Off Limits
A Rose & Thorns Novel
Vanessa North
Copyright © 2018 by Vanessa North
Editor: Jules Robin
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Praise for Vanessa North
“[A]uthentic characters charting complicated paths with grace and courage.”
The New York Times on BLUEBERRY BOYS
“A beautiful look at female relationships.”
The Washington Post on ROLLER GIRL
“A steamy book in which nuanced friendships are as central as the romance between two star-crossed lovers.”
Kirkus on SUMMER STOCK
“Steamy and compelling”
RT Book Reviews on DOUBLE UP
“Smooth and sexy”
Publisher’s Weekly on ROUGH ROAD
“[A] fabulous romance with two male leads.”
RT Book Reviews on SUMMER STOCK
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Vanessa North
One
Nat
* * *
Bass thuds through my body with a sexy violence as Ritchie breaks into his solo. From behind the drum kit, Jacks bobs his head and grins. A hand runs down my spine; goose bumps break out across my skin. Teri. I turn to my best friend and wrap my arm around her waist, careful not to bump her guitar and break the mood. Her leg comes between mine, and she leans close, her gorgeous, eyeliner-streaked face temporarily blocking my view of the screaming, vocal crowd.
To them, it’s a kiss.
Vertical Smile performances are two parts hedonism, one part theater, but oh, they’re all us—Teri murmuring something in my ear I don’t quite catch and then biting the lobe to make me shake. Jacks escaping from behind the drums to slide his hands into my pants and grind against my ass. One of my hands curling into his sweat-damp mohawk and the other dragging Teri into a real kiss. Ritchie watching it all with a detached, voyeuristic leer.
Teri pulls back from the kiss and winks at me—checking in, like she always does, to make sure we’re still in sync. Then she starts to play along with Ritchie. I give Jacks’ hair one more tug, turn to face him and lick up his neck to his chin. Salt and pot smoke.
I break away; he returns to his kit.
The crowd screams along as I open my mouth and launch into the final verse.
We end the song on a jarring, discordant note, Teri’s motorcycle boot heavy on the reverb pedal, the frantic hum of energy feeding back from the audience into us in a wave so strong it makes me shudder. I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know Ritchie is nodding at Teri in that silent communication thing they do. They grew up in the same shit town in Jersey and know each other better than anyone.
I don’t have to look, no, but I can feel the tie binding the two of them, and Teri to me, and Ritchie to Jacks and Jacks to all of us. The connections between the four of us on perfect, mayhem-filled nights like tonight are so strong they’re palpable in the air between us. Sex, friendship, and music are all tangled up together for us, so when Teri’s lip curls into a sneer and she starts picking out the opening notes of my favorite song, my heart soars in that way it only does on stage.
“This is a song about one of my favorite pastimes,” I smirk into my microphone, and the crowd responds, jumping up and down, shrieking and cheering. “Eating pussy.” I lift my left hand to my lips, fingers spread in a V, and flick my tongue between them.
And off. We. Go.
Two
Bex
* * *
Bridgeview Pub is a hole in the wall bar in Bay Ridge, the kind of place that’s both ageless and showing its age. The entry is walled with black-painted plywood, scuffed and covered with staples and the bright corners of long-ago ripped-away fliers.
The inside door is guarded by a stoic Korean bouncer with thick, tattooed arms crossed over his chest. He raises an eyebrow over my ID as he examines it but doesn’t say anything. He stamps my hands; I pay the cover, and I make my way to the bar, chancing a look at the lead singer.
As much as I love the music, their voice isn’t the immediate attraction. Their body—clothed in a ratty white tank top that shows dark circles of nipples and jeans cut off at the knee—is a perk. But their face—god, their face. I grew up attending the pool parties of the rich and famous in Hollywood. I’ve had a lifetime of staring at perfect coiffures and plastic noses and I’m bored of them.
But goddamn, those chiseled cheekbones, wide eyes, and angular chin draw me like a moth to a flame. Nowhere in my frantic googling have I found a reliable gender pronoun for the androgynous “Nat,” but I don’t really give a fuck. I’ve dated men and women and if Nat doesn’t identify as either, well, I’m cool with that too. I’m halfway to smitten without ever speaking to them, just watching them spew filthy lyrics into a microphone.
“What’ll you have?” a low voice calls into my ear. I swing around and make eye contact with the buxom redhead behind the bar. A svelte figure in leather pants, a loose-fitting white T-shirt, and metal everywhere. Pierced septum, pierced eyebrow, pierced tongue—goodness, she’d be fun to fool around with. But I’m not here for that.
“Dirty vodka martini, two olives.”
“We like dirty girls here.” The redhead winks and starts mixing the drink.
I return my attention to the stage in time to see Nat dry humping the equally androgynous guitar player, hands up shirts and down pants, and Jesus fucking Christ—how many hands do two people have? Oh—three people. The mohawked drummer whispers in Nat’s ear with hands down both of their pants.
