Page 82 of New Orleans Rush

Laughter bubbled up her throat, the straitjacket kind of manic giggles. He’d stalked her, had broken into her home, threatened her at gunpoint, but he was sorry he broke the window screen. She bit her cheek to tamp her crazy giggles. This was not a time to lose her mind. This was do or die, literally.

“The ketchup is drying,” she said.

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Letting the gun dangle from a finger, he raised his phone and snapped a couple shots. He changed angles and snapped a few more. Then he spent an excruciating length of time studying the results. “Needs more chest blood.”

She squinched her face to keep from inhaling. “Are you sure? There’s lots of ketchup on me already.”

“I’m sure.”

The ketchup bottle farted out its last dribbles. Big Eddie even used one of her paintbrushes to apply an extra dab to her neck. She’d created a fake-crime-scene monster. Now she’d have to burn that brush. And God, the ketchup stench! “I’m sure that’s enough,” she said, on the verge of losing her mind.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He aimed the gun at her head while taking one-handed photos. “Just remember who’s in charge here. You don’t go nowhere till the boss tells me the job is done.”

Translation: if she didn’t sell this death tableau, reeking of ketchup would be the least of her worries.

Amping up her mortuary face, she played the best dead Bea there ever was. Until she heard an actual bee. Her eyes popped wide.

“Fucking hell.” Big Eddie waved his hands around his head, swatting at the evil insect. He dropped his phone. His gun sliced through the air with jerky movements. “Fucking hell.”

Fucking hell was right. Not only had he broken the window screen. He’d invited in an Anthophila: deadly poison in a compact, winged package.

Mrs. Yarrow’s garden would kill her after all.

Bea wanted to run away from Big Eddie and the bee, but the thrashing gun kept her rooted. Her purse was on the floor behind him, her EpiPen tucked safely inside. Not far. If the worst happened, she could get to it and administer a shot. Staying still was the smarter option.

Big Eddie, however, was far from still.

The loan shark whirled his gun in frantic arcs, spryer than she’d expect for a man his size. He cursed. He punched the air. He apparently hated bees as much as she did. Maybe this was what happened when you faked your death. Karmic consequences that worsened at breakneck speed. He flailed, and his hip slammed into the counter. It was an opportunity, a chance to slip past him and dash for the door, but a deafening bang nearly shattered her eardrums.

She squeezed her eyes and screamed. An image of Huxley flashed in her mind, a fleeting snapshot of her man in his cape. A still of him dancing at Brimstone, love in his eyes. It twisted her heart as much as the sound.

She shook her ringing head as reality sunk in.

Gun. Shot. Big Eddie shot a gun. The gun aimed at her.

Trembling, she assessed her limbs, messing up her death tableau to test for injury and search for actual blood. She found none, but the bee had found her. And the ketchup.

It stung her neck.

Axel drove like a bat out of hell. It wasn’t fast enough for Huxley. She will be okay. She will be okay. He’d never felt so helpless or enraged. More livid than after his father’s death. If Big Eddie damaged a single red hair on Beatrice’s beautiful head, Huxley would eviscerate the man.

They careened around the last corner, screeching to a halt outside his place. He was halfway out the door before the car stopped, rage crackling through his veins. Two strides away from his Mustang, a loud pop blasted from the direction of his apartment.

The horrifying sound was followed by a scream. Beatrice. His girl. Screaming.

His legs pumped under him, no longer part of him. His heart wasn’t his either, slashing around in his chest. He was adrenaline. He was fear. He slammed his shoulder into the door, only to bounce off it. Fuck. Key. He grabbed it from his pocket. Before he fumbled too long, Fox snatched it. The second he opened the door, Huxley rushed past him into the most gruesome scene he’d ever seen.

Blood. Too much blood. It was everywhere, and Beatrice was at the center of the horror. She clutched her throat as though struggling to breathe. He was struggling to breathe.

“Beatrice.” Panic shredded his voice.

A man who must have been Big Eddie was panting like he’d run a marathon, gun clenched in his hand. As much as Huxley wanted to sink his fist into the bastard’s face, he rushed to Beatrice, sliding to his knees at her side. He padded his pockets on the way. He didn’t have his phone. Where was his phone? “Call nine-one-one!”

“On it.”

He didn’t know which brother answered. All he could see was red.

“Baby. Where are you hurt?” He barely choked out the words, gently touching her body, searching for the wound. He couldn’t contemplate the blood, this much blood.