Page 81 of New Orleans Rush

Fox dropped his empty can in their garbage and picked up his phone from the ground. He tapped on the screen and frowned. His thumb moved quickly as his frown deepened. “We have a problem.”

Axel belched. “Bigger than flying penises on our theater?”

Fox’s tense eyes locked on Huxley. His brother’s ticking jaw and unnerving stare filled Huxley with dread. “Did Oliphant do something else?”

“It’s about Beatrice.”

A strange buzzing filled Huxley’s ears. Fox was the one who’d gathered intel on Big Eddie, a Chicago connection who knew a guy, who knew a guy, who worked with the loan shark’s boss. “Is he in New Orleans?”

“He’s at your apartment. Now. With her.”

What the fuck? He shook his head, unwilling to process that horrifying fact. “Her flight doesn’t land for another three hours.”

“She must have switched flights.”

No. No. Christ, no.

They flew into action as they spoke, all three jogging toward his car.

“She would have called.” Huxley was still in denial.

“She didn’t,” Fox said.

Because he’d texted her, asking to use her money, telling her he needed to play poker. Because he’d won the Dumbest Man Alive contest. Now she was in trouble, hurt, or worse.

Axel held up a hand. “Toss me your keys.”

He lobbed them over awkwardly while tripping on a pothole. It was like he couldn’t coordinate his limbs or see the road. He could barely think, let alone drive. This was his fault. All of it. If she walked out of his life, couldn’t forgive or trust him again, he’d have to deal eventually. Accept his fate and trudge forward. The notion devastated him, but if something bad happened to Beatrice Baker, the sun would never shine again, his heart would shrivel up inside his chest. The Marlow Theater he thought he needed could crumble to the ground. Nothing would lessen that blow.

“She’ll be fine,” Axel said as they piled into the Mustang.

Huxley slammed the passenger door behind him and repeated the mantra. She will be fine. She will be fine. He white-knuckled the door handle as he asked his father for the biggest favor of his life. He promised every god in existence a repentant life, if only Beatrice would be okay.

“She’ll be fine,” Fox repeated from the backseat.

Not even his farsighted brother’s prediction could calm his jackhammering heart.

Bea wrinkled her nose but otherwise remained still. “Take the shot before I throw up.”

Big Eddie hovered over her prostrate body, gun in hand. “You sure about this?”

“Positive.”

He scratched his neck. Red splotches flared under his irate rubbing. “If it don’t work, I’ll be fed my balls. Look worse than you do now.”

She hoped she looked bad. Awful. Dead as the deadest doornail. She had ketchup splattered on her polka dot dress, dripping from her neck and mouth. A circle of red paint extended over the drop cloth from her ribs, more ketchup pooling over it to give a 3D effect.

If Big Eddie’s boss thought she was dead, she wouldn’t need to be killed. Big Eddie could save face without doing the deed. It might cause more trouble for her father, but Franklyn Baker had made his bed. A bed she’d rather not die in.

“A bit more ketchup,” Big Eddie said and grabbed the bottle.

As it stood, Bea was suppressing dry heaves. Ketchup was the worst. “Fine. But open the window. And hurry up. If it crusts over, it won’t look as real.”

He splattered more of the nauseating condiment by her fake bullet wound. They’d decided on a classic shot to the heart. Big Eddie had claimed he was a skilled marksman, that anything else wouldn’t be believable. A fact that only increased her panic. He also hadn’t released the gun since breaking in. He may have been going along with her fake-death plan, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t get fed up and change his mind. She was still fighting for her life. And fighting to breathe through the ketchup stench.

“Window,” she said again.

He opened the bedroom windows, not that it helped. Ketchup smelled like a tomato urinated in condensed milk. Trying not to inhale through her nose, she lay as still as possible. Big Eddie fiddled with the kitchen window for an eternity, only to curse after his efforts. “Sorry. I broke the window screen.”