Page 79 of New Orleans Rush

A never-ending cycle of one mores.

But Huxley wasn’t her father. He didn’t drink excessively. He cared for his family. He was responsible in his surly responsible way, always putting others before himself. When in bed, he loved on her body with such devotion it blew her mind. He was also the man who’d returned inspiration to her dry creative well, and all he wanted was just one more poker game.

She reached for her phone, hands shaking, desperate to reply. Of course, she pictured herself writing. I understand. It was only money and she’d hate to see the theater damaged, but the sting behind her eyes worsened. She’d lived this life already. She swore she’d never do it again. Yet here she was, trying to convince herself he was different. That this time was different.

It was never different.

There were more messages, but she couldn’t read them. There was no point. It was a page from her father’s book, asking for money, then burying her indecision under a barrage of sentimental texts. She couldn’t walk that road again. Not with a man who owned her heart. The breaking of it would hurt that much more.

Fingers trembling, she deleted his texts and powered off her phone. She boarded the plane and stared out the window.

Her trip to New York had been her first flight. She’d spent those two hours playing with her seat recliner and stowaway tray, chatting with the woman beside her about the magic of air travel and zooming across the skies. Her return trip, she saw nothing but the taupe interior.

A stocky man settled into the seat beside her and clicked his seatbelt on. “You headin’ to New Orleans on vacation?”

She offered a flat, “Yes,” then returned to her window perch. Her signature smile had gone AWOL, as had the bounce in her voice.

Living in New Orleans had been a vacation. An exhilarating rush. For a spell, she’d been a zigzag girl with a zigzag life and zigzag friends. For a spell, New Orleans had been home.

But home was permanent. Vacations always ended.

She wasn’t sure where she’d go or what she’d do. Maybe buy a map and close her eyes, see where her finger landed. Drive to a new state. Be like her mother and travel where the mood took her. She could paint anywhere, live from the back of her Beetle. With tomorrow’s court deadline, Huxley had likely already organized a poker game and spent her advance, but she’d have more cash coming in when Maude the Dog’s portrait was complete.

She would find her smile and move on, like always. Except her chin trembled, and her chin never trembled. A traitorous tear pushed from her blinking eyes.

The flight home sped by too fast. She had to bite her cheek to avoid a full-on ugly cry as she grabbed her bag, but she thanked her lucky stars she’d switched flights. Seeing Huxley now would breach the wobbly dam stemming her tears.

The scenery blurred on her drive home. She didn’t become her undercover cop persona, taking odd side streets in case Big Eddie was hot on her trail. She barely glanced in her rearview mirror. When she reached Huxley’s street, her heart had become a battering ram intent on cracking her ribs. She drove by twice, ensuring his car wasn’t there. She may not be an undercover cop, but she was a Navy SEAL, one who would slip into his apartment and out before he got home.

A polka-dotted Navy SEAL.

But five steps into the apartment, she froze. She dropped her bag and clutched her chest. A massive canvas leaned against the coffee table. Paints were strewn over her drop cloth, as were dirty brushes and muddied water. The makeshift studio resembled a toddler’s playroom, but it was the painting itself that had those blasted tears finally breaking free.

Her marvelous Marlow boy had painted her a mutant unicorn. There was a star on the animal’s flank, a rainbow below its hooves. Although the shape looked more giraffe than horse, the phallic cone attached to its head gave its unicorn-ness away. She didn’t bother swiping at her tears or biting her cheek. She dropped to her knees and released her anguish in gushing sobs.

Dormant pain from her father’s betrayal blasted out. Pain from her mother’s lack of mothering, from Nick the Prick, from Tanya Fry’s mean hair-dye stunt. The birthday parties she’d never been invited to. Dropping out of school. Every just one more she’d ever heard.

This was the mushroom cloud of squelched outrage she’d been warned about. It was the ugliest of ugly cries. Snotty. Hiccupy. Loud.

The anger wasn’t directed solely at her past, though. It was also aimed at herself. She’d been ready to sneak away without confronting Huxley. Without telling him how hurtful those texts had been. The same way she’d never told her father his actions had shredded her heart.

Huxley had shown her how beautiful love could be. He’d helped cure her stage fright and had lit her on fire to earn her trust. He’d eaten her awful eggs and made love like a superhero. He had inspired her to paint. He didn’t deserve to be deserted, no explanation as to why she’d left. She owed it to herself to unleash her pain. She owed him a chance to explain. The idea of the confrontation made her feel sick, but leaving was walking the path of least resistance.

That was her father’s path.

Her tears diminished. Her gasping sobs lessened. She’d been so distraught, she hadn’t heard the front door open, or the approaching footsteps. It wasn’t until Adidas sneakers stood in front of her that she jumped and fell backward.

“Hello, Beatrice.”

Holy crap.

Big Eddie was as tall as she remembered, his Hawaiian shirt tented slightly over his paunch. A gold chain hung around his neck, and the thick, bejeweled fingers of his right hand held a gun. This was not a drill. The thug who’d threatened to remove her fingers loomed over her, snarly grimace contorting his goatee.

He raised the weapon, and fear blasted through her.

She should scream or run, or headbutt him in his nuts since she was sitting at nut height. Instead she cried harder, unsure how she wound up at gunpoint, with the best-worst unicorn painting painted by the best man.

Another sob burst from her chest.