Off Limits Read online

  And bingo. Natalie’s face appears in the list of available Air Drops. I grin as I send it.

  Absently, she fishes her phone out of her jacket pocket and glances at it, then at me. Without opening the message, she tucks it back into the pocket and leads us to the elevator.

  “As you can see, we’re proud of our building’s history and we’re also proud of all we can offer to our members. Welcome to the Thorns, Ms. Smith.”

  Karina ducks her head in that way I’ve become familiar with over the last weeks, and she looks at me, not Natalie, when she says, “Thank you.”

  “Ms. Horvath, if I could have a word?”

  “Of course. Karina, I’ll meet you in the restaurant.” I follow Nat out of the elevator, past the concierge desk and into her office.

  “A small get-together tonight at your apartment in the meatpacking district.” She reads my message and looks at me.

  I nod. “Very small. I’ll be the only person there you even know.”

  She sighs and digs the heels of her hands into her eyes. “The only way you can guarantee that is if you’re the only person there at all.”

  “Well…” I trail off, smiling wickedly. “I did say very small.”

  She laughs, and it’s glorious on her. The way her eyes light up and jaw drops in surprise. She runs a hand through her perfectly-combed hair, making it spike up like she’s on stage, and then shakes her head. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

  “Everything,” I suggest, and she laughs again.

  I pull out my phone, take a quick screenshot of my address and AirDrop it to her. “I hope you’ll come.”

  And then I leave, with the ball in her court, and I take my future stepmother shopping, because how else am I supposed to keep my mind off the shocked shout of laughter that follows me out of the room?

  Eight

  Nat

  * * *

  I text Jacks the moment I’m out the door. Teri’s hours at the tattoo shop are too unpredictable, and Ritchie’s nervous energy is too much for me to handle right now. There’s a good chance Jacks is working, but since he works in a bar, that serves my purpose.

  Meet me for a drink?

  I start walking toward the subway entrance and he buzzes me back right before I start down the stairs.

  Working. Boss is here.

  Shit. That means he can’t be chatty. Ah, fuck it. I call a Lyft to take me to the fancy-ass gastropub where Jacks serves twelve-dollar microbrews, and I cross my fingers he’s not in the weeds. Saturday nights, people like their drinking, but it’s barely six when I take a seat at the bar, my back to the white linen and mismatched china of the restaurant, and the place isn’t crowded—yet.

  Jacks’s mohawk is combed and pomaded into a pompadour, his denim shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbows, and the leather cuff on his wrist draws attention to the wicked ink curling up his arms—the ink that covers his scars and soothes some space in his angry soul. He looks the part of the perfect urban hipster, but when he slaps a coaster down in front of me and leans across the bar to kiss my cheek, I relax, knowing his angry soul has time to comfort mine.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to go to. I’ll have an Oberon.” I glance around the bar. The bar manager with his ridiculous handlebar mustache and strawberry blonde hair is nowhere to be seen. “Look at this.”

  I thrust my phone into his hands. He skims the message and hands it back before tapping the beer into a glass and setting it on my coaster.

  “This message is from Barbie?”

  I roll my eyes at the nickname. “Bex. And yes.” I take a long sip of beer. “I’m fucking tempted.”

  “How small is this get together?”

  “Booty-call small.”

  “So, no risk of being seen?”

  I shake my head. “Probably not.”

  “If you just need to get laid, there are ways without risking your job, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “So, if it’s not just about getting laid, what is it about her?”

  I pause with my glass halfway to my mouth then set it down—I hadn’t really dared to ask myself that question. “Honestly? Her attention is flattering. She’s gorgeous—way out of my league. But she seems to believe in inter-league play.”

  “Be right back.” Jacks greets a couple as they sit a few seats down from me, fetches their beers, and then returns. “First, fuck this inter-league play bullshit. You do realize you’re ridiculously hot, yes? And I’m not qualifying that with any kind of ‘for a woman’ business. You’re hot. End of. And so if you’re just flattered by what’s in her wallet—”

  “Jacks.”

