Off Limits

by Vanessa North

  Bex looks me right in the eyes. “Is this okay?”

  Maybe someday in the future, I’ll regret sitting down at the bar and playing this game. But all I can think about is how much I want her mouth on me, and I nod. Her hand moves from my thigh to cup the side of my face.

  She doesn’t go straight for the salt like I expect. Instead, she nuzzles my ear, sending a wave of want through me. My lips drop open and my head falls back against Teri’s reassuring shoulder.

  “Mmmmm.” Bex hums, and then I can feel her breath on my throat, and I hear the second it catches. Is she as turned on as I am?

  Finally, her lips are on my skin. I want to cry. I want to come. I want to grab her and live out every dirty fantasy that’s haunted my thoughts since that one fuck-hot forbidden kiss backstage.

  She starts at the hollow of my throat, and she licks her way up the side of my neck, punctuating the journey with a soft bite to my jaw. She pulls back slightly, picks up her shot, and drinks it down, not breaking eye contact. When she sets her glass on the bar, I’m the one who shudders.

  “Holy fuck,” Farrah whispers.

  Bex smiles and dips her finger into my glass, and she rubs the tequila into the tender inside of her wrist. Mesmerized, I watch as she sprinkles the salt over it, and she offers me her arm.

  Teri lets go of my waist.

  I take Bex’s arm, and she smiles encouragingly as I lift it to my lips. I close my eyes and lick across the satin-soft skin, feeling her pulse fluttering there against my tongue. I barely taste the salt, and I don’t care because the next thing I know, I’m slapping an empty glass down on the bar, and we’re kissing like we’ll die if we don’t.

  She tastes like salt and tequila and she’s so soft and sweet in my arms, I don’t ever want to stop. My eyes are still watering from the shot, and I don’t care, I squeeze them shut and I cup her face in my hands, and I let myself have this moment of lust-drenched indulgence. I manhandle her into the darkened hallway between the bar and backstage, and again I find myself pressing her against a wall.

  “You are so bad for me,” I murmur, biting at her lips.

  “I’d be so good to you,” she answers, all blue-eyed defiance. And I know she’s right. I can feel it in the way her lips return to my throat, tasting whatever remnants of tequila and salt linger on my skin, in the vibration of a barely-audible moan against my ear, and the gentle stroke of her fingers over the back of my hand.

  “Come back to my hotel with me?”

  I shudder again, torn between the yes, hell yes, I want to say, and the knowledge that tomorrow is Saturday, and I’m expected at the club at seven a.m.

  “I can’t.” I kiss her again, a gentle pluck at her lips. “I shouldn’t even be kissing you.”

  “Oh yes you should.” Her throaty laugh zings through me. “But I understand why you’re scared. I’m keeping your secret, Nat—you don’t need to be afraid of me.”

  “I’m not.” And it’s true. I’m not afraid of her. I’m afraid of the consequences of taking my happiness at the expense of my ethics. I’m afraid of losing my job, my apartment. Uncle X’s apartment.

  I tug at a lock of her hair and touch my forehead to hers. “I’m sorry. I have to work early tomorrow.”

  “But it’s Saturday.” She frowns. “You have to work Saturdays? That’s not right.”

  “It’s one of the busiest days of the week at the club. People need me. I take a comp day during the week to make up for it.”

  “But—” Pouting, she pulls me into another rough kiss, breaking it only to say, “I want you.”

  “You’re not used to being told ‘no,’ are you?”

  She shakes her head.

  “I’m sorry to be the one who keeps having to say it.”

  “If you didn’t have to work tomorrow…?”

  I close my eyes, sanity returning with a bracing pang of regret. “I don’t know.”

  She nods, almost matter-of-fact. “I’m going to see you again.”

  I laugh. “Somehow I don’t doubt it.”

  “I’m moving to New York for the next few months.”

  I take a step back, and I search her face—she’s smiling all slyly like a cat who got the cream. “Why?”

  “My dad’s getting married. I’m helping.”

