Off Limits Collection

by Jane Anthony

  It feels like hours before I finally make the long walk back. Not because I want to, but because I have to. The only thing I have is a dwindling supply of cigarettes. I have no shoes. No shirt. All my shit’s in the house. Including my heart. In addition to all that, it’s hot as fuck out here already. I’m too depressed for this kind of weather. It should be raining, with demonic storm clouds overhead threatening to open up the heavens and pelt frogs down upon us. But the sky is clear and blue, as bright and bold as Casey’s eyes. And hot. Actually, hot isn’t the right word. It’s the setting for London broil outside.

  F-bombs flying from the edge of the barn catch my attention on the way. Grass and straw crunch under my bare feet, as I follow the clanging sound of metal smacking metal.

  “I can help you with that if you’re having trouble.”

  Austin glares at me from beyond the raised hood of an old Ford truck. A starter motor box lays at his boots. “What the hell do you know?”

  “I know replacing the starter is probably overkill. Did you jump the solenoid?”

  Austin gives me a dismissive look as I grab a screwdriver and step in front of the engine. “Start the truck.”

  “That ain’t gonna do shit.”

  “For the sake of four hundred bucks and an hour’s worth of your time, humor me, Hoss.”

  With the roll of his eyes, he reaches into the cab and twists the key forward. You don’t spend as many years around cars as I do without learning a few tricks. I lay the shaft of the screwdriver between the starter post and the thick battery cable that leads to the solenoid. Sparks fly as the engine lurches, and the starter kicks over. “Bad solenoid, bro. Change that shit and you’re good to go.”

  He grumbles under his breath and starts throwing tools into the box on the bed.

  “You’re welcome,” I add for good measure. “Listen, man.” I cross my arms over my naked chest and lean on the quarter panel of the dirty blue truck. “This morning was a shit show for both of us. But I’m letting you know right now, I don’t want any trouble with you, bro.”

  I offer him my hand, but Austin just stands there, scowling at it. The last thing I need is adding fuel to this fire and beating Opie’s ass. Yeah, he’s taller than I am by a few inches, but I’m not intimidated by that. I’ve beat up dudes bigger and way tougher than he is. I’m a surprise. I can take a guy down faster than you can say “what the fuck?” They don’t see me coming. I have East Coast rage and a street savvy attitude, not to mention a low center of gravity. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

  He cocks his head to the side, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “You think you’re gonna come in here and steal what’s mine, pretty boy? Think again. It ain’t ever gonna happen on my watch.”

  Synapses fire in my brain, telling my impulses to bury this guy where he stands. He’s provoking me. If he wants a fight, he’s got one. I won’t back down, but I’m not going to throw the first punch. “You had your chance, and you couldn’t keep her. Casey’s my girl now. This thing with you and her? It’s done, bro. Just like this conversation.”

  I turn and head for the house, while the daggers of his gaze leave puncture wounds on my back. I don’t lose. If he thinks I chased Casey all the way out here just to turn back now, he’s mistaken.

  A blue gingham couch sits in the center of the huge family room next to a beige Barcalounger with a blue lace doily draped across the back. Fake ivy hangs across the enormous stone fireplace, and decorative oil lamps flank the mantle.

  At first, I don’t see the sunny blonde beauty curled up on the sofa fast asleep. A colorful knit blanket covers her almost entirely, but a halo of golden hair pokes out from the large woven holes.

  I could leave right now. Pack my shit and go. Leave her a note; send her a text. Say goodbye and never return to this hellhole, but I can’t. I’m stuck. Permanently attached to the girl who glued my cracked heart together with her own delicate fingers then sealed herself to me for life. Maybe she’s not perfect, but she’s perfect for me.

  “Rise and shine, cowgirl,” I mumble, peeling the blanket back. Warm pink circles dot both cheeks, and her light eyelashes still stick together in points. The idea that she cried herself to sleep on this couch while I sat outside and stewed like a baby makes me want to kick the shit out of myself.

