Off Limits Page 4

  A year into his retirement, it killed him. Not so good for the heart, it turns out.

  I pad barefoot to the living room sofa, sit down and take a swig straight from the bottle. X would have lost his shit if he found out I kissed a member of the club. And not in a good way. I’d have told him though, consequences be damned. It had been the one rule he gave the grumpy butch seventeen-year-old niece foisted on him by their homophobic family. No secrets, no lies, no trouble.

  My phone buzzes.

  Teri’s one-nighter from after the show Thursday has turned into a weekend bonefest and I’m bored as shit.

  Ritchie.

  Where’s your boyfriend? I text back. Ritchie is cool and quiet on stage, but he’s got a raw, anxious energy about him that only Teri and Jacks seem to be able to soothe.

  Picked up a bartending shift. Come over? I’ve got a big blunt I don’t want to smoke alone.

  Tempting. Even more tempting is knowing Ritchie and Jacks will have a full fridge and I won’t have to heat up a ramen cup in the lonely apartment I inherited from the only person who ever loved me unconditionally.

  Give me half an hour. I need to put my laundry away and get a Lyft.

  It’s closer to forty minutes later when I knock on the door of their Park Slope studio. Ritchie is already red-eyed when he opens it, and a Domino’s box lies open on the formica counter.

  “Really, Ritchie?” I gesture to the box. I’m not even a real New Yorker, but I have standards.

  “I had a coupon,” he mumbles.

  “And already worshiping at the church of Britney so early in the evening?” I hang my handbag over the back of a chair and reach for the remote to turn down the pop music blaring through the apartment. “I could hear it down the hall.”

  Ritchie grins slyly and starts dancing. “We aren’t all hardened punks like you. Some of us like music that makes us happy, not just horny or mad. Help yourself to the pizza.”

  I turn it down a few decibels, then skirt around him to the pizza box. Pepperoni and mushrooms—not my fave, but it could be worse. And I’m starving. I snatch a plate out of the rack, grab a slice, and take it over to the couch that doubles as their bed. Ritchie dances over to me, opens the drawer in the end table, and produces the blunt and a lighter.

  “Do the honors?”

  I light up as he sits next to me and swings an arm around my shoulders, and for the first time since Thursday night, I truly start to relax. I drop my head onto his shoulder and hold the blunt to his lips.

  “What’s got you so worked up?” I ask.

  He shakes his head, holding in the smoke for a long time before letting it out slowly. “The whole world, babe. Teri’s little cousin’s been texting us. Wants to save our souls or some shit.”

  “I thought they’d all forgot you and Teri.” I take another hit and choke on it, coughing and rolling my head into his chest. He threads his fingers through my short hair and tugs gently. I want to purr like a cat.

  “Nah. They never really forget. Just don’t talk to us unless they think they can get something out of it.”

  “Sucks.” I mumble.

  “Yes, indeedy. But it could be worse.” He doesn’t have to say Jacks’s name. We both know what he means. He takes the blunt from my hand and takes a long, slow drag.

  As I let out my own lungful of smoke, my heavy eyelids flutter downward, and I fight to keep them open.

  I wake up suddenly with my head on Ritchie’s thigh and my feet cocooned in a blanket on Jacks’s lap.

  “I fell asleep?” I blink up at Ritchie.

  “Two hits and you passed the fuck out.” He smiles down at me and ruffles my hair.

  “Rough day?” Jacks reaches under the blanket and tickles my feet.

  I yawn and sit up, stomach growling. “Day. Week. Month. Year. Shit, I didn’t even eat my pizza.”

  “I brought back cheesecake from the restaurant.” Jacks stands. “And I picked up a six pack of some fancy hipster beer that tastes like chocolate. You want?”

  “Oh my god, yes.”

  The guys exchange a glance and a smile, and Jacks fetches the goods.

  One bite of the sweet cheesecake and I’m in heaven. “So good.”

  I take a long pull on the beer, and true to Jacks’s word, it tastes like chocolate. The perfect complement to the cheesecake.

