suppressed anger.

The volcano imagery may have been overkill, but Bea probably shouldn’t have thanked her teenage nemesis, Tanya Fry, for trying to dye her hair orange for a football game. The offer had seemed genuine, even if Tanya had recently scratched “loser” into Bea’s locker. Bea had wound up with green strands that had fallen out in clumps.

Most people would turn cynical after enough setbacks, but Bea wanted to live life in full color, face adversity with a smile. Give people the chance to change. Unless she was drunk.

Drunk Bea was the definition of bitter and sullen.

Now she was sober(ish) and she had a beignet in her mouth. It was everything she’d hoped it would be, crispy and chewy, rich and light. She couldn’t control her throaty sounds as she nibbled on the dough and sucked powdered sugar from her fingers. This was heaven wrapped in a deep-fried package.

“I think I’m in love,” she murmured.

One of the doves cooed.

Huxley cleared his throat, drawing her attention from the pastry in her hand to his unhandsome-handsome face. He was watching her eat, staring with abandon, as though she was his to stare at. Warmth unfurled in her belly, mingling with the decadent beignet.

“Wait until you try the cream-filled ones,” he said in a rumbling baritone, his gaze locked on her lips.