Off Limits

by Vanessa North

  “No event is ever perfect. That’s what makes them special.”

  “Right.” I nod. “Okay.”

  “We’re having the rehearsal tomorrow. Everything will be great, you’ll see.”

  “Okay.”

  “Angie is coming as my date. My just-friends date.”

  Even though I knew she’d be bringing a date, jealousy boils through me at her words.

  “Right.”

  “Can you say anything other than right and okay?” she teases.

  I shake my head. “I wish I could talk freely here.”

  “How about I call you later?”

  I nod. “Yes. Yes, please.”

  When I’m off work. During the time I used to fill with rehearsals and writing songs. Playing at Bridgeview. What used to be family time but now is mostly me going through X’s recipe box in front of Netflix. With Bex or alone, my evenings aren’t what they used to be, and I haven’t quite gotten used to it yet.

  “Okay, bye.” She gives a cute little wave and walks away, and it hits me all of a sudden that in two more days, the wedding is going to be over. No more excuses to see each other at the Thorns. No more planning sessions where I have to hide how much I want to touch her. And I can’t decide if I’m sad or relieved.

  Obviously, I’m going to miss her enthusiastic visits. But it’s easier to do my job without her here. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  Bex

  * * *

  The day of the wedding is one of those crisp September days where New York smells like fall and the sky is a cloudless blue. I meet Karina at the Thorns at ten, and she’s already ensconced in a guest room with her maid of honor—a younger sister named Helena—and they’re both surrounded by a bevy of hair and makeup people.

  “Bex!” She waves from the chair and gestures to the tray on the desk. “I can’t have a mimosa, but you totally should.”

  A sudden wave of affection hits me at her unorthodox greeting. “Mimosas are my favorite. Thank you. Hi, Helena.”

  Helena waves and returns her focus to her cell phone.

  “Your dad told me, so I had them send a bottle of champagne up with brunch.”

  I’m tempted to ask if he was commenting on my weight when he let that bit of information out, but I bite back that instinct. If she truly is having a lightening effect on my dad, the least I can do is respond in kind.

  “That was sweet of both of you. How are you feeling?”

  She grins at me while twisting and flapping her hands. “Well, I haven’t puked in a few days, so I think I’m finally over the morning sickness. I’ve drank so much water that I’ll probably have to leave my own wedding ceremony to pee, and I can’t wear the shoes I picked out because my feet are swollen. Other than that, I feel great.”

  “Do I need to buy you new shoes?” I gesture toward the door, but she shakes her head. “I have a backup pair that still fits. Kind of.”

  “Holy shit, it’s really happening, isn’t it? You’re marrying my dad.”

  She buzzes and then smiles again. “Really really. And I’m so glad we’re going to be a family.”

  “Me too.” My phone chimes, and I glance at the screen to read the notification.

  Dad: I don’t know if it’s bad luck to text the bride, but I’m not taking any chances. Tell her I love her and not to worry about the shoes. I read on the internet that it’s temporary, so she can wear them to the Oscars instead.

  I smile. “Dad says he loves you and not to worry about the shoes. It’s temporary. He says you can wear them to the Oscars.”

  Karina bursts out laughing. “Oh my god. Someone needs to take his phone and block Babycenter before he joins a due date club.”

  A due date club? My dad?

  “Karina, I’m absolutely baffled by your influence on him, but I love it.”

  She rubs her belly and buzzes. “I think it’s more you than me. This baby gives him a chance to do all the things he missed out on with you.”

  A thick lump forms in my throat. “I wasn’t aware he missed out on anything he wanted to be there for.”

  Helena and Karina both stare at me—my snippy outburst clearly spoiling the mellow pre-wedding vibe.

  “I don’t think he was aware at the time,” Karina says slowly. “But he regrets a lot about his behavior when you were young. He blames himself for poisoning your relationship.”

  Now it’s my turn to stare. “He’s told you this?”

  She nods, frowning. “I’m sorry. Should I not have told you?”

  I sit down on the bed. “I don’t know. I’m glad you did though.”