  “Why are you spoiling me with cheesecake and hipster beer?” I ask.

  “Because we want you to tell us about the Barbie you were smooching backstage on Thursday?” Ritchie’s voice lilts up at the end like he’s asking a question instead of answering one. And how did they know I was smooching anyone? “She was pretty.”

  “Yeah.” I take another bite of cheesecake, mulling my words. “But she’s not for me.”

  “Why not? Lousy kisser?” Ritchie makes a sympathetic noise. “She looked like she was good at it. You guys didn’t even notice me and Jacks on the couch.”

  I blush. “How much did you see?”

  “We saw her answer the phone and you freak out,” Jacks says softly. “But we don’t know why, and we guess she didn’t either.”

  “She’s a member at the Thorns.” I drop the fork onto the plate and set it aside, appetite suddenly gone.

  “Oh that’s rotten luck.” Ritchie rubs my shoulder. “Sorry, Natty.”

  “Yeah, well. Other fish in the sea, right?”

  “Right.” Jacks nods. “All kinds of fish. Big fish. Little fish. Starfish. Sharks.”

  Ritchie grins at him. “Blowfish?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “You guys finished the weed, didn’t you?” I take another pull on the beer.

  “You snooze, you lose,” Ritchie quips. “You know the best thing for a broken heart is a Britney dance party.”

  “My heart is not broken,” I protest as they start moving the coffee table out of the way, but they ignore me, intent on cheering me up no matter what I say.

  And I fucking love them for it.

  Five

  Bex

  * * *

  It’s Thursday before I connect with Mom, and by then, Dad’s Karina has friended me on Facebook and followed my Instagram. Naturally, I follow her back. She’s got hundreds of thousands of followers, and her feed is a carefully curated glimpse into a TV star’s life. I know from experience it’s smoke and mirrors, but I’m still charmed. It’s weird. Even weirder is the gushy caption under the selfie of her with Dad.

  Madly in love with my best friend!

  Karina is beautiful—dark haired and dimpled with a stunning smile as she shows off the rock—curiously a sapphire and not a diamond—glittering on her left ring finger. Dad is looking at her, not the camera, and he’s got a doofy, dazed expression on his face.

  Her best friend? For real?

  “Squinting gives you wrinkles, darling.”

  A Fendi tote bag hits the ground next to my chair and my mother—the one and only Tammy Dean—settles into the chair next to me at the Rose’s pool. Her skin—by the miracles of plastic surgery combined with good genetics—is still remarkably wrinkle-free for a woman in her fifties.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I roll my eyes at her. “How was your party?”

  She waves a hand dismissively. “Too much cocaine, not enough hookers. How was New York?”

  I hand her my phone instead of answering.

  “Is that Benjamin? Who is that fetus he’s with?”

  “His fiancée.”

  She laughs and tosses my phone back to me. “Good one.”

  “It’s not a joke. He’s getting married. To—” I screw up my face to read the caption again “—His best friend?”

  “His best friend is a seventy-year-old lawyer named Dick. That person in the photo is barely out of kindergarten.”

  I’m pretty sure Dad’s lawyer’s name is actually Evan, but I don’t correct her. “Why don’t we go to the bar and order drinks?”

  “Can’t. I have a barre lesson at six thirty, and my trainer is a tyrant.
If I show up with a buzz, she’ll stomp off and still charge me for the lesson.”

  I try not to let my disdain for exercise show on my face, but I don’t think I’m entirely successful.

  Laughing, she stretches out on the lounger and closes her eyes. “Careful, your face will freeze like that.”

  “I don’t know why you torture yourself in the gym when you use a stunt double anyway.”

  She tsks and gives me some serious side eye. “Rebecca, even when an actor doesn’t do her own stunts, she needs to be able to endure a rigorous shooting schedule. Imagine shooting a scene where you have to run and something terrifying is chasing you. One particular shot is thirty seconds long. The director shoots it fifty-seven times because random shit goes wrong.”

