Off Limits Read online

  “And was it just that night?” I ask, half-dreading the answer.

  She shakes her head, curls bobbing back and forth, and a smile spreads across her face. Lust zings through me, a sharp current of it that takes me by surprise. I make my decision in a split second.

  “Come with me.” I take her glass, set both on the bar, and hop off the bar stool, holding out my hand. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

  She slides her hand into mine, and my analytical brain registers calluses along her fingers before my lizard brain takes over again.

  Heart pounding, I lead her backstage to the cramped dressing area where Jacks propositioned me just minutes before. She looks over her shoulder, seeming nervous, but I squeeze her hand and press her up against the cinderblock wall. She’s maybe an inch taller than me, and she looks down at my eyes and hers widen. They’re the color of a stormy sky, dark and dangerous.

  “Oh,” she whispers, and I lean in and kiss her, keeping it gentle, even though I want to dive in and just devour her. Lips move softly over mine, then roughly, and suddenly, devour isn’t a strong enough word for what she’s doing to me.

  I’m utterly, completely, consumed by her. Heat floods my groin and my nipples harden against the rough ribbing of my tank top. My heartbeat rushes in my ears as she sinks her teeth into my lower lip.

  Hands slide down my body, so different from the familiar certainty of Teri’s touch or Jacks’s. Hungry, rather than playful as one grips my ass and hauls me tighter against her.

  I skim my fingertips across her satiny jaw and plunge my hand into that gorgeous hair. It spills over my hand and onto my shoulder, and a vision pops into my head of her sprawled on my bed, that hair spreading out over both of us as we—

  A phone rings and we jump apart.

  Rebecca’s ringtone is an old fashioned telephone ring, and against my will, I’m charmed as I lean against the wall and watch her fumble with her handbag. She winces theatrically and holds up a finger as she answers.

  “Horvath. No. No, I can’t. I’m in New York… …Mom. It’s after midnight here. Yeah, I’m going to try to have lunch with him. I’ll mention it, but you’re going to have to make the case for it yourself. You’re not using me to get at him. I’m done with that shit. Goodnight.” Rebecca flips the switch on the side of her phone to silence it and drops it back in the handbag. “I’m sorry. My parents have been divorced for decades, and they still try to talk to each other through me.”

  I stare at her, my limbs shaking with a sudden chill as the name breaks through the fog of lust.

  “Horvath,” I say woodenly. “You’re Bex Horvath.” Daughter of an actress and the head of a huge TV production studio. Hollywood royalty. Noted philanthropist—and member of the Rose and Thorns Ladies social clubs. AKA, my fucking day job.

  My brain screeches to a halt and I recoil, crossing my arms over my chest. She’s off limits. “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “I’m nobody, really. My mom’s the famous one.”

  “Your dad, your mom, your grandparents on both sides. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Oh please, don’t. I’m really not—”

  “Save it.” I glare, suddenly pissed at the unfairness of it and suspicious of her motives. “I know who you are. But why are you here?”

  “I’m organizing a dinner—a fundraising dinner for charity.”

  I shake my head. Of course. She wanted Vertical Smile. Smooching up on me backstage was just a means to an end. “We don’t perform at those kinds of things. Our act isn’t appropriate.”

  “I’m not asking you to perform. I’d like—” She blushes and tucks a fallen curl behind her ear. “—I know this is weird because you just met me, and this sounded way more sensical in my head, but I’d like you to be my date.”

  Shock hits me like a splash of ice water, and for a moment, I allow myself to fantasize about showing up to some glitzy event, dressed to the nines with this beautiful woman on my arm. I can picture it—I could wear a tux, complete with bowtie, while she wore something with lace and tulle—something black and sexy. And then I’d take her home and take her hair down, and we’d leave the fancy clothes on the floor while we—Off limits.

  “No.” I shake my head again. “I’ve got to go.”