  Her eyelids flutter before opening. “AJ.” My name comes out as merely a whisper. Two stupid letters given by my parents that somehow sound like a cello solo falling from her beautiful lips. Rays of light filter in through the flimsy lace curtains covering the windows and highlight her eyes in brilliant shades of cornflower and topaz.

  Everything about her is bright. Like a rainy winter day, depressing shades of black and gray encompass me, but Casey is like the beach on the sunniest summer afternoon. She’s the light to my dark, the sun to my moon. Just looking at her gives me hope. It makes me feel good in a way I didn’t even know was possible until I met her.

  The feel of her soft body against mine as I take her in my arms is all I need. Her floral fragrance wraps itself around me, making its home in my heart.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it. It’s over,” I reply, stroking her hair. Apologies aren’t necessary. I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just want to move on from here.

  “I want you to know me, AJ.” She leaves the room for a second and returns with a book. Stickers decorate the brightly colored cover, and the overstuffed pages cause it to take on the vague shape of a sideways V.

  “What is this?”

  “This,” she starts, placing her hand on top of the book as if it were a bible, “is a glimpse into a life I can’t keep runnin’ from.”

  A hot pink paper sticks to the very first page, surrounded by more stickers and a blue ribbon in the corner. "Casey Jane, live at The Wander Inn," I read aloud.

  I catch the corner with my fingernail and flip the page over. On the opposite side are photos of Casey in fancy dresses and princess crowns. The headline, Pageant Queen, cut out of construction paper curves along the top.

  The entire album is like this. Bursting at the seams with fliers and photographs meticulously cut out and decorated page by page. Memorabilia from the past she's kept hidden until now.

  I pull out a photo, and my eyes go wide. A much younger Casey is smiling on stage in front of a mic stand with a guitar strapped over her shoulder. The background is dark, but she stands out under the bright lights. On the adjoining page is a playlist of fifteen songs with her name and the date at the top. "Y-you're a musician."

  "I was a musician. Now, I'm a bartender." Casey's lips press into a thin line.

  "What happened?"

  "Davis Cole happened."

  The book slips from my fingers, but I catch it before it hits the floor. Davis Cole? Can’t be the one I’m thinking of. There must be some coincidence.

  As if she can read my thoughts, Casey adds, "Yeah, you heard me right. The Davis Cole."

  "Who are you?"

  The girl who doesn't date musicians not only turns out to be one herself but has some correlation to one of the biggest names in modern rock. I'm personally not a fan of Blood Sport, but you'd have to be living under a rock not to know who they are. Davis Cole, their volatile bass player, was always in the news. Guy was as deranged off the stage as he was on.

  "This isn't who I am. It's who I was. I left everythin’ behind to follow Davis. He took what he could and left the rest."

  Blood Sport may be climbing the charts with their over processed brand of mainstream rock ‘n’ roll, but their biggest claim to fame was the celebrity death scandal that surrounded them. Just after the release of their debut album, news about the death of their bass player rocked the world. They found him in a dwelling unsuitable for human life, surrounded by enough dope to kill a horse.

  "How do you even know him?"

  Casey snorts out a humorless laugh. "Davis ain't shit. He's a bumpkin from small town Texas, just like I am. He coasted off my talent and used m
e as a steppin’-stone to pave his way through showbiz. Blood Sport’s first album was written by me."

  "Hold up." I lift both palms, urging her to slow down. "You wrote Fire and Brimstone? You don't even like rock music."

  "I don't"—she sighs—"but I loved Davis. At least, I thought I did. And I'd have done anythin’ to help him. Includin’ set my career aside."

  "What?"

  “I started out as a pageant contestant. The fatherless daughter of the town whore, no one even looked at me twice. Sure, I was pretty, but so were all the other girls. I was nothin’ special.” Casey slides the book from my hands and lets her fingertips graze over the photo on the page. “But when I started to sing, people stopped judging and started listenin’. I wasn’t just another Grainger disappointment. I was Casey Jane. All that fell to shit the second I saw him.

  "Davis had a very enigmatic personality. He was handsome and slick and had a way of getting’ inside you without you even realizing it. The no-name record label that picked me up paired us together. He played bass in the studio band, and we clicked right away. Two weeks later, we were in New York.”