  “Mom—”

  “I’m not finished.” She warns. “You’ve spent twenty-eight and a half minutes running like hell, everyone is pissed off at everyone else, and you have to move on to the next shot, which has you jumping across a stream. You have to look strong, and determined, and even if you’re out of breath, you still need to grit your teeth and get it done. That is why I torture myself. My job is physically and emotionally demanding, and I do what needs doing.”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” Shame flushes my face. “I forget sometimes that it isn’t all press appearances and award shows.”

  “You never had an interest in this business—and that’s fine. It’s actually a bit of a relief. But it is work.”

  I nod. “I get it. Okay, so no drinks. But we do need to talk. I’m going to spend some time in New York.”

  “How much time?”

  “Six months, give or take. I’ll be staying at the Jefferson for the first week, then I’m subletting a place on West 14th until after the wedding.”

  “Oh.” She stares at me through her oversized sunglasses, then finally pulls them off. “So he’s set a date?”

  “Not yet. But they want to be married before the baby comes.”

  The sunglasses go back in place.

  “I see.”

  “So. I won’t be able to attend the You Pick Awards with you, or go to the after party.”

  I flinch. I hate disappointing her—but a wedding is a bigger deal than an awards show, and Dad hasn’t given me much time.

  “Fine. I’ll take Adam.”

  I let out a sigh of relief at the mention of her on-again, off-again boyfriend. While I don’t appreciate their dramatic—almost always public—break ups and reconciliations, they do care about each other. “So he moved back in?”

  “Not yet. We’re taking it slow.” She makes a face. “Ish. Thank goodness I can’t get pregnant.”

  And to that, there’s nothing to say but a fervent “Amen.”

  Natalie

  * * *

  “Natalie, can I talk to you a moment? It’s important.”

  An anxious-looking Priya stands in the doorway to my office.

  “Of course. Shut the door.”

  She eases it closed and sits in front of my desk, fidgeting. “I’m having trouble with the Rose’s HR office. There are some discrepancies in payroll and I need to verify the numbers.”

  “Have you called them?”

  “Honey, please.” Priya raises an eyebrow at me and folds her arms across her chest. “I’ve called. I’ve emailed. I’ve even sent snail mail. It’s not that hard for them to share the info. I think they’re ignoring me. Or someone there doesn’t like me. Or, I don’t know, someone has embezzled money out of the employees’ 401k funds and is hoping to ghost me into not looking closer.”

  That gets my attention. “What the actual fuck?”

  She shrugs. “I can’t say for sure, but the numbers don’t match what my spreadsheet says they should be. So either my spreadsheet is wrong or the amounts are wrong.”

  “Okay, that’s a big leap to embezzlement. They probably just had some people change their plans and didn’t update you.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the headache forming behind my eyes. “I’ll call HR in LA and see if they can help you reconcile it.”

  “Thank you. I don’t like to be a pain in the ass, but numbers not adding up makes my brain itch.”

  “Of course. When did you first notice an issue?”

  “About three weeks ago. But I’m looking at last quarter’s accounts.”

  “So accounts are not adding up for at least a quarter?”

  “Right.”

  “I’m on it. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “No, thank you for escalating it for me. Are you going to be around this afternoon?”

  “Yup. I’ve got a meeting with event catering at three, then I’m off tomorrow.”

  “Cool.” She stands and wipes her palms on her trousers. “Let me know what they say?”

  “Catering?” I glance up at her, confused.

  “The Rose.” She shakes her head at me. “Looks like someone needs their Friday off.”

  “You have no idea.”

  I sit back in my chair as she leaves, uneasiness spreading over me. Why would someone in HR at the Rose be ghosting Priya over an accounting discrepancy?

  Glancing at the clock, I count back on my fingers. If it’s ten in New York, it’s seven in California. Too early. I open my email and fire off a quick note.

  * * *

  Elinor,

  Call me when you get in? I need your help with something.