I lean back to enjoy the show, ignoring the press of the wooden bar into my spine. I’m pretty damn sure they aren’t actually getting off on stage, but the fantasy is fucking brilliant. When the bartender hands me the martini—in an Old Fashioned with a chip on one side rather than a martini glass—I slide my card across the bar without taking my eyes away from the spectacle on stage. “Start me a tab, I’ll be here awhile.”
“Got it.”
With a pantomimed orgasm that would put Meg Ryan’s famous diner scene in When Harry Met Sally to shame, the drummer returns to his kit and the band brings the song to a lusty but jarring finale. I turn back to the bartender, my stomach filled with butterflies at the thought of what I’m about to do. “Does the band ever hang around after the show?”
“Nat and Teri usually stay for a drink or two. Nat gets pretty keyed up on stage and likes to unwind before going home. Teri brings home a different girl after every show. Supposedly you can hear the screams of delight for blocks.”
Now that’s a fun thought. “You ever go home with her?”
She cocks her head at me and smirks.
“Not yet. I’m biding my time. I’m nobody’s one-night-screa
mer. I’m Farrah, by the way.”
“Bex.” I hold out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“So. Is it Teri or Nat who’s caught your eye? Or one of the guys? I should warn you, They’re totally taken. On-stage antics aside, they’re both one-man guys as far as I can tell. They’ve been together for as long as I’ve known any of them.”
“Don’t worry; Teri is all yours.” I glance back at the stage. Nat is on their knees, one hand in their hair, the other clutching the mic as they scream. I could ask Farrah what Nat’s pronouns are. But reluctance rushes through me at the thought. I don’t want to gossip about my crush—I want to talk to them.
“All right, then. I see how it is.” Farrah grins, but it fades fast. “But just so you know…Don’t expect Nat to stick around long.”
“Why, do they turn into a pumpkin at midnight?”
“No… she isn’t the same, off stage. Up there, she’s larger than life, a dirty bitch. Don’t set your heart on the dirty bitch on stage—and don’t fuck her over when she doesn’t turn out to be who you expect.”
She.
I nod, mentally revising my impression of Nat. If she isn’t the dirty bitch on stage, who is she? I turn my attention back to the show. Teri is deep into a guitar solo, grimacing with a tongue tip between her teeth, while Nat writhes against her, back-to-back. Something clicks into place. Nat isn’t someone else here. She just is. The woman I see on stage is all id, unfettered and free. Some part of her, no matter how small, is the dirty bitch on stage. And I want her, warnings be damned.
Nat
* * *
I sink against the door of the tiny one-hole bathroom backstage and draw in a shaky breath. My whole body is shaking from exhaustion, but I promised to be Teri’s wingman after the show tonight—not that she needs one. Teri’s reputation precedes her all the way from her New Jersey strip mall roots, leaving swaths of swooning femmes in her wake. She could probably have any woman-loving-woman in the tri-state area if she wanted, but for some reason, she seems to need all of them.
Hey, who am I to judge? It’s not like I have a history of healthy relationships either.
I let out the breath and straighten up, grabbing a paper towel and wetting it down. I scrub at the smudges of black eyeliner around my eyes—a necessity on stage, one that makes me look and feel rebellious and angry and dirty. When I’m on stage, I probably look like I smell bad. But once I walk off stage, there’s no room for anything like that in my life. I rub the towel over my sweaty head, making my hair stand up in tiny spikes like bird feathers. An hysterical laugh bubbles up—bird feathers. Freak feathers. What a fucking lady. Scalp showing through the wet hair. Eyes huge and dark and hungry. I look as shattered as I feel.
I can’t keep doing this. Something has to give.
But Vertical Smile has a following now. Thousands of likes on our Facebook page. It’s not blowing off steam anymore, it’s…it’s burning the candle at both ends.
I picked that poem to memorize in seventh grade—because it was short—and it never left me. Tonight, Millay’s words feel like a taunt. What started as a hobby has grown out of control—and I don’t crave it any less.
Three deep breaths to calm the panicked voice in my head—something’s got to give, something’s got to give—and each deep breath fills my lungs with the scents of piss and disinfectant. How the fuck did my life lead me here, to a dirty bathroom stall in a bar in Brooklyn, fighting off a panic attack?
I splash water on my face one last time and then I go to face the music.
The thud and boom of pre-recorded bass sweeps over me as I leave the bathroom, so different from the thrall of live music. I move around backstage with my ears ringing from the show and my head in the clouds, packing away my microphone and stand. I bump into Jacks, who sweeps me into an effusive hug. For a moment, my restlessness disappears and I’m dragged back into the camaraderie of the stage, laughing into his shoulder and breathing in the sweaty, masculine scent of him. His hard dick presses against my hip, and his hands roam freely down my body.
“Good show,” he murmurs into my ear. “Lemme know if you want to come home and play with me and Ritchie later. Been a while since we had a girl in our bed, eh Ritch?”
