Page 76 of New Orleans Rush

He paced more. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth.

Instead of going home, he returned to his car and sat there, staring at nothing. He wasn’t sure when he nodded off, but the squeal and hiss of a stopping bus jarred him awake. It was morning already. Hip-hop blared from a passing car. People hurried by on their way to work, some pausing to laugh at his building or snap a photo. His saliva turned rancid.

Tearing his gaze away, he tried Beatrice again. Voicemail, again.

A boisterous laugh drew his attention. Some bike messenger in spandex shorts was cackling at the theater. At Huxley. More shame heaped onto his shoulders. It was seven a.m., four hours before Oliphant’s deadline. With no options left, he texted Beatrice.

You said I could use your money if the theater was in trouble.

It’s in trouble.

I’m sorry. I hate to ask this.

But I need your money to stake one final poker game.

Oliphant had some kid graffiti the building.

He’s threatened the theater as well.

I have no choice.

He stared at the texts he’d sent, wondering if he should follow with more of an explanation, pleas for help, but the ache he’d felt when she’d driven away before he’d confessed his love spread through him at an alarming rate. He felt gutted. A shadow of the partly sunny man he thought he’d become. He wasn’t sure he was making the right choice. He wasn’t sure the choices had ever been his to make.

Plunking his forehead onto his steering wheel, he closed his eyes. He still had to contact Oliphant and organize the poker game. He’d probably already primed the others, dangling bait for an impromptu match. Even the thought of besting Oliphant didn’t fill a millimeter of the emptiness overtaking him. A bottle of vodka might do the trick.

Before he could pick up his phone or hit a liquor store, sharp rapping rattled his window.

Edna’s snake-headed cane glared at him. He rolled down his window and kept his head a healthy distance away. “The theater’s been vandalized,” he said.

“I’m old, not blind. I know a flying johnson when I see one.”

He sank into his seat. “I bet Dad wishes he sold the place off. Better than seeing all of this.” He waved a defeated hand toward the snickering crowd.

Edna snorted. “Your father loved the theater, but he built it for you boys. To see you happy. So if you wanna keep disappointing him, then go ahead and toss away your life for that stack of bricks.”

He nearly slammed his palms into his steering wheel. Edna didn’t have a clue. She hadn’t been there when Max Marlow had sat with Huxley in the darkened theater, telling his kids magic was in the Marlow blood, how performing brought joy to the world. “The theater was his life.”

Her wrinkled mouth shriveled to half its size, and she jabbed her venomous cane at his face. “You boys were that man’s life. He built his reputation for you. He died wanting to impress you. Which is exactly what you’re doing—killing yourself to impress a ghost. If you wanna see a dead man happy, give him grandchildren, for heaven’s sake. With the girl. She’s not all bad.”

Muttering about ungrateful kids, she hobbled toward her box office, brandishing her cane. The gawkers hurried away. Huxley pinched the bridge of his nose.

Edna Lisowsky was a crotchety old lady, but she’d known Max Marlow better than any of his children had. She’d spent her waking hours with the man. A fact that still befuddled him, as did the mystery of why she’d stuck around after his death. Unless she had been in love with the younger man, choosing nearness to his family over letting go, doling out snippy wisdoms and blunt advice instead of leaving. Max Marlow had been a handsome man, charismatic and charming. And love was a limitless thing, too big to end with death.

Vast. Immeasurable. Unflinching.

It was why heroes risked it all for their heroines even if it meant losing in the end. Not that he read romance novels or anything. But he had spent the past day reliving how Beatrice had danced with his cape while he’d fought their connection. He’d planned the perfect dinner for her return, excited to cook for her. He’d painted a deformed unicorn to make her smile, even though it had driven him nuts, and he’d do it again.

He loved her. He knew it. Yet instead of risking everything for her, he’d risked her for a goddamn piece of real estate.

“You look like hell.” Fox slid into his passenger seat.

Huxley didn’t reply. Nausea churned his gut. He couldn’t play poker again, no matter the reason. Not if it meant losing Beatrice. Except he’d already texted her that he’d planned to play.

Like an idiot.

Axel shoved Fox’s seat forward, earning him a few curses, and squeezed into the back. “If I see Oliphant, I will cut off his dick, attach wings to it, and fly it into his mouth.”

It would be an amusing visual if Huxley wasn’t a minute from puking. “Which is why I’d planned to call Vito, but he’s working with Oliphant.”