  It’s impossible to mentally revise an entire childhood, but somehow this new knowledge is a blanket around my shoulders. He fucked up—and he wants to do better. From the father who treated me like a problem to throw money at, it’s more than I ever expected.

  Twenty-Five

  Nat

  * * *

  Knowing Bex is just upstairs, getting dressed and ready for the wedding with Karina, is hell on my nerves. I know she’s not wearing the leather dress she wore to the fundraiser. I know she’s wearing a green dress with a big skirt, and there probably won’t be any black smoky eyes. But in my fantasies? Leather and tulle, fishnets and heels. Eyeliner forever.

  I try to occupy myself with paperwork. I bum a menthol from a dishwasher and smoke furtively on the loading dock. I check the time on my phone a few thousand times. I do anything and everything I can think of to keep my mind off Bex’s legs.

  Finally, I give up and make my way upstairs to the guest room where they’re getting ready, and I knock.

  “Come in,” Karina calls.

  I smooth my damp palms over my pants and push the door open.

  “Just checking to see if you need anything?” My eyes, like Bex-seeking missiles, find her perched on the bed, cross-legged in Dior, her blonde curls in a messy bun. The green dress emphasizes her gorgeously curvy body, and I want to crawl onto that bed and tear it off her. She meets my gaze and smiles, like she can read all the dirty thoughts in my head and she’s totally on board. My knees go weak, and I force myself to look at the bride.

  “I think we’re fine,” Karina grins at me, then looks over at Bex. “Unless you need anything?”

  Bex shakes her head. “You’re all taking wonderful care of us. Thank you.”

  “Excellent.” I step back. “I’ll be in my office if you need anything.”

  I return to my desk, promising myself not to think about green silk or dimpled knees, messy blonde curls, or whether her lip gloss is the kind that would tingle when I kiss her.

  I’m not very good at not thinking about her.

  After about twenty minutes of futilely trying to lose myself in picking out this year’s holiday card, I give up and go up to the roof to double check that everything is in its place.

  Stepping out into the crisp September air, I gasp, momentarily stunned. When I’d left on Thursday, the rooftop had been its typical barren self. Now a maze of vine-covered trellises leads to multiple sitting areas and tables. Instead of the traditional rows of chairs with a center aisle leading to the altar, a small semicircle of thirty or so chairs surrounds a floral covered arch and a small sign reads: Choose a seat, not a side. We’re all family once the knot is tied.

  How very Karina. I can’t help but admire her sunshiny optimism.

  If only family were always that simple.

  Bex

  * * *

  After the toasts have been said and long before the dancing is done, I slip behind the bar to snag a bottle of champagne. The bartender raises an eyebrow, so I touch my finger to my lips. “I’m the groom’s daughter. I’m sending this over to their hotel as a surprise.”

  A lie. A sweet, facile lie. Dad and Karina won’t be needing the bottle, and they won’t miss it. Mama always said to keep a bottle of champagne on ice for a special occasion. Sometimes that special occasion is a New York rooftop wedding, and sometimes that special occasion is havin
g a bottle of champagne on ice.

  Tonight, my special occasion is Natalie Marshall. I want to drink champagne off my lover’s body. I want to celebrate her and everything we’ve pulled off together this summer. And everything we’ll do together in the future.

  I’m light like the sweet September air as I make my way downstairs to the reception desk. The receptionist is playing a game on her phone, totally lost in it. I tap gently on the desk.

  “Is Natalie still here or has she gone home for the evening?”

  “Oh!” She sits up suddenly, stashing her phone in the drawer. “Ms. Horvath. Do you need anything?”

  I shake my head. “No, thank you. I wanted to chat with her a moment if she’s here.”

  “She is. I’ll let her know you’d like to speak to her.”

  “Actually—Ashleigh, right? Ashleigh, I’d like to surprise her.” I hold up the bottle of champagne. “A thank-you for all her hard work.”

  Ashleigh’s eyes widen. “Of course, go right ahead back.”