  Three

  Natalie

  * * *

  Eight minutes. I have exactly eight minutes from the moment I step off the train before I’ll be considered “late” to work. I don’t do “late.” Part of being indispensable—and invisible—is being in exactly the place you’re expected to be at exactly the time you’re expected. It isn’t acceptable to draw attention to yourself by being late, dressing inappropriately, or showing up breathing heavily because you ran the last three blocks with a hangover that would kill Keith Richards.

  Therefore, I don’t run. I’ve mastered the fine art of power-walking—in heels. Deep, slow, breaths like they taught in that one bullshit westernized bikram yoga class Ritchie dragged me to.

  At exactly seven a.m., I cross through the employee entrance to the Thorns Ladies’ Social Club and into the frenetic energy of the kitchen.

  “Good morning, Danny,” I greet the pastry chef as I skirt around his flour-strewn station. He’s brilliant, and he’s been here since the dawn of time—or at least since the eighties—and he was friends with Uncle Xavier. Friends of Uncle X are family.

  “‘Morning, Natalie.” He raises a hand in greeting but doesn’t look away from his work.

  “Natalie, can I speak to you?” The front of house manager for the smaller of the two restaurants Thorns houses appears in the kitchen doorway.

  “What’s up, Madison?” The sounds and scents of the kitchen—barked orders, coffee, baking bread—fade away as we fall into step beside each other and I make my way toward the concierge desk—the heart of the club.

  “Sara had her baby last night.”

  Sara—a senior member of our waitstaff and the wife of our night concierge. I pause, doing the math in my head, thirty-four—no, thirty-two—weeks, then keep walking. Shit. “Are they okay?”

  “Sara’s fine. The baby is very early. Sara and Mitch are both going to be at the hospital a lot over the next few weeks. They’re still planning to stagger their parental leave though.”

  Okay, that’s something at least. A premature baby means weeks more than the maternity leave we’ve carefully planned with Sara—not to mention eight weeks earlier than planned. I’ll probably still be covering some of Mitch’s shifts, but at least I won’t be training a new concierge. The temp we’ve been working with will just need to come on board a little ahead of time.

  “I’ll send flowers and a card—I’ll bring it to the kitchen later for everyone to sign. Get someone from the bar staff to cover Sara’s shift this week, and we’ll take a look at who we can get to cover while she’s on leave.”

  “Thank you.” Madison starts to turn away.

  “Mads—” I stop her with a hand on her arm. “Box up some meals for Sara and Mitch and have them sent over to their apartment. They’re going to get really tired of hospital food. Also, bottles of water—if she’s nursing or pumping, she’s going to be thirsty all the time. Don’t let anyone talk to her about work until she asks, other than to say her job is here and ready for her when she’s up for returning. No pressure. Family first.”

  A shiver runs through me—that feeling I get when I hear my uncle’s influence in my own words.

  “Got it.”

  What else would X do? “Does the baby have a name yet?”

  “Violet.”

  I recite it in my head three times to memorize it. “A beautiful name. Thanks, Mads.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Shit. The panic closes in as I walk toward my office. Sara is one of our best servers—smiling through a job on her feet during a rough pregnancy with enviable poise. Madison’s been planning to hire extra seasonal help to get us through her maternity leave over the summer, but dammit.
Summer is still two months away.

  What would X do?

  My hands shake as I sit behind my desk. This is nothing I can’t manage. And here in my office, I can breathe and think and hide.

  But I can’t hide from the fact that last night, I turned down a date with a rich, powerful, beautiful woman who now holds my career in her perfectly-manicured hands.

  When I close my eyes, I can feel her teeth nipping at my lip and her hands on my body, and I can hear the confusion in her voice as she calls after me—I drop my head down onto the desk with a thunk.

  Bex. How did I not know Rebecca Horvath was queer? How did I not know Rebecca Horvath was fucking gorgeous? And what on earth am I going to do with her? If she was anyone else and not a member of the Thorns…well. No use letting my thoughts go down that road, because dirty daydreams about members is about as futile as it gets.