Ritchie appears beside him and kisses Jacks, hard—the kind of kiss that means business, then he brackets me between them and kisses my cheek. “You’re always welcome, sweetheart.”
“Oh hell no.” Teri grabs my hand, hauls me out of Jacks’s arms and into her own, growling possessively and biting my ear. “She needs a woman’s touch.”
“Hey!” Ritchie scowls playfully. “It hasn’t been so long we wouldn’t know what to do with her.”
We all laugh, and I give Teri a squeeze, and then step out of the hug. Everyone in the band has slept with everyone else in the band at some point or another, and it’s all fun and games as long as we remember it’s only fun and games. Jacks and Ritchie are the sole exception, because they were together before the band. I’ll never forget the day the two of them first showed up at Teri’s apartment. Jacks was sixteen, femme as hell and sporting a black eye. Ritchie and Teri huddled in the kitchen whispering at each other while I sang Melissa Etheridge songs and cleaned up the cuts on Jacks’s arms.
Had it really been ten years ago?
“Sorry, y’all. I need a stiff drink and then I’m going home to my own bed, alone.”
Teri grins. “Give Farrah my love.”
I roll my eyes, not willing to touch that remark with a ten-foot pole.
“Give it to her yourself. See y’all later.”
I make my way to the bar, where Teri’s unrequited crush reigns over her regular crowd with her typical flirty banter.
“Hey, Farrah. Can I get a—” before I can get the word out, a martini appears in front of me like magic. “Wow, thanks.” I glance up and meet Farrah’s smirk with a grateful smile. “Am I that predictable?”
“I know what you like. This one is courtesy Goldilocks over there.”
My eyebrow shoots up and I turn in my seat, studying Goldilocks out of the corner of my eyes. Hair. It’s obvious why Farrah chose that nickname; blonde curls tumble around the woman’s shoulders and down her back in loose ringlets as she frowns into her cell phone, lower lip caught between her teeth.
The part of me that doesn’t belong in this bar starts analyzing everything about her before I can turn it off. She looks rich—filthy fucking old-money rich. Her skin has probably endured bi-weekly facials since before puberty and that hair has certainly never suffered the indignity of a dollar store 2-n-1 shampoo/conditioner combo. Her jeans and Converse are nothing remarkable, but the handbag slung over the back of her barstool looks expensive, and her belt is adorned with a distinctive triangle logo.
The devil may wear Prada, but Vertical Smile’s fans? Nah.
Goldilocks looks up, catching me mid-stare, and smiles. My stomach does a funny flop like a fish out of water. This is my scene, my turf, my territory—and all of a sudden my whole world is off its axis, and I know with all certainty that if there’s a chance I can take her home, there’s no way in hell I’m going home alone.
I lift my glass.
“Thanks for the drink,” I call across the two empty barstools between us.
“You’re welcome.” Goldilocks turns her attention back to her phone, then sighs and shoves it into the handbag. “Mind if I join you?”
I swallow. This is it. How long has it been since I’ve hooked up with anyone besides my bandmates? I gesture to the chair next to me. “Be my guest.”
“I’m Rebecca.” Goldilocks holds out her hand as she approaches, and I resist the urge to wipe my own sweaty palm on my pants before shaking it.
“Natalie.”
“That’s a nice name—but you go by Nat, right?”
No. Yes. Shit. “It’s more of a stage name. But you can use it if you like.”
“Well, Nat, I enjoyed your set. You’re a lot of fun to watch.”
Heat flushes my f
ace—from the compliments? From the closeness to another human when I’m sweaty and gross? “Thanks,” I manage to squeak. God, how does Teri make this look so easy week after week?
“I’m sorry, you’re probably exhausted, and I’m coming across as a freaky fangirl.”
Maybe it’s not so difficult after all.
“You’re fine. I’m not used to the attention.” I smile. “Teri tends to attract all the pretty girls. Not that you said—shit.”
I’ve got to be fire-engine red all over by now.
“I am.” Rebecca laughs—a raucous, too-loud laugh that makes me blush harder. “Attracted.”
“And direct, wow.” But that directness sets my heart beating fast—it’s been a long time since I’ve been with anyone, and Rebecca is riveting. Confident, gorgeous… Sure, I have to get up early in the morning, but something tells me a sleepless night will be worth it. Leaning forward in my seat, faking a confidence I don’t feel, I rest one palm on the side of Rebecca’s barstool. “I like direct.”
“I’m only in New York for the weekend, and Bay Ridge isn’t my usual scene. But I caught your show out in Bushwick last summer, and you guys had this amazing energy. I had to see if it was just that night or—”
“Or what?”
Goldilocks—Rebecca—looks down at her hands and shakes her head. “I don’t know. You’re fascinating. And fearless. The things you say on stage are wild and sexy and absolutely fucking honest. Do you know how rare that kind of raw energy is?”
Off Limits Page 1