  “—Okay, then what is it? Flattery isn’t worth risking your job over. Sex isn’t worth risking your job over. What the hell is tempting you to throw everything X gave you away?”

  I swallow hard, angry tears stinging my nose. Why on Earth had I gone to Jacks? He never lets me get away with anything. “I don’t know.”

  “Then don’t go.” He shrugs. “I gave up everything for love. But I knew it was love when I made that choice. If it hadn’t been Ritchie…” He trails off, shrugs again. “Well. Who knows where I’d be now? Graduated from Princeton or bled out, who can say?”

  “Jacks—”

  He holds up a hand. “I’m not comparing our situations. I know your family threw you out too. But X gave you everything. Security. A job. A freaking apartment. All you have to do is keep your hands off the gorgeous blonde who has taken a passing interest in your coochie.”

  I choke on my beer, and he hands me a napkin before he continues.

  “We don’t all have fairy god uncles to take us in and make life good for us. Don’t look the gift-fairy in the mouth.”

  “Horse,” I correct him.

  He grins. “If you say so. I never saw what X was packing, but not for lack of trying.”

  “Oh my god, you pervert, that’s my dad’s dead brother you’re talking about.”

  “He was still alive when Ritchie and I tried to hook up with him.”

  I unlock my phone and glance at the note from Bex again. He’s right. I know he’s right and that’s why I came here to see him. So he’d strengthen my resolve, or whatever. Not for permission. I’d have gone to Teri for that.

  Before leaving the club, I went searching in Bex’s client file and entered her number into my phone—just in case. I pull it up now and tap out a quick message.

  I can’t.

  I then proceed to get appallingly, ridiculously, stomach-churningly drunk on expensive beer.

  Bex

  * * *

  The knock on my door comes hours after the two-word text that spoiled any plans I’ve made for my Saturday evening. Plans I shouldn’t have made. Plans that, once I received that text, I realized were a presumptuous mistake.

  I glance at my phone. Three minutes past eleven. A little late for a neighborly visit, but the guy in the studio next door has stopped by a few times in the past week. I tighten my robe and head for the door. Glancing through the peephole to confirm it’s my unwelcome neighbor, I take in the incongruous sight of long limbs distorted by the fisheye, short dark hair and mascara smudges.

  “Nat.” I unlatch the chain and fling the door open. “How did you get in? The building is locked.”

  Nat laughs and stumbles into my apartment, pausing to glance around before blinking owlishly at me. The smell of beer floats off her in waves. “I snuck in behind a guy on his phone. Men are so conditioned to hold doors open for women, they don’t even notice they’re doing it. Fucking chivalry.” Her expression makes her opinions of chivalry even more clear than her words do. She’s still dressed in her slacks from work, but her jacket is gone and her dusty-pink camisole is untucked, the silk as rumpled as she seems to be.

  Bemused, I reach out to steady her as she sways on her feet. “Why are you here?”

  “Fuck if I know. It seemed like a good idea to give the cab driver your address.”

  “Ooo
ooh-kay.” I take her arm and guide her to the leather barrister sofa that dominates the open living area. I push her down at one end. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “Do you have any beer? Or tequila? Tequila for cuddling?” She laughs again, then springs to her feet and ranges around the apartment with a restless, drunken energy that makes me feel like she’s pacing the edge of an abyss.

  Handle with care, Bex.

  “Did you come here for cuddling?”

  She stumbles over the edge of the jute rug, catches herself against the arm of the chair, then sits down in it, hard.

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I came here to yell at you. I came here to tell you to leave me alone if all you’ve got is a passing interest in my coochie.”

  I stand up and cross the room to the small galley kitchen on the other side of a granite island. I pour her a glass of water and tip two fingers of bourbon into a glass for myself. I take a sip, bracing myself for the conversation to come.

  As I hand her the glass, she blinks up at me, full of fear and anger and an emotion I can’t put my finger on. Petulance? No. Defiance.