  A few months. Was I going to risk my job and my home to snatch a few months of pleasure?

  “Just…” She takes my hand and kisses my palm. “Please call me, if you want to. I’m not going to rat you out. I’ll pretend I’ve never seen you before while I’m at the club if you want. But I’d rather we be friends.”

  “You kiss all of your friends?” I ask.

  “Do you?”

  She has a point. “With Teri and the guys, it’s…”

  “I know. I’ve had friends like that too.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Nope. What I want is to fuck until they need to send in a helicopter with fluids and easily digestible protein, but I’m learning to take no for an answer.”

  She leans in and kisses me again, and I hold onto her shoulders with both hands and let myself be kissed—gentle and searching. When she pulls away, she looks me in the eye and smiles.

  “Sweet dreams, Nat Marshall. Thanks for the shot.”

  Bex

  * * *

  Karina Smith is bubblier than a glass of champagne once you get to know her—or so my dad swears. But as she reaches to shake my hand across the table at Starbucks, I’m finding it hard to believe. Her other hand flutters to her hair and her eyes are glued to the table between us.

  “Hi, Rebecca.” She stares at our hands, not making eye contact.

  “Hi.” I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I watched a few episodes of the show.”

  She blushes, picking up a paper napkin and twisting it between her hands. “Did you like it?”

  I shrug. “Police procedurals aren’t my thing. But the role suits you.”

  “Thanks.” She finally meets my eyes, and then glances away. “Look, I know this is hard for you, so let’s just put it all out there. I’m marrying your dad and it’s awkward for you. You think I’m a gold digger, and you’re annoyed with Ben.”

  Well, that was pretty freaking direct. Sitting back in my seat, I pick up my mocha and take a long drink before answering. “And you never imagined yourself as the evil stepmother to someone two years older than you? Oh and getting knocked up before marriage?”

  She giggles and twists the napkin harder. “Not that either.”

  I can’t help it, I smile. “So, here we are. You aren’t at all what I expected.”

  “Twenty-eight or autistic?” She meets my eyes again with a fleeting smile that makes me think we might just be on the same side. “Yes, I prefer that to saying I ‘have’ autism. I don’t like it when people make autism sound like a disease. Besides, it starts with ‘Awe’ and I like that.”

  How on earth did my ultra-jaded dad fall for this guileless girl?

  “I had no idea you were autistic. My dad said you were ‘timid’ and new to New York. And young. You’re younger than I am.”

  “I’m a grown woman. I’m capable of deciding who and what I want. My agent handles a lot of the stuff that I can’t, but I won’t let her interfere with my personal life.” The paper in her hands rips and she drops it to the table. “I love Ben. He’s the first man I’ve ever been with who looked past my awkwardness and saw me for who I am. I didn’t set out to trap him, and I don’t believe he’d let himself be trapped. I’ve also talked more in the last three minutes than I usually do with a stranger ever because I really want you to like me.”

  “I do.” I laugh, but I mean it. “I wasn’t expecting to, but I do. You are so different from the women Dad usually dates, I don’t even know what to say.”

  She smiles slyly. “I wouldn’t let him come with me. If he introduced us, he’d talk over me—not because he doesn’t respect me, but because he’s super nervous about this.
”

  “Why?”

  “He told me he cheated on Tammy, and that you’re both still mad about it. That you might see me as some kind of substitute for her, or replacement, or maybe as an extension of his past affairs.”

  I roll my eyes. “As freaking if. My mom and dad were terrible to each other. She’s got a tongue like a razor and he’s like a dog that growls and barks and then tucks its tail and runs at the first sign of trouble.”

  Karina’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “You see? He can’t handle conflict at all. Poor Ben.”

  “But what do you see in him? He’s twice your age.”

  Nodding, she takes a sip of her coffee. “He is slightly more than twice my age, actually. But the first time I met him, he came to the set and I was standing off to the side, trying to memorize some changes to the scene and I was stimming—” She flaps her hands “—because it helps me focus, and it makes memorizing lines easier.” She pauses and looks at me, like she expects me to agree, so I nod.