  Even more futile than flagrantly violating the employee standards clause by performing with Vertical Smile. Dammit, it’s the one thing in my life that’s just mine. The one place I can be completely and totally myself, where I don’t draw into myself or try to be invisible. And now the sexiest woman I’ve ever seen can end it all with a word.

  “Good morning, Natalie. I’m covering the front desk for Ashleigh—she’s got a dentist appointment.” The staff accountant, Priya, sticks her head in the door. “Whoa. You look stressed.”

  I straighten in my chair. “I’m okay. Sara had her baby early and I’m just trying to figure out what to do about replacing her for the next few months.” Liar, liar pants on fire. Good thing I don’t lie often enough for Priya to pick up on it.

  “Ah. I’m going to grab a cup of coffee before I sit down. I’ll bring one back for you, too. The caffeine will help your focus.”

  Thank god for solicitous co-workers. “Thanks, P. You’re the best.”

  “Gimme ten minutes. I’m gonna grab a ciggie out back, too.”

  “I thought you were quitting?”

  “Maybe next week.”

  Bemused, I watch Priya saunter out of the room. We’ve known each other long enough that I toy with the idea of following her to the loading dock, bumming a cigarette, and telling her everything. What would Priya say if she knew I’d kissed a member? Over three bottles of wine and a pack of Camels, she’d once given me excellent advice on how to end my last disastrous relationship. She’s one of the few people at work who knows I’m bi, and she took that in stride…

  No. I can’t tell Priya about Bex without explaining how we met, and that just won’t work.

  Nobody—nobody—can know about Vertical Smile.

  Bex

  * * *

  “Horvath.”

  I cringe when Dad answers the phone that way. It means he either doesn’t know who’s on the line because he didn’t look, or he does know and he’s pissed. Not that I’ve done anything to piss him off lately. At least, nothing specific. He always seems vaguely pissed off. At my lack of ambition, at my dress size, at the fact that twenty years ago, I chose to live in California with my mom instead of New York with him.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Rebecca! This is a surprise.”

  I sigh in relief. Not pissed then. “Are you busy? I can call back.”

  “Honey, if this is about that public service announcement, you can tell your mother you tried and failed. I already told her I won’t be in LA before next week at the earliest, and I don’t have time to take on another charity project before November.”

  “It’s not. I’m in New York and I wanted to have lunch while I’m here. Are you free?”

  Silence hung over the line for a long moment. “I’ll make time. What day works best for you?”

  Pulling back the shades across the window, I squint at the sunlight. The dull throb of my hangover roars to life. “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow is Saturday.”

  “What, you don’t eat on Saturdays?” I tease.

  “Of course I eat on Saturdays. I’ll make a reservation. Where are you staying?”

  “The Jefferson.”

  “That place is a dive.”

  “Daddy, it’s a four-star hotel.”

  “It shouldn’t be.”

  Is the scorn in his voice for me? Or for the hotel? I may be used to being a disappointment—but is my choice in hotels really worth getting into it over?

  “It’s close to my club, and I have a breakfast meeting there. You pick a restaurant and text me the name and the time.”

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have dinner? We can see a show afterward. There’s a director I’m courting, you could come along, see how a real deal gets done.”

  Oh god, I’d rather die.

  “That’s so nice of you, but I have plans.” I make a mental note to make a dinner reservation at the club while I’m there with Angie.

  “Okay, sweetheart, I’ll text you in the morning.”

  “Bye, Daddy.”

  Filial duty observed, I tell Siri to wake me up in an hour, grab my eye mask, and crawl back into the luxurious 1500-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets provided by the Jefferson Hotel. Another hour of sleep might knock out my headache—if not the reasons behind it—before meeting Angie.

