Page 86 of New Orleans Rush

She closed her door, and he let his forehead fall against it. Just over a week ago he’d stood like this, after his last poker game, the night he’d heard her sigh from the other side. He’d ached for her then, had nearly busted through the door, and crushed his mouth to hers. He’d ended up writing her a love note instead.

She felt farther away now, beyond his reach. A fact he wouldn’t accept. This wasn’t over. It couldn’t be. Today’s scare had drilled his idiocy home.

He would not lose Beatrice Baker.

“You might wanna see this.” Axel was crouched next to Fox, amid the puzzle box debris. From the corner of his eye he noticed the two men studying something in Axel’s hand.

With a last wistful glance at the closed door, he joined his brothers. “It’s a key,” Huxley said, stating the obvious. Axel held it out to him, and Huxley ran his thumb along the rounded top and jagged end. “It’s for a safe-deposit box. He left one like this to Mom.”

Whatever had been inside that particular box, Huxley had never seen a sliver of it.

Axel jumped to his feet. “Seriously?”

Huxley kicked stray pieces of the shattered wood. “Find anything else?”

“The bullet’s lodged in the baseboard. We’ll have to pry it out and patch it up later. And there’s this.” Fox held up a frayed bit of scrolled paper. “There was a message inside. The shot broke the vinegar tube in the box. No way to know what it said.”

So that was it. Nine years of waiting on a message from his father that would never come. He wasn’t sure what he’d hoped it would say. An explanation as to why he’d trusted Huxley with everything, to know his father was proud of him after all—anything to make him feel better about his lack of action the night Max Marlow had died.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Huxley hadn’t dented that fated barrel. He hadn’t forced his father to risk his life. He should have reacted sooner, but he hadn’t caused his father’s death, just like he hadn’t caused Beatrice’s bee allergy or her gambling aversion.

But he did break his promise to her, along with her heart.

He fisted the key. “We’ll visit the bank in a couple days, after I deal with the hearing. The bank manager can help us figure out if this was an additional key to the box Mom emptied or another one. And I might miss the next couple shows.” His attention drifted back to the only place he wanted to be. “In case Beatrice needs me.”

“She needs you,” Axel said. “You’ll see. And did you know there’s a butt-ugly unicorn painting in here? Tell Bea to stick to the portrait stuff.”

Huxley cuffed the back of his brother’s head. “I painted that, moron.”

Axel rubbed his skull. “Then you should stick to illusions.”

Fox hefted the ketchup-filled garbage bag over his shoulder. “Everything will work out as it should.”

Which was precisely what worried him. He wasn’t sure he deserved Beatrice Baker.

The boys left. Oppressive quiet hung in the air. He showered, ridding himself of ketchup and graffiti remover, and the stench of bad decisions. Hair wet, he folded himself back onto his shitty couch and spun his father’s key. The world will be your oyster. The only oyster he wanted had shut him out of her room. He looked at the pink pony Beatrice had given him and frowned instead of smiled. He couldn’t stomach watching TV. His brain was too slippery to read. He chose painting instead. The astringent smell made him feel closer to Beatrice.

He hadn’t finished the background yet. He decided on a star-filled sky, midnight blue like his cape, with twinkling gold stars. A two-year-old could do a better job, but the back and forth of his brush soothed his rattled nerves. Color mixing calmed his mind. One hour passed, then two. Blue and gold paint smeared his hands and jeans. His neck hurt from swiveling to check Beatrice’s still-closed door. She hadn’t made a sound.

Why hadn’t she made a sound? How long was a bee sting survivor supposed to sleep?

He dropped his paintbrush. Five strides later, he was at her door, ear pressed against the wood. He couldn’t hear a damn thing, and his shoulders stiffened. She didn’t want him in there. She’d made that clear. But if he complied, he’d yank out his hair by morning.

He eased the door open.

He walked to her bedside and crouched by her head. Her lips were slightly parted, the covers pulled up to her chin. Soft breaths filled and left her lungs, lulling him. It took all his willpower not to crawl into bed next to her and gather her in his arms, but she didn’t want to be gathered. He hadn’t groveled yet. They hadn’t talked.

He traced the slope of her cheek. “I love you,” he whispered.

The words he should have said before her flight. What he would say when she woke up.

He stayed crouched, staring at her so long a cramp seized his thighs. He stood, but he couldn’t leave. He sat on the floor, propped against the wall as night encroached. The hardwood was murder on his ass. He didn’t care. Arms resting on his bent knees, he watched Beatrice Baker sleep, because Beatrice Baker was a woman who made sleep fascinating.

30

Bea woke with cottonmouth. Her throat ached. It felt like an anvil pressed on her chest. Fake dying was the pits. Stretching her arms and legs, she yawned and peeled an eye open. Blue-tinged darkness slipped through her curtains. Her clock read five a.m. Body heavy, she pushed to sitting and scrubbed the grit from her eyes.

Her heart hiccupped at the sight before her.