  “He stopped next to me and asked if I was okay, and I was annoyed, and I made a noise at him.” She laughs and makes a buzzing noise. “But he just smiled and said ‘break a leg’ and then went to watch us shoot.”

  I can almost picture it, this beautiful, fierce woman flapping and buzzing at one of the most powerful men in the entertainment industry. I adore her already.

  “I had no idea who he was, of course.” She giggles. “But he found me later and told me, and I was so embarrassed. He’s one of the co-execs, you know?”

  “Yeah, that’s what he does.”

  “So, he took me out for a drink, and we stayed up talking until they threw us out of the bar. And I’m sure I was already in love with him, but of course I thought it was just an infatuation at the time.”

  “And now?”

  She grins. “Now I know it was—but infatuation is one of the best parts of falling in love. It’s when that wears off and you notice how he never looks annoyed at you for stimming in public, or how he doesn’t pressure you to go out to eat but always makes sure there’s no mushrooms on the take out when he shows up at your apartment at the end of a long day on set, and he always asks nicely before he kisses you, just in case you aren’t in the mood—” She grabs my hand and squeezes. “I’m sorry. I know these aren’t the things you want to hear about your dad. Just believe me when I say I love him, okay?”

  “I do.” I squeeze back. “So, he’s asked me to help you plan your wedding. But Karina, first will you let me look over the pre-nup?”

  She rears back, clearly shocked. “Pre-nup? Why would Ben and I have a pre-nup?”

  “He’s a very wealthy man—” I begin, but she cuts me off.

  “And I’m a very wealthy woman—I know, shocker, but it happens. We’re not merging our assets, but we’ve planned for some joint accounts for things like travel or medical care that both of us may need access to in a hurry. And we’re going to buy a home in both of our names. My accountant is all over this.”

  “Okay, good. That sounds like some good prenuptial financial agreements. But what about child custody in the event of divorce?”

  Her hands flutter around her belly before she glares at me. “What about it? Why are you so set on the idea of divorce?”

  “Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “I’m not. I just want to make sure you have someone on your side if everything goes tits up. Okay?”

  “Okay. I need to talk to Ben about this—” She shakes her head at me without meeting my gaze. “—I appreciate your concern, and I will ask him about prenuptial custody arrangements. But that’s the kind of thing I need to talk about with him.” Now she looks me in the eye. “No one told me this could be an issue.”

  “Dad wouldn’t think to hold autism against you.” I shrug. “But his lawyers would, just like they made everything about my Mom an issue.”

  She flinches, easily reading between the lines. “I’m sorry. That must have been hard for you.”

  “Well, let’s just make sure my little brother or sister has it easier just in case, okay?”

  She nods. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you hate it if I called you Bex, like Ben does?”

  It’s so unexpected, I burst out laughing. “No. Would you hate it if I never called you Mom?”

  A horrified expression flits across her face before she replies. “Please, please don’t.”

  Agreed, we move on to discussing non-traditional wedding venues, and by the end of our coffee date, I’ve proposed sponsoring her for membership at the Thorns and made an appointment for her to tour the Williamsburg art gallery I visited on my last trip to New York. We part ways with an awkward hug, and I send a quick text to Dad.

  You were right. I like her. Treat her right.

  Seven

  Natalie

  * * *

  It’s Tuesday before I finally get a note from Elinor—and then we play phone tag half the week. By the time Saturday rolls around, I’m furious, hung over, and totally unsure how to handle the situation without bringing in the club owners to read her the riot act. Priya doesn’t work Saturdays, so I’m fuming alone in my office when Ashleigh pops her head in the door.

  “There’s a new member applicant here with Rebecca Horvath. I think she’s the girl who plays the psychic on that cop show they’re shooting in the Bronx.”

  Bex. She wasn’t in the audience the night before when Vertical Smile had played to an oddly hetero—at least for us—Staten Island crowd. I don’t know whether I was relieved or disappointed until I hear her name. And then I realize I’m pissed, and I can’t figure out why.