  I’m beginning to think Ashleigh is the worst gatekeeper on the planet. Bless her heart, as my mama would say. I step around the reception desk, down the short hallway to Nat’s office, and I let myself inside, shutting and locking the door behind me.

  “Bex!” She looks up from her desk, clearly startled. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  I nod, holding the bottle behind my back as her gaze travels down my body. Much like the eye-fucking she gave me earlier, it warms me all the way to my toes.

  “I brought you something.” I produce the bottle. “As a thank-you for everything you’ve done for us this summer. You saved my butt, you made Karina and Dad happy. You made me—beyond happy.”

  She stares at the bottle for a long moment, then stands. “You’re giving me a two-thousand-dollar bottle of champagne?”

  I glance at the bottle in my hands. Two grand, eh? “Um, yes?”

  She shakes her head. “You are ridiculous.”

  Hurt, I take a step back. “I thought we could share it.”

  She smiles, confusing the hell out of me. “Bex. I’d be happy with a bottle of Cooks. Or tequila for cuddling. You don’t have to woo me with a fancy blanc de noirs.”

  Her voice slips into the French words with a sexy ease. Goddamn.

  “It was what they had at the bar,” I deadpan, setting the bottle on her desk. She glances at it, then walks around the desk. My breath catches as I think for a moment that she’s about to kiss me or touch me, but then she stops still and crosses her arms, clearly reminded where we are. “Thank you. That was nice of you.”

  “I locked the door.”

  Her eyebrow raises, and she bites her lower lip. “Did you, then?”

  I nod and, slowly, giving her plenty of time to back off or to say no, I slide my hand around the side of her face, drawing her up to me.

  She doesn’t say no. She snuggles into my hand like a kitten, wraps an arm around my waist, and kisses me back, hot and needy. My heart is in freefall, and I can’t even begin to be scared.

  “I’ve been thinking of you in this dress all goddamn day,” she murmurs against my throat, running a hand up my thigh, under my skirt.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I’m fucking smitten.” She shakes her head, then nips my earlobe. “You’re all I can think about. Not only getting up under here.” She cups me through my panties, and I shudder against her. “I want to be with you all the time.”

  She pulls back and looks at me. “You’re dangerous.”

  I swallow, sure we’re not talking about fucking, but not ready at all to talk about the state of my heart.

  “So fuck me safe again,” I whisper.

  A flash of something—disappointment? Anger? Moves across her expression too fast for me to identify it, then her gaze heats, and she’s pushing me down onto the desk.

  She pulls my underwear down, and then her hand is there, delving into me.

  I gasp at the sudden stretch of four fingers inside me, but her thumb rubs my clit, and her teeth find my throat, and it doesn’t matter. I’m gone for her. I throw my head back, bracing myself on the desk as she works me to the brink of orgasm with that same hard-eyed determination she gets on stage.

  “Oh god, yes,” I pant, sucking a shuddering breath into my lungs. My hips won’t stay still, and she plays me like a fucking expert. “Please.”

  And then the door swings open.

  My eyes meet those of a tall, thin man with black hair and dark circles under his eyes, and then I’m shoving Nat—Natalie, because immediate evidence to the contrary, Nat doesn’t exist here—off me and pulling my skirt back down.

  “Natalie?”

  She whirls around, balling her hand—the hand that had just been inside me—into a fist at the small of her back.

  “Mitch?”

  “But I locked the door,” I whisper.

  “I—” He stops, mouth hanging open. “—I’m sorry.” He turns around and walks out.

  “Shit. Goddamn motherfucking fuck,” Natalie covers her face with both hands. “He has a key. We share this office.”

  “Oh.” It’s completely insufficient, but I don’t know what to say.

  “Look, you should get back to the wedding.” She drops her hands from her face, and the icy Natalie is back. “I’ve got damage control to do.”

  “I can pretend I’m really drunk, if that would help?” I offer.

  She laughs a mirthless, chilly laugh. “Yeah, cause fingerbanging a member who is too intoxicated to consent will go over way better than just fingerbanging a member.”

