Page 37 of New Orleans Rush

More sugar was needed. She separated her pile of Double Bubble and ate a handful of Skittles. When that didn’t work, she unwrapped a red lollipop. She sucked on the cherry candy and rolled it around in her mouth. Nothing. She reached for her cell, wondering if music would open her artistic pores, but a new text caused her to drop the phone.

Big Eddie.

The candy and cola collided in her stomach, twisting into a sugared knot. She hadn’t heard a blip from him since blocking his number. She’d been so engrossed in her assistant duties and artistic frustration, she’d almost forgotten her father’s problems, and hers by proxy.

Unfortunately, Big Eddie hadn’t.

Pay up or your daddy gets it and you’ll never eat solid food again. I collect all my debts.

Her mind hurtled back to the time Franklyn Baker had wandered home, scalp bleeding, arm broken, his left eye black and blue. Big Eddie hadn’t been the man behind that brutal beating but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t honor his latest threat.

The twisting in her gut worsened.

Cutting ties with her father had been essential, but she’d always feared getting The Call, the one telling her he’d been hurt or worse. Her father was sick, his addiction having sunk its fangs into him. He’d refused to get help. His actions didn’t warrant a doting daughter, but that didn’t mean he deserved another beating.

Lollipop pressed to the inside of her cheek, she slowed her breath and closed her eyes as her heart rate steadied. This latest message had a hint of desperation behind it, more warnings with little follow through. Big Eddie hadn’t mentioned New Orleans, and vague threats about her father probably meant Franklyn hadn’t been hurt yet. He had likely gone underground, laying low until the dust settled. His disappearances when growing up had been as reliable as the changing seasons.

Just in case her father hadn’t thought to cover his tracks, she wrote a quick reply to Big Eddie: Your money is coming. If you hurt my father, you won’t get it.

Another lie, this one hopefully stalling the creep long enough to give her father a heads up. She then sent a quick warning to her dad. It was the last thing she wanted to do. Opening communication with Franklyn Baker always invited sweet words and promises, followed by requests for money. The man was a living undertow, inevitably drawing her back in. She wouldn’t weaken this time. She’d send one message, then ignore him and Big Eddie, leave her father to handle his own drama, whatever the fallout.

She blocked Big Eddie’s number again and stared at the screen. She couldn’t afford a new phone. At the very least, she should change her number again, but that would mean her father wouldn’t be able to reach her this time. She’d lose any trace of him in her life. An odd panic set in. Agitation edged her breaths. The large building felt darker and unsafe, and she didn’t understand why she cared if Franklyn Baker evaporated into thin air.

The sound of approaching footsteps had her already rattled nerves jolting.

She whipped her head around to search the space, expecting to see Big Eddie, then scolded her overactive imagination. She needed to get a grip. And hide. No one had slipped into the prop room yet, but the footsteps continued. She should hop to her feet or hide in the zigzag box or cover herself with the nearby red cape. With tonight’s continued drama, her lungs and limbs had ceased to function.

They atrophied further when Huxley entered her makeshift bedroom, brandishing a wrench. “This is private prop—” He reared back, startled eyes flitting over Bea.

“It’s you,” she said breathlessly, relieved to see his familiar face.

His fisted wrench fell to his side. “What are you doing here?” His attention drifted from her lumpy-clothing bed, to the candy pile. It settled on her toiletries, which she normally kept hidden behind old props. “Did something happen with your roommate?”

It took a slow count to ten to calm her nerves and remember that she’d been crashing here illegally the past two weeks. A more immediate problem than a man texting threats from Chicago. She could lie, confirm Huxley’s roommate suspicions, but he’d only ever been honest with her, even though it had cost him her affection. Cost them both, in the end. Returning his candor with deception would be cruel.

She removed the lollipop from her mouth. “I’m staying here.”

“I gathered that. But why? What happened with your roommate?”

“I never had one.”

“What do you mean you never had one?” His tone rose, and the wrench jerked in his hand.

She flinched away from the threatening tool. “Are you going to hit me with that?”

“What?”

“The wrench? You look ready to bash someone.”

He blinked at his weapon. Huffing out a breath, he placed the tool down, then sat across from her on the prop room floor. His long legs looked comical folded, his knees sitting high and awkward. He ran his large hands over his dark jeans. “Are you telling me you’ve been sleeping in my theater for two weeks?”

The words sounded like they pained him. She didn’t want to cause him more pain. Her messy past had done enough of that. “I’m sorry,” she said, her attention on the lollipop she spun in her hand.

He gripped her wrist, stilling the rhythm. “Don’t apologize, Beatrice.”

“But I’ve been lying and you’re mad.”

“I’m furious…with myself. I haven’t paid you, and I’ve been blind to the fact that you don’t have anywhere to live. What kind of man does that make me?”