  “I’ll be right out.” I look at my phone—10 a.m. “Why don’t you seat them in the lounge and send in some pastries and a pot of coffee.”

  The lounge is quiet this time of day, and it’s one of my favorite places to hide out in the club. Technically, the bar opens at two, but members and staff alike take advantage of the patio overlooking Tribeca to snatch a moment of fresh air and quiet in the mornings. On my way into the room, I hang the “Do not disturb, private meeting in progress” sign on the door and close it behind me.

  “Ms. Horvath, it’s nice to see you again,” I say as I approach the table, and she stands up to shake my hand.

  I’ve seen a lot of beautiful women in my life. I’ve had several in my bed. But something about her knocks the breath out of me. I don’t know if it’s the golden curls escaping the casual bun on top of her head in gleefully charming disarray or the way her high-waisted jeans and a cropped angora sweater accentuate the lush hourglass of her figure, or if it’s the way her lips curl up in the sort of sweet smile that makes me want to kiss it off her face, but for a moment, I’m speechless.

  Lucky for us both, she’s not.

  “Hello, Natalie. I’d like to introduce you to my future stepmother, Karina Smith.”

  The girl—no, woman, she must be in her late twenties—with Bex stands and holds out her hand, glancing bashfully to the side. She’s slender and lovely and full of jittery energy I can’t quite name.

  “It’s nice to meet you.” I shake her hand and pull a chair up to the table, observing that Bex’s coffee cup is full, both have a glass of water, and nobody has touched the pastries. “Would you all prefer something else to eat? A cup of tea or some juice instead of coffee?”

  Bex shakes her head, blushing. “This is wonderful, thank you.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.” Karina smiles, a brief, stunning glimpse of movie-star teeth and a flash of dimples. “I’ve got a little morning sickness.”

  “Congratulations—on the baby, not the sickness.” I open my laptop. “With Ms. Horvath as your sponsor, your membership application is really more of a formality than anything else. I’m happy to put your information directly into the system, and I’ll give you a tour before you leave. Your membership is also honored at our club in Los Angeles, the Rose, and various other clubs with whom we reciprocate around the world.
Shall we get started?”

  Karina smiles and nods vigorously. “I’d like that.”

  Bex

  * * *

  I’m not sure why I expected Natalie’s tour to be mundane—a list of amenities one could read off the website. It turns out to be anything but.

  From the moment she trails a hand along an exposed brick wall and declares “Though we renovated ten years ago, this wall is original to the 1905 construction, and the building is something of a Tribeca landmark,” I’m riveted. She paints a vivid picture of the history of the building as well as that of the club. “Of course, having been founded by women-loving-women, we’ve always been LGBTQ friendly, and I would guess that at least half of our membership identifies as queer in some way.”

  Karina looks at me and raises an eyebrow. “Your mom?”

  I laugh. “She had a whirlwind affair with another actress shortly after the divorce, but she ‘doesn’t like labels.’”

  Natalie’s lips tighten as though she’s holding something back.

  She leads us through the restaurants, the gym, the ballroom—currently sectioned off into quiet rooms perfect for sitting and chatting—and then lowers her voice to a whisper as she leads us up the luxuriously carpeted staircase to the top floor, regaling us with a story of the “kitchen ghost” who clatters pans all morning if a light isn’t left on overnight.

  She tells the tale with dramatic flair, pausing in all the right places. I suspect the ghost story is really something cooked up for leaving a light on for safety reasons, and the ghost is a grumpy sous chef with a hangover, but Karina is delighted and says she’s going to bring the story up to the writers on her show.

  Natalie preens a moment, then continues the tour. “We keep four rooms on this floor for overnight guests—if you might need one for any purpose, please let me know.”

  As she explains to a wide-eyed Karina that the rooms are often used by members traveling from one coast to the other, members like me, I take out my phone, open the notes app, and write a quick message before taking a screenshot.