  Casey's glassy eyes meet mine, but her face is impassive. “We lived in a roach-infested shit box that cost more money than I even care to mention. I was workin’, savin’, payin’ our bills, and he was livin’ the rock star dream. It wasn’t uncommon for me to come home and find Davis in our bed with other women, naked and drugged out of his mind. If I got on to him about it, he’d only smack me around, so after a while, I just withdrew.

  “Little by little, he'd taken it all. All our money, all my jewelry, and every shred of self-respect I had. All of it—just gone. Stuck in his arm or up his nose." She slides her hands through her hair, pushing it back and resting it on one shoulder, mangling the entire length with her fingers. "One day, I came home, and he was dead."

  The air in the room is thick as she finishes her story. My heart smacks against my ribcage hard enough to cause bruises.

  “That’s why you stopped dating?”

  She shrugs, looking away. “Ever seen a real dead body, AJ?”

  The memory of my father crashes down onto to me hard. An icy chill rolls down my arms and freezes the depths of my belly. I feel my face contort into a look of disgust as I nod. Just once, and it was far too many times.

  “Don’t you see? It’s my fault. I wished him dead. I blamed him for the mess I made of my life, and I wanted him gone, but I was too afraid to leave him myself.” Casey lifts her gaze and stares at me through her long lashes. “I’ve spent so many years wishin’ I’d stayed in Texas, but now, I realize everything happens for a reason. Funny thing about manure. It may stink to holy heaven, but the most beautiful things grow from it.”

  “What grew from yours?”

  She lifts her hand and rests it on my cheek. “You. You're my beautiful thing, and I wouldn’t change a minute of my shit life because it brought us together."

  A cyclone of emotions spins inside me. Anger, confusion, anguish, love—they rotate so fast I want to reach out and grab one just to hold something for longer than a second. They all blur together, making my head feel numb and dizzy.

  “If you want to leave, I understand.”

  My fingers catch under her chin, lifting it to meet my gaze. Her eyes are deep blue pools of fresh, unfallen tears. She’s cried so much I can’t bear to see them anymore. “None of this matters. The only thing I care about is you and me, our future.”

  “You mean it?”

  I nod, and Casey falls into my arms, pressing her lips against mine. The salty taste of her damp skin trickles into my mouth as I press it all over her cheeks and eyelids, kissing away her tears. “You don’t have any more giant confessions, though, right? You’re not gonna tell me you used to be a guy, are ya?”

  “No.” When she giggles, the sound leaves me breathless.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  CASEY

  Maren Morris’s smoky style hums from the speakers of the little radio Gran kept in the kitchen. She and I always fought because the moment she turned her back, I’d change it from the religious station to whatever I felt like listening to at the time. Right now, I’m yowling along to “My Church” at the top of my lungs, trying to pretend that I didn’t inadvertently thrust us all into the strangest situation imaginable.

  Austin spent the majority of the day making himself scarce. Either in the yard tinkering with the truck or minding the horses. He didn’t even come in for lunch, which is a first since I’ve been back. Even when we weren’t talking, he made an appearance in the house at least once. I hate that I hurt him, not once, but twice now. It’s the last thing I intended to do, but I can’t deny what’s in my heart.

  The pies are starting to pile up in the kitchen, and I’m almost out of flour when I hear the heavy sound of boots scraping the tattered linoleum behind me. Warm hands caress my back, sending a thrill slithering down my spine that snakes around my front just like the masculine set of arms do.

  “Hey, baby.”

  A flour dust cloud flies into the air as I turn, expecting AJ, but run smack-dab into the chest of Austin Krehley. His hands hold firm to the butcher-block countertop behind me, caging me between his body and the cabinetry with nowhere to run. The scents of hay, cotton, and all things man waft off him, making the breath hitch in my throat.

  Why do you still have this effect on me? Stop it. Stop invading my dreams, stop turning me on, just stop, stop, stop. I’ve chosen.

