Charming. What time does your thing end?
Ten-ish or so. You guys at Bridgeview tonight?
We are. You coming?
I answer without even thinking. Yes.
Cool. I’ll see you later. Raise lots of $$ tonight. Xoxo
Staring at her text, I’m glad I’ve got a face mask covering my blush. It was just an affectionate sign off; it didn’t mean anything, but it still made my heart flutter.
I’m pretty much on cloud nine as I get dressed. I’ve commissioned a dress and it’s basically everything I ever wanted: black and floofy but with leather and studs. Hard and soft, tough and whimsical. It’s perfectly me—the way I see myself.
On that same whim, I grab the black pencil from my makeup bag and ring my eyes, then layer on the mascara. Like Nat. Not careful, professional Natalie, but like her larger than life punk presence. Hell yeah. I finish the rest of my makeup with a practiced hand, leaving my eyes the focal point.
I tease up the front of my hair and pull the rest of it into a high ponytail, put in a pair of silver earrings, and stare at myself in the mirror, grinning from ear to ear.
It’s hard to describe how seeing myself like this—like my whole self, not a kid playing dress up, or some kind of Hollywood deal-maker, but me—feels. I don’t look demure. I look powerful. I look fierce. I look like the bitch about to steal your girlfriend. I look fucking hot.
And for a woman who has grown up in the shadow of a legit Hollywood movie star, never quite measuring up to anyone’s expectations of what she should look like, dress like, or even fucking weigh? Seeing myself, really seeing myself like this, is magic.
Walking into the restaurant where the fundraiser banquet is set to begin, I feel powerful, sexy, accomplished.
Nothing can burst my bubble. Nothing.
“Darling!”
Except that. What the hell is my mother doing here? I turn slowly, sure I must be dreaming, because Mom was not on my guest list, but no, there she is.
Tammy Dean, in a sequined pantsuit and dripping with jewelry. You can take the girl out of Tennessee, but you can’t take Tennessee out of the girl.
“Mother. What are you doing here?”
“My co-star, Dina, is involved in GScholars on the West Coast. They sent her a ticket, but she had other plans, so ‘Surprise!’” She strolls up to me and takes my arm. “I thought we could have some girl time.”
Oh no. No no no no no. Across the room, Karina is towing Dad toward me.
“Mom, I really wish you’d called first.” I try to steer her toward the bar, but she’s not having it.
“Since when do I have to call you for approval before throwing my money at a charitable cause?” She laughs. She still hasn’t seen Dad. I glance up, and from the look on his face, the same can’t be said for him.
All right then. I take a deep breath and try not to puke.
“Rebecca, Tammy. It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?”
Dad’s face is clear of the scowl by the time he leans in to kiss first my cheek, then Mom’s.
“Benjamin!” Mom’s face hardens into something that I think is supposed to be a smile, but doesn’t quite hit the right notes. “And the fetus.” She smiles warmly at Karina, in that way she does when she feels superior to someone.
“Actually, I’m just the fetus host.” Karina smiles back, all sweetness, then she extends her hand. “Karina Smith—a huge fan. I used to watch your movies when I was little.”
Mom opens and closes her mouth like a fish. Dad gives me a panicked glance, and for once I feel like he and I understand each other perfectly. I take Karina’s arm.
“Karina, let’s get some air. It’s stuffy in here.” I start to steer her toward the patio, then I call back over my shoulder “Dad, come find us after you and Mom catch up.”
Once outside, I let go of Karina’s arm and she bursts into giggles. And it’s fucking contagious. I lean back against the wall and hoot with laughter.
“Oh my God, Karina, I’m so sorry. I had no idea she was coming.”
Karina just laughs harder, clutching her belly. “Oh, god, stop. I have to stop laughing, or I’m going to wet myself.”
I wipe at my eyes. “Is my eyeliner smudged?”
Karina studies me. “Yes? But it looks like you meant it. How about mine?”
“Nope. Your wings are on point. Oh my god, her face.” I fight back another paroxysm of laughter. “Nobody speaks to my mom that way.”
“Well, I was raised in a barn, so.”
“Were you really?” I’m shocked out of my laughter.
“Of course not. My dad’s a Senator. I went to Madeira. The only barn I’ve ever been to was the horse barn where I took lessons.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, so I actually do have manners.” She flaps her hands, then covers her mouth as another giggle escapes. “But your Mom had it coming.”
Just then, Dad steps out on the patio, looking no worse for wear.
“You could have warned us, Rebecca.” He frowns disapprovingly.
“I didn’t know. Her ticket is in her co-star’s name.”
“Of course it is.” Shaking his head, he reaches for Karina’s hand. She takes it and smiles up at him, making one of her buzzing noises, and the tension seems to slide off his shoulders. “Well, we won’t let her spoil our night, and you shouldn’t either. Everything is beautiful in there, Rebecca. You’ve done an amazing job.”
He turns to his fiancee and smiles. “Karina, I think I saw Jeremy Cutler brooding in a corner. Let’s go say hello.”
“Bye, Bex.” Karina calls over her shoulder as