  Best,

  Natalie

  * * *

  My unease fades as I get into the daily grind of making sure everything is running smoothly at the Thorns, and it’s not until I’m walking down Bay Ridge Avenue that evening that I realize she never called—and then it’s back with a vengeance.

  Six

  Nat

  * * *

  “Your Barbie’s at the bar.”

  I stare at Ritchie, uncomprehending, as I change out of my sweaty tank top and into a clean T-shirt. “My what?”

  “The blonde you were kissing that night. The one who’s a member at your work?”

  Barbie. Goldilocks. Bex motherfucking Horvath.

  “Oh.”

  “Who was our Natty kissing?” Teri throws an arm around Ritchie’s shoulders in the absentminded affection the two of them share so easily.

  “Some curvy blonde femme. It looked hot.”

  “Mmm, I bet.” Teri grins. “She’s at the bar, you said?”

  “Flirting with Farrah, from the looks of it.”

  “The hell she is,” I blurt, although she could be, and why do I even care? I was the one who rejected her. If she wants to invite Farrah to her fancy fundraiser, that’s her business.

  “Ooooh.” Jacks looks up from his phone. “That was all growly. If Ritchie talked about me like that, I’d come in my pants.”

  “Are you going to talk to her?” Teri asks. “I’m happy to distract Farrah, not that it ever gets me anywhere.”

  “Yeah, cause Farrah has standards.” I stick my tongue out and Teri laughs, then wraps an arm around my waist.

  “Come on, babe. I’m in the mood to do some shots.”

  I let her drag me to the bar, shaking my head. This can only end in disaster and humiliation for everyone involved, but I can’t deny my curiosity. Why had she come back?

  Teri sits at the nearly-deserted far end of the bar, and tugs me half into her lap, arms around my waist. “Follow my lead,” she whispers, then nips at my earlobe, sending a delighted shiver through me.

  I close my eyes and lean back against her familiar body. Not for the first—or likely last—time, I’m grateful for the twists and turns of life that gave me Teri, first as a friend, then a lover, then a friend again—always a friend.

  At the other end of the bar, Farrah’s laughter rings out, and then she wanders slowly over to us.

  “Nice show—not a dry seat in the house.” She sets coasters down in front of us and stares pointedly at Teri’s arms. “You two giving an encore?”

  “Mmmm. Just feeling cuddly tonight.�
�� Teri smiles sweetly. “Want to do some shots with us?”

  Farrah rolls her eyes, but lines up three glasses. “I’ll do one. What are we drinking?”

  “Tequila,” I say decisively. “Tequila for cuddling.”

  Farrah pours the shots.

  “Pour a fourth.” Teri orders, then looks around me, down the bar, to Bex. “Hey, Blondie. Let’s do a shot.”

  I think for a moment she’s going to say no. I think she wants to say no as much as she wants to say yes. I think she came here defiant and pissed off and eager to prove something.

  Then she smiles, and I stop thinking.

  She walks like all the secrets of the universe lie between her thighs, and for all I know? Maybe they do.

  “I am so out of my league,” I whisper to Teri. Her hands tighten on my waist.

  “Are not.”

  And then Bex is on the barstool next to us, and she’s looking at me with a thousand questions in her eyes.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi.” She grins, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I enjoyed the show tonight.”

  “Thanks.” Teri and I say at the same time, and we all laugh.

  “Teri, this is Bex; Bex this is Teri.”

  “And this is Don Julio, he’s very pleased to meet you all.” Farrah nudges the shot glasses toward us and sets a plate of lime slices on the bar.

  “Salt?” Teri asks.

  “I don’t need—” I start to protest, but Bex puts her hand on my thigh and I shut up.

  “Yes, you do,” she says, but she’s looking at Teri over my shoulder.

  Farrah hands Teri the salt shaker.

  I draw in a shaky breath. My response to the whole situation has spiraled out of control.

  Teri dips a finger into her shot glass, and I swallow thickly as she traces the tequila down the side of my neck, dipping into the hollow of my throat, and then dusts the salt lightly over it. “You first.”