Page 80 of New Orleans Rush

“Enough!” Big Eddie glowered at her, the barrel of his gun aimed at her face. “Shut the fuck up, already.”

“But you’re going to shoot me.”

He waved his gun, like he was using it to paint the air. “Give me my cash, and you don’t gotta worry about getting shot.”

“I don’t have the money.” The reality of her situation had her scanning the room for a nearby kitchen knife or screwdriver, fruitlessly. Only a magic wand could lure a distant weapon to her spot on the floor.

“Fucking Franklyn Baker,” he muttered. “Worthless piece of shit.”

“I can’t disagree. And I’d rather not die for him.” She took one breath, then another. She had to think. Convince Big Eddie she’d pay him. Distract him long enough to get away.

“You should’ve thought about that before taking on his debt.” Sweat ringed the large man’s armpits. Something odd flickered in his eyes, a hint of hesitation?

She wiped her snotty nose and hoped to God that hesitation meant he didn’t like the idea of hurting her. “You could lie. Say you couldn’t find me.” She tried to lean back and reach for her purse. Find her phone. Call for help.

His look of hesitation fled and his jaw hardened. “This ends one of two ways, girl. It’s the cash or a bullet. You decide.”

Terror gripped her chest. “Please. I’ll get the money. It’ll take time, but I’ll find a way. Please, please…don’t do this.”

His sweating worsened, beads of moisture gathering along his neck. He adjusted his grip on the gun, pointed it at her heart, and she squeezed her eyes so tightly she saw spots. She prayed for it to be quick and painless as her pulse pounded in her ears. Her body quaked uncontrollably.

But nothing happened.

She cracked an eye open to find Big Eddie slumped slightly, his gun aimed at the ground. “You look so much like her,” he said, the lines of his face slack.

“Like who?” She didn’t know why he was waffling. She was breathing so fast she might pass out.

He scrubbed his free hand down his face and laughed bitterly. “Your mother lit up a room when she walked into it. Made me feel like I was fucking invincible. Then she left me for that asshole father of yours. I should kill you just for that. Teach ’em both what it’s like to lose what you love.”

Big Eddie? This was the guy her mother had been dating when she’d fallen for Franklyn Baker? That would explain his shock when Bea had entered the bar to negotiate with him, his hesitation now. If she didn’t know better, she’d say Big Eddie liked the idea of shooting Bea—the daughter of the woman he once loved—as much as she liked the idea of being shot.

This was something she could work with. She was a performer now. Huxley had taught her the art of staging illusions. She’d learned from the best.

“My mother talked about you,” she told Big Eddie, fisting her hands to control her shaking. “She said there was a guy she loved when she met my dad. I think she regretted her choices.” A partial lie, but he wouldn’t know, and Bea needed to play to his emotions. “If you hurt me, you’ll be hurting her.”

He shook his head and muttered under his breath. Then he glared at Bea. “If I don’t get the cash I’m owed, it’s my neck on the line. You gotta answer to me, and I gotta answer to folks worse than me.”

Bea took a fortifying breath and said, “I have a suggestion about that.”

28

Huxley’s shoulder throbbed from scrubbing the graffiti, he had a headache from inhaling chemical fumes, and they’d barely made a dent. There were still penises. That were flying. He kept glancing at his watch, willing the time to fly instead.

Beatrice would be landing in three hours. That gave him one hundred and eighty minutes to review his apology and perfect his groveling. She had to give him a chance. Listen to him. He’d let her key fresh insults into his Mustang, if that’s what it took. He’d eat her crunchy eggs every day. He would beg endlessly.

For now, he and his brothers dripped with sweat and frustration. Their fingers were red from the harsh chemicals. Huxley’s worn jeans and stormtrooper T-shirt reeked of the stuff. That and guilt. He was the reason they were covered in grime. He’d poked Oliphant, had taunted him about that stupid dinosaur skull. He’d refused to let the man have a rematch because he’d made promises that he’d then broken.

Yet his brothers were still here.

Fox dropped his scrub brush in a bucket and wiped his hands on his jeans. His black T-shirt read, This Shirt is Yellow. “Break time.”

Axel climbed down their stepladder. His T-shirt read, World’s Okayest Brother. “My face has been next to a penis for the last hour. I need a shot of Jack.”

Huxley passed him a Coke. “This’ll have to do.”

They stood in a semicircle, drinking Cokes, swiping their brows, glaring at the passing assholes laughing at their theater. At least they were together. Fox’s mysterious contact had come through, forcing Oliphant to rescind his blackmail. Huxley had never hugged Fox so tightly, Axel joining in on their family moment. If Beatrice couldn’t forgive him, if he’d really screwed things up, he’d always have them.

Somehow, he knew that fact wouldn’t ease the sting.