  I cringe at her crude words. God knows I don’t need hearts and flowers, but it feels like she’s intentionally trying to hurt me.

  “Okay, so, not that then. Whatever you need, I’ve got your back. I promise.”

  “I need you to go. Now.” She folds her arms over her chest, refusing to look at me.

  Pain slices through me, visceral and sharp. “Of course.” I swallow my pride and I nod. “Will you call me later?”

  She shakes her head. “Jesus, Bex, can’t you just go?”

  Right. I go.

  Twenty-Six

  Natalie

  * * *

  I walk past the reception desk with shaking hands, straight across the hallway to the ladies’ room, where I try to scrub the scent of sex from my skin. My brain ricochets from Mitch’s face to Bex’s to the fact that I’ve most certainly lost my job now to the sheer fucking relief of not having to hide anything anymore.

  All my secrets out, exposed for the world to see. Everything has fallen the fuck apart and I’m relieved.

  I don’t realize I’m crying until Ashleigh walks in with the box of tissues from her desk.

  “Hey.”

  “Ash, I can’t—”

  “I heard. What was going on in there. I can cover for you—and I bet Mitch would too—but you deserve to be happy.”

  I wipe at my eyes.

  “That doesn’t even make sense.”

  “I know, I’m not good at sense. I’m not really good at much—I know the things you all say behind my back, and they’re true.”

  Oh my god, this conversation is the last thing I need.

  “We don’t say anything about you behind your back.”

  “Please. This place is worse than a sewing circle for gossip. My point is—I’m dumb, but I’m not stupid.” She pauses for a minute, then shakes her head. “I mean—”

  I hold up my hand. “I get the point you’re trying to make Ash. You’re not stupid or dumb.”

  “Okay, well, if you need me to cover for you, I’ve got you.”

  “Thank you. How about you leave those tissues with me and go cover the front desk.”

  “Right.” Thankfully, she leaves without saying anything else.

  I stare at myself in the mirror. My blouse has come untucked, but other than that, my suit looks fine—normal. I tuck in my shirt and smooth my hands over my jacket. My eyeliner and mascara have run, s
o I take one of the tissues and carefully clean up. I fingercomb my hair back into place, take a deep breath, and go to face the music.

  I hand Ashleigh the box of tissues with a “thanks, girl” and make my way into the office I share with Mitch.

  He’s standing behind the desk, holding the bottle of champagne and reading the label. I shut the door behind me and settle into the chair across from him, feeling for all the world like a kid in the principal’s office.

  “I picked a bad day to come in early, huh?” He looks up at me.

  “Well, I picked a bad day to live out the ‘fuck someone on the desk at work’ fantasy,” I offer.

  “So we’re gonna talk about it?”

  “Yes. You saw what you saw. I was fucking Bex Horvath over the desk. I’m not going to gaslight you or try to bribe you or ask you to risk your job to cover for me. I fucked up, big time.”

  He nods. “Honestly, it shocked me so much I thought the lack of sleep lately had gone to my head. I’m pretty sure Ashleigh heard—”

  “She did,” I confirm. “So, I guess I need to resign. Hey, you can have the cushy day-shift.”

  “I don’t want to take your job, Nat. I thought we were friends?”

  I don’t know why that strikes me as funny, but I burst into laughter and cover my face with both hands until the hysteria passes.

  “My best friend is a lesbian tattoo artist in Jamaica. My other best friend just tried to kill himself because he saw his mom at a hipster bar in the Village. His boyfriend self-medicates with massive quantities of weed. Together, the four of us scream dirty lyrics into a crowd full of horny queers and pantomime fucking on stage every week in Bay Ridge. That’s who I am. That’s the kind of friends I have.”

  “I see.” Mitch sits down, setting the bottle on the desk. “And Bex Horvath?”

  “My—” I pause, searching for the best word. Lover? Girlfriend? “She’s my person. She’s the one.”

  He nods. “The Richard Gere to your Julia Roberts?”