Page 78 of New Orleans Rush

He wasn’t sure why Fox was yelling. Fox didn’t lose his cool. He barely ever cracked a smile. “Her phone’s probably dead,” Huxley said defensively. “The battery sucks.”

Fox shoved his door open. “I’m heading to get some graffiti remover to Band-Aid that catastrophe, while you get ahold of Bea and figure out how to get her back. Don’t fuck up. She’s your match. Letting someone like that walk out of your life will be the biggest mistake you ever make.”

Huxley was well aware of his idiocy. Didn’t make hearing it any easier. “What do you know about love? You haven’t dated in ages.” Even after their recent shows, Fox would flirt with women who’d stay behind, then leave by himself.

The fight drained out of Fox. “I know plenty. Not fighting for your soulmate will destroy you. Which is something else I need to take care of.” He closed the door behind him, leaving Huxley speechless.

Axel stared at Fox’s empty seat. “What just happened?”

“Don’t ask me.” Something was up with his brother, or someone, but all that mattered right now was Beatrice. Not fighting for her and begging for her forgiveness would destroy Huxley. It would turn him into the surliest version of himself. Asking to use her cash for another poker game had been unacceptable, all because he’d put the building first and believed he was disappointing a man who’d died nine years ago.

Huxley kicked Axel out of his car, then spent the next twenty minutes texting Beatrice. Each apology made him sicker. Clammy sweat coated his palms. He left a few voicemails, too, while praying Fox’s contact would eliminate Oliphant as a threat.

Now he could only wait.

Beatrice’s plane would arrive at four p.m. He’d have to spend the morning with his brothers, doing what they could to scrub a portion of the graffiti off, then he’d meet her at the airport, heart and bag of Skittles in hand, ready to beg and plead for his woman.

27

Painting Maude the Dog’s portrait was going to be a blast. The standard poodle was the peacock sort who strutted down the street walking her master, not the other way around. She was sly and mischievous, hiding the remote control when ignored and opening door handles with a press of her paw. She had the hots for the next-door Chihuahua, and her choice of crystal-studded collars put Bea’s wardrobe to shame. The purples, pinks, and blues she’d use to paint her likeness in tiny squares was sure to brighten up Arabella and her wife’s polished home.

Armed with photos and a few rough sketches, Bea had switched to an earlier flight, eager to return home and get started. She would gather supplies today and wake up tomorrow, ready to paint. Arabella sent her off, thrilled with the plan, air-kisses offered to both cheeks. All Bea needed to perfect this perfect day was a working phone.

She’d fallen asleep after sending Huxley a dog-bed selfie and had woken up late to a dark screen. Too busy rushing to get organized and hail a cab, she hadn’t had time to charge her phone, and she felt antsy. She never imagined herself a cyber addict, but she liked being connected to her magic man, even electronically.

She bounced her heel as she plugged her cell into the airport outlet. She needed to tell Huxley about her flight change, in case he planned to surprise her with a prodigiously fabulous reunion. The possibility had her fingers tapping in time to her jouncing heel.

Two boys stood across from her, one with buckteeth and a handful of cards, the other, a younger version of the older blond, in a Transformers T-shirt. The Transformers child picked a card from the fanned deck and peeked at his choice. Bea watched with glee, imagining a young Huxley playing cards with Fox or Axel. Wowing his siblings with a sneaky trick.

The older boy fanned his hand over the cards. The Transformers child stood rapt, studying the movement, searching for the trick behind the illusion. When the bucktoothed boy pulled a nine of hearts from the deck, his brother’s jaw nearly hit the floor.

Bea clapped, unable to help herself. She’d never thought much about having kids, but she considered it now. She pictured Huxley falling asleep with their baby nestled against his chest, entertaining tykes with card tricks and disappearing coins. Cooking family meals. Making mashed potato sculptures and peanut butter paintings with her and their child.

She couldn’t imagine a more colorful world.

She wasn’t about to ambush him with talks of babies and forever, but the heartwarming fantasy made her realize her Huxley obsession was more of a Huxley love craze. Yep. She was fully, completely in love with her dashing magic man. She needed to tell him now. Share her growing glow before she erupted from the pure joy of it.

Giddy from her successful trip and her racing heart, she checked her phone for life. A bright screen glowed. She curled on her seat, unconcerned about wrinkling her polka dot dress. Not when she was about to tell Huxley she loved him more than all the candy in the world. He’d also do a fine job of rumpling her dress later, something she should suggest before takeoff.

But when she swiped to her home screen and saw forty-one missed texts from him, her playful mood plummeted.

Forty-one texts couldn’t be good. Something might have happened to Fox. Or Axel. Or Della. A fire could have torn through the theater. Maybe Big Eddie had come looking for her and Huxley had gone all caveman on him and landed in jail. Or maybe Huxley had texted her every time he’d thought of her and blew up her phone after all.

Hoping for the latter, but expecting the worst, she tapped on his name.

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.

She slapped a hand over her mouth and flipped her phone over, unable to read more. The white sash around her waist felt too tight. The stale terminal air lodged in her throat. I read it wrong. I must have read it wrong.

She reread the first four texts, eyes burning with each pass, ending with: One final poker game. The words glared at her, flashing like a neon sign, warning her of danger ahead. She flipped the phone back over, her vision clouding. The walls seemed to spin. The idea of someone vandalizing the theater pained Bea, but there was always one more. Then another one more.