  “I’d rather not have this conversation while you’re drunk,” I say carefully, seating myself across from her on the couch. “But you’re here now, so let’s have it. I have more than a passing interest in your coochie.” I smile at the very un-Nat-like euphemism. “I told you the night we met that I’m fascinated by the woman I see on stage. I’m also attracted to you, but you know that. I’ve come on strong and I’ve pissed you off, and I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”

  Nat drinks deeply from the glass, then glares at me. “Why?”

  Humiliation heats my face, but she deserves a full apology. I just hope she remembers it tomorrow.

  “I’m sorry that I kept pushing after you told me no. It was disrespectful to you and arrogant of me. I’m sorry.”

  Her head drops forward and concern washes over me, but then she sits up straight again. “My Uncle Xavier got me my job. Well. He got me a job waiting tables when I was seventeen and I worked my way up to this one. I’ve lived in his apartment ever since my family threw me out when I wanted to take a girl to prom.” She sips her water again and then shrugs. “He wouldn’t approve of you.”

  “I see.” And I thought apologizing was humiliating. This was ten thousand times worse.

  “You don’t though. I lived by his rules, because I worked in his restaurant and lived in his house, and I’m so freaking grateful because I had nothing, and then I had him.”

  “So you don’t date women because your homophobic uncle wouldn’t approve of me?”

  “No! Shit. X was as queer as I am. I don’t date members of the Thorns because it’s against the rules. That’s why he wouldn’t approve.”

  “Was?” I mentally revise my impression of her uncle and brace myself for another tragic queer story.

  “He had a heart attack.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She smiles at me, a sweet, sunny smile that transforms her face from weary-drunk to something wistful— the sincerity in her eyes takes my breath away. “He wouldn’t approve of you, but he’d like you. He respects people who take chances.”

  A lump forms in my throat and I set my whiskey glass on the coffee table. I stand, cross the room, and kneel at her feet, taking one of her hands in mine. “I’m sorry you lost someone so important to you. I wish I could have met him.”

  “You really do, don’t you?” She wipes blearily at her mascara-smudged eyes, then sighs deeply, as if all the tension is leaving her body on that one breath. “I’m so drunk. I should go home.”

  She’s pathetic and adorable and something in my heart whumps. If I put her in a cab now, I’ll worry about her until the next time I see her. And god only knows when that will be—wedding planning is consuming my waking hours. Karina is a surprisingly needy future mother-in-law. Not that I’ve ever had one before.

  I stand, my mind made up. “Or you could stay. Sober up on my couch.”

  She eyes it suspiciously, as if the massive piece of furniture is going to eat her alive.

  “Or I’ll take the couch.” I stand up and take her glass. “You can sleep in the bedroom.”

  “I came here to yell at you,” she reminds me.

  “I know. Consider me chastised. But I’d feel better if you stayed.” I reach out a hand, and she takes it, allows me to tug her to her feet and guide her up the stairs to the bedroom loft over the living room.

  “Bathroom is through there—feel free to use my face wash, my toothbrush, whatever. I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

  I fetch an oversized T-shirt from my drawer, drape it over the bathroom doorknob, and knock. “There’s a nightie on the doorknob.”

  Halfway down the stairs, I hear the door creak open and then shut again. I make my way back to the sofa and tip back the rest of my Pappy Van Winkle as if it were a tequila shot.

  Nine

  Nat

  * * *

  I wake with the hangover I deserve.

  Head-pounding, humiliating misery, compounded by the fact that I’m in the softest bed I’ve ever felt, and it smells like Bex. What the hell was I thinking, cabbing it over to her place to read her the riot act for hitting on me?

  Gingerly, I ease myself out of bed and tiptoe into the bathroom to wash my face. Her apartment is bright. I didn’t notice the floor-to-ceiling windows or the view of the Hudson last night, and I can’t truly appreciate them with my stomach churning from too much microbrew.

  Her bathroom is tiled in white marble and the chrome fittings don’t even squeak a tiny bit when I turn the cold water full blast and splash it over my face. I clean off the remnants of last night’s makeup, sip the tap water right from my fingers, and take stock of my appearance.

  Bex’s “nightie” is a cuddly-soft Dodgers T-shirt long enough to cover halfway down my thighs. I stare at the crumpled pile of yesterday’s work clothes, tossed aside carelessly last night, and wince. This walk of shame is not going to be pretty.

  “Hey.”

  I turn and Bex is standing at the top of the stairs, dressed in jeans and a blue button-down. She’s effortlessly put together, even first thing in the morning. I blush and tug at the hem of the T-shirt. “Good morning.”

  “There’s coffee downstairs, or I can put on a kettle for tea.” She gestures awkwardly toward the downstairs. “I’m going to step out and get some bagels—do you have a favorite?”

  I swallow thickly. Why is she being so nice? “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I’m hungry.” She shrugs. “And you probably need something on your stomach.”

  “Savory, then. And coffee is fine.” I smile. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I won’t be long. And if you want to borrow something to wear, feel free to raid my closet. You can always return it at the club.”

  Before I can protest, she turns and disappears down the stairs. I eye the walk-in shower with its mosaic floor and glass doors and glance back over my shoulder. Sunday morning, she probably would be waiting in line a while for a bagel. I lose the T-shirt and turn on the shower.

  Steam rises quickly, filling the small bathroom, and I step inside. Heaven. The heat from the water loosens my muscles, and the intense water pressure massages my skull. I can’t remember the last time a shower felt this good. I start to sing, scatting along to a melody that hasn’t become a song yet, and I lather up with her fancy Italian soap.

  When I finally feel like I’ve washed away some of the indignity of a misspent evening, I shut off the water and grab a towel from the rack. The heated rack. Damn, Bex knows how to live.

  Her “closet” is a chrome rack against the exposed-brick wall of the bedroom. A selection of shirts, dresses, and jumpsuits hang from the bar with jeans and sweaters piled on the shelf above. Unwilling to go commando in another woman’s jeans, I grab a sundress from the shelf and pull it on.

  My chest is small enough that I don’t miss a bra, but I fe
el awkward in a dress, hyper-aware that the garment isn’t mine, that it’s too femme, too soft to suit me. I’ve favored androgynous clothes and pantsuits for so long that I feel like a kid playing dress-up, minus the glee.

  Still better than the walk of shame. Especially when I haven’t even gotten laid.

  I hear the door open downstairs, and I make my way down to meet Bex at the door.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.” She grins and sets the bag of bagels on the granite bar. “Let me get some plates and we can do breakfast. Have you got anywhere to be today?”

  I shake my head. “No, I don’t work Sundays. Thanks for letting me borrow your dress.”

  “No problem. It looks good on you.” She hands me a plate and a mug. “I’m super informal. Grab whatever you like and we’ll eat in the living room.”

  I fill the mug with black coffee and take a deep sip before taking a bagel from the bag, still warm. Beside me, she fills her own mug then pulls a bread knife from the block and hands it to me with a smile. I slice the bagel then reach for the one she’s chosen and slice hers too.

  “Thanks.” She finds knives for the cream cheese, and we spread it on our bagels in companionable silence before we decamp to the living room to eat. I perch on the elegant red chair I’d stumbled into the night before, and she lounges on the sofa, obviously at ease with me here.

  Awkward smiles across the coffee table don’t quite fill the silence as we eat, but then she says “Would you like me to put some music on? I tend to like quiet in the mornings, but if you’d like it?”

  “It’s fine.” I take another bite of my bagel, barely tasting it but grateful for the solidness of food in my belly after last night’s decadence. “I like quiet too.”

  She smiles again, and we don’t talk as we eat, but soon she’s clearing the plates, and it’s just us and the coffee and the elephant in the room.

  “Thank you for letting me crash here last night.”