  I’ve chosen …

  “We gotta talk, Casey Jane.” His voice is low and hushed. If there’s a God above, he’ll make sure AJ is far, far away from this kitchen and doesn’t bear full witness to the way Austin sends an unmistakable flush growing along my skin.

  “What about?”

  His gaze follows the path of my tongue as I wet my dry lips, and he pulls his own between his teeth. The Austin I know is not this aggressive. He’s not the type of man who takes what he wants. He doesn’t chase. Doesn’t fight. Yet here he is, pinning me against him and staring down at me with hungry, desperate eyes that are begging me to succumb to whatever this is brewing in the tight space between us.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” My whispering voice comes out too sexy for its own good.

  “Why him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he’s all wrong for you. He can’t give you the life that I can give you. The love you deserve. You and I … we can run this ranch together—make it great again. We can be great again. He’s gonna make a mistake, and it’s gonna cost you everything. Jersey Johnny doesn’t belong down here, and you know it.”

  “No. AJ wants to be with me, wherever I am.” Uncertainty drips off my lips along with the words. With his thick black boots and heavy metal tees, AJ’s an obvious fish out of water here. Could Austin be right? Am I making another mistake?

  No. Austin is wrong. AJ wants to be here. We’re good together. I’m sure of it …

  When he leans in farther, another whiff of his masculine scent overtakes the sweet smell of fruit and sugar lingering in the air. His breath flutters against my ear. He’s too close to me. I’m uncomfortable. “But do you really wanna be with him? Look at you. You’re tremblin’, baby girl. I’ve barely touched you, yet here you are meltin’ like a pad of butter on a hot plate.”

  “You need to back up.”

  “Stop fightin’ this. I know you still want me.” When Austin shifts his hips, I feel his arousal beginning to take shape beneath the heavy denim.

  “I said back up, Austin. I’m serious.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Then you’re begging to have your ass kicked.” AJ’s voice cuts the tension, making both our heads whip toward the direction of the hallway. “She said back off. Or are your ears too full of horse shit to hear her?” he adds, stomping toward us. He grabs Austin by the bicep and manually forces him back. “Is this your game? Cornering frightened women when they’re alone?”

&nb
sp; Another duel in the kitchen is about to go down. A showdown at the OK Corral. Guns blazing, best man wins. This can’t be happening.

  I fly into action, pushing AJ back with one arm while pressing into Austin’s chest with the other, holding back the bull about to charge. “Enough! Go to your corners!”

  The tension in Austin’s shoulders eases, but AJ’s testosterone is still firing on both cylinders. He morphed from man to machine; ready to defend me from what appeared to be the start of an attack. If only he knew, the only attack I was suffering was of the hormonal variety. At any rate, we both need a little space from Austin and some time to clear our heads.

  “Come on.” The pulse in AJ’s neck begins to slow when I thread my hands behind his back. “It’s your first official day as an honorary Texan. We should celebrate!”

  “Where you goin’?” Austin blusters.

  “The Wander.”

  A slow roll of red rage creeps up Austin’s face. “Course. Gotta show off your boy toy to all your fans,” he grumbles, turning away.

  “What was that?” AJ calls after him.

  “Nothin’! Have a good time!”

  “Ignore him,” I say. “Let’s go have some fun!

  Beat-up trucks sit on the cracked asphalt in front of the only bar in town. During the day, The Wander Inn is a hole in the wall that serves greasy burgers and day old french fries, but at night, it comes alive. Right now, only a handful of people are milling about, but once the band comes on, the joint will be bursting at the seams. This was my stomping ground. My home away from home. I wasn’t old enough to be in here, but when you’re Brewster County’s sweetheart, people tend to turn a few blind eyes. I owned this place. In the metaphorical way, of course.

  The smell of cigarettes and stale beer greets us at the door as we step inside. It’s been seven years, but the place hasn’t changed a bit. A burned out Miller Light sign struggles to stay lit, blinking randomly over the old jukebox that I know for a fact is busting a gut with old Kenny Rogers’s songs. A circular bar sits in the center, surrounded by a few scattered tables, a small dance floor, and a platform stage in the corner.