Page 85 of New Orleans Rush

He contemplated dying at her hands rather than letting her go. It could be the last time she let him touch her. Grudgingly, he eased her onto her feet. She swayed a moment, and he steadied her. “Let me help you in the shower.”

She glanced at his hand on her arm and leaned into him. Then she sighed. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

He sure as hell wasn’t fine.

She walked down the hall to the bathroom and closed the door. He hung his head and rubbed his eyes.

“Give her time.” Axel jammed the last of the ketchup mess into a garbage bag. “She just staged her death and nearly died.”

“Easier said than done,” Huxley mumbled. Ketchup or not, he couldn’t stop picturing her lying in a pool of blood, struggling to breathe. He couldn’t stop berating himself for his moronic texts. If he hadn’t broken her trust, she would have told him about her flight change. He would have met her at the airport. She wouldn’t have dealt with Big Eddie alone.

Weak from the day’s events, he trudged to the couch and fell onto the cushions, not a care to the warped frame.

Fox removed the broken window screen. “I’ll get you another.” He tossed it toward the door, then planted his hands on the kitchen counter and surveyed the apartment. “Day from hell.”

Axel joined Huxley on the couch. “You can say that again. But the hospital was fun—the kid part.”

Fox and Axel traded stories about the kid Axel couldn’t fool and the girl who’d heckled Fox. As rewarding as their time had been, Huxley didn’t join in. He kept glancing at the bathroom, listening for a thump or a sign Beatrice’s medication had caused her to pass out. He should have forced his help on her, ignored her glare, and carried her into the bathroom. All he heard now was streaming water.

“Um…guys.”

Fox’s wary tone brought his focus back to the living area. “Why do you look panicked?” The color had drained from Fox’s face.

Axel sat straighter. “You never panic.”

Fox studied something to the side of the couch. “In all the chaos, we didn’t check what the bullet hit.”

Huxley didn’t have any pets to worry about. No hidden roommates. “I don’t care what it hit, as long as it didn’t hurt Beatrice.”

Fox crossed his arms and shifted from foot to foot.

Huxley and Axel traded worried looks. They stood and walked around to face whatever it was that had Fox acting like not Fox. They both stared, dumbfounded.

“Shit.” Axel’s eloquence.

“Fuck.” Huxley’s.

Their father’s puzzle box lay in shambles, pieces scattered over the hardwood floor.

Nine years, they’d tried to open it. Nine years, they’d failed. If there had been a parchment inside, the vinegar vial had probably broken and eaten whatever wisdom Max Marlow had wanted to impart. The bullet could have destroyed any other contents.

He squinted at the mess. “Guess we should search the wreckage.”

“Yeah,” Fox agreed, but nobody moved.

The will had said the world would be his oyster once Huxley opened that box, but his girlfriend had almost gotten shot, she nearly died from a bee sting, and his theater was the laughing stock of New Orleans. He wasn’t even sure if Beatrice was still his girlfriend.

The world didn’t feel particularly oyster-like.

As they stalled, the bathroom door opened and Beatrice walked out, a towel knotted over her chest. His body tensed. “You okay?”

She nodded. “But I’m tired. I think I’ll sleep awhile.”

She might be okay, but he still wasn’t. Not remotely. He wanted to pull her into his arms and whisper apologies until his throat was sore. Instead he followed her to her room. They loitered at the entrance. “I’ll just be out here. If you need anything, let me know.”

Tipping back on her heels, she tilted up her chin and met his desperate gaze. He tried to grovel silently, sending mute pleas through the miles separating them. Her gray eyes pooled with emotion. “We’ll talk later.”

Unable to resist, he tucked a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “Later.”