  An hour later, the throb of a three-martini hangover swells with intensity as I cross the street from my hotel to the club, shielding my eyes with sunglasses and wishing like hell I could take back at least half of the night before. The drinking half. Not the kissing half, because that had been fuck-hot and awesome. I’ve never really thought of myself as a “shove me against the wall and kiss the shit out of me” kind of girl, but apparently, that really turns my crank.

  The door to the club swings open as I approach, and I duck past the women leaving with a murmured “thank you.”

  Pushing my sunglasses up to rest on my head, I follow the discreet signs for the dining room. The Thorns is one of those places that somehow manages to be effortlessly cool—old enough to be steeped in history and exclusive enough to lure a range of New York’s best and brightest—not to mention richest—clientele. Once there, it’s easy to spot Angie waving me over to a booth in the back. Angie is a big, vivacious woman with black Botticelli curls wreathing her face and deep dimples framing her wide grin. One look at those dimples, and I’m smiling back and rushing into Angie’s open arms for a hug.

  “Oh, I missed you,” I say as we sit. “You look so good. How have you been?”

  “Good. I missed you too. Your dad called me the other day—I’m pretty sure he still hates me.” Angie laughs as she says it, but I wince. Why would my dad be calling Angie?

  A waiter appears at the table with menus, which she waves away. “We’ll have the lox plate and bagels. She’s visiting from California. I don’t think they have carbs there.” She winks at the waiter as she stage whispers the last part.

  “And I’ll have a mimosa,” I add.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Ooooh, that sounds fab. I’ll have one too.” Angie grins.

  As the waiter hurries off, I turn my attention back to my friend. “Why did my dad call you?”

  “First, explain the day-drinking. Are we celebrating or mourning?”

  “Neither.” I toy with the place setting. “Hair of the dog that bit me.”

  Angie cackles. “Good a reason as any, I suppose. Your bastard of a father called me about designing an engagement ring.”

  My stomach goes into freefall. “He did what?”

  “He saw my ad in the New Yorker. He had no idea I was ‘that Angie.’”

  “He’s getting married? And he told you before he told me? Asshole.”

  “I know, right?” Angie’s curls shake as she laughs. “But his money’s good and he got all dopey when he was talking about her. Maybe it’s love.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. The last thing I want to think about is my father in dopey love—probably with an actress half his age.

  “I’m having lunch with him tomorrow.”

  “Oh you poor thing. T
ell him you’re coming from my place and see if that vein in his forehead wiggles.” Angie wiggles her fingers, and I can’t help it, I laugh. Angie was a sophomore at RISD when I was a freshman at Brown. We’d met at some bohemian coffee house’s poetry slam and it was love—or lust—at first sight. So what if it didn’t last? Angie is still one of my closest friends. It turns out being walked in on by your father mid-cunnilingus makes for good girl-bonding. Also a broken nose when Angie’s knee hit my face, and a life lesson: lock the door before going down, even if you think you’re alone in the house.

  “I’m not sure if he hates you because you made him face the fact that I’m pretty fucking gay, or if it was the plastic surgeon’s bill.” I laugh, touching my nose self-consciously.

  As the mimosas and the bagels appear, we continue our trip down memory lane, laughing until tears are rolling down my face. But before long the dishes are cleared away, and Angie is pulling a box out of her handbag.

  “So, this is the piece for the auction. Will it do?”

  I open the box and let out a gasp. Sapphires set in white gold, with a nod to art deco, the necklace shows the quiet beauty and timeless design sense Angie has become known for. “Angie, this is—this is stunning.”

  She grips my hand. “I hope it brings a lot of money in the auction.”

  “Thank you.” Tears prickle my eyes and I squeeze them tightly closed.

  “Hey, honey, what’s the matter?” Angie gives my hand another squeeze. “Is everything okay?”

  I nod, but then the words come tumbling out, “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m just hungover and seeing you always makes me all nostalgic and I made a pass at a woman last night and got shot down so fast my head spun and Jesus fucking Christ my dad is getting married and he didn’t tell me which means he probably hasn’t told my mom which means I have to do it and I fucking hate—”