Page 12 of New Orleans Rush

One glance in the makeup mirror suggested her intended cat nap had been more of a dead-to-the-world sleep. The pillow creases on her cheek were far from attractive. She rummaged through her purse, popped a mint into her mouth, then swiped her lips with a splash of watermelon. Beignets plus Advil plus sleep, plus her trusty lip-gloss, and she no longer felt like she was drifting underwater. A change of clothing would have completed her recovery, but she felt fairly ready to take on the world.

Or at least discover the source of the trance tunes.

Before leaving, she checked her newly charged phone and froze. There were no messages, but today’s date seemed to glow, a reminder of the past she’d hoped to leave behind in Chicago. With her recent traveling and lack of work schedule, the date had eluded her. There was no avoiding it now.

Today was the day she’d told Big Eddie she’d pay the remainder of her father’s debt. She still wasn’t sure how she’d gathered the courage to meet her father’s latest loan shark, let alone bargain with him. The bar she’d entered had been the sort of dive flashed on the nightly news with words like gunshots and arrests. Big Eddie had jolted at the sight of her and stared, oddly slack-jawed, until she’d introduced herself.

Immediately, he’d curled his lip and said, “Of course he sent you.”

Bea had almost run out in her kitten heels, but she’d pictured her father bruised and battered and forced herself to stay put. She had blabbered about Franklyn Baker’s gambling issues and drinking issues, while begging for leniency. She’d promised to pay the ten grand he owed slowly over ten years. A fib to buy her father time to gather cash. Big Eddie had stared at her so long, sweat had descended her spine. At a loss, she’d forced a plaintive smile.

He’d muttered, “Shit,” an inscrutable look on his face, then his dark eyes had hardened. “You can tell your father his plan backfired. This debt’s now on you, and the deadline stays. Ten grand plus an additional five in interest. And don’t think I ain’t serious. You’ll lose one finger for every day your payment’s late.”

Without the money, she’d latched onto Nick’s New Orleans offer and left town, desperate for a fresh start that didn’t involve her father or threatening loan sharks. Today’s date was either the start of that new beginning, or a ticking clock toward its end.

Refusing to dwell on her past, she stood. She’d been discreet about leaving and had changed her number. She no longer owned a credit or debit card, thanks to her father. She’d even disabled her phone’s GPS. It was time to focus on her future and the trance tunes teasing her ears, not her father’s unfixable mistakes.

Bea followed the sound through the narrow hallway. Once at the theater’s stage, she tucked herself next to the tall crimson curtain and peered out.

If this was the crowd the Marvelous Marlow Boys drew nightly, maybe performing on stage wouldn’t be so terrifying. Six senior citizens sat in the center of the darkened room. Two were nodding off, the other four in a catatonic state. A few families were spread out, comprised of teens on their phones, while most adults paid cursory attention to the stage.

Watching her first Marlow Boys show from the wings didn’t seem appropriate, so she snuck back the way she’d come and poked around until she found the auditorium entrance. She slipped quietly into a seat, but it collapsed on one side, nearly spilling her onto the floor. Squishing to the left, she studied the dark interior again, looking for Big Eddie or any other unsavory sorts, then she chided herself for her paranoia. She was untraceable, and her father had probably paid off Big Eddie by now. That man had a knack for landing on his feet.

She forced her focus to the stage spectacle.

A Milky Way of stars smattered the black curtain behind the three brothers. Only Huxley wore a cape and hat, strutting around the stage with command. He moved; the cape swished. Silently, he communicated with his brothers to flank a central coffin-like box.

She side-eyed the contraption.

Huxley had said he didn’t sleep in coffins, except his wording had leaned toward the vague. I prefer sleeping in beds, he’d claimed. Maybe he was a vampire after all. A blood-drinking, forever-living, garlic-hating undead person. She’d have to test his skin for sparkles.

The techno beat turned trippy. Huxley worked the stage, motioning to the coffin-box, while Axel and Fox spun it round and round, proving there were no escape hatches.

Although all men wore black slacks and oozed charisma, each had a persona. Huxley, in his gold button-down, walked with authority, his broad shoulders squared, head held high. Axel was all swagger in a blood-red shirt, easy grin in place. Fox moved with feline grace, striding smoothly while mind reading. His button-down was a sneaky jet black, of course. They made quite the team.

Until they stopped spinning the coffin.

One of the spotlights sparked. A kid ran up the aisle, complaining about the music. Someone’s phone rang. Huxley froze, frustration in his jerky movement. He either hadn’t noticed Bea, or he was ignoring her.

Standing taller, he made a final circle around the black box, but Fox moved toward the back as well. The two bumped shoulders and Huxley’s jaw tightened. Fox closed his eyes briefly. To the beat of a heavy bass, Huxley pushed on. He opened the top third of the box. Fox climbed in and attempted to lie down. More like he shoved his tall body inside. His ponytail caught on the edge, and it looked like he jammed his knee.

Finally, his black wingtips poked out the bottom end and wiggled. He grimaced, hinting that this wasn’t his usual role. This was likely Ashlynn’s role. Which meant it was now Bea’s role. She bit her lip.

If she were up there, Huxley wouldn’t be scowling at Fox and Fox wouldn’t be contorting himself to fit into a too-small coffin. Not that Bea’s stage skills would have done the Marlow Boys proud. They’d have been forced to manually shove her stage-fright body inside the contraption. Still, their bumbling made her rethink evading her assistant duties. Helping friends in need was as important to her as avoiding all things taupe. She also strived to better herself, a side effect of watching her father walk the path of least resistance.

She wasn’t sure Huxley was a friend, but performing in this near-empty theater could help her conquer her stage fright.

A snore sounded. A quick glance showed four of the five seniors now dozing. Granted, the act had hit a small snag, and the music was painfully dated, but the boys were alluring and mysterious. How could anyone not watch their show with bated breath?

She shifted on her wonky seat as Huxley and Axel spun the coffin again. Fox wiggled his shoes some more, proving they were his. The spinning ceased. Axel passed Huxley a massive metal sheet. The two handed it back and forth, banging the thin sides and flipping it around. The music built into a bow-chicka-boom beat. Half porn, half techno. Huxley’s cape billowed as he twirled and positioned himself behind the coffin, metal sheet raised over the middle. Bea squeezed her bouncing knees together and leaned forward.

Widening his stance, Huxley slashed the metal down, like an axe to a block of wood. She gasped loudly. He halted just before hitting the coffin…and looked right at her. The corner of his lips lifted. Returning his attention to his boxed brother, he repeated the false swing, then he did it again. She gasped each time. She wasn’t sure when she’d clutched her hand over her heart. One buzz-cut boy clapped from his seat, equally as rapt. Huxley gave the kid a wink.

With the sheet raised a fourth time, his gaze swept the auditorium. “This might hurt a little.”

Her shoulders shivered at his devious tone, her racing heart more aflutter than afraid. She wasn’t sure afluttering should happen one calendar day post-breakup, but here she was, aflutter, imagining that devastating voice whispering in her ear.

Down came the metal, cleaving the coffin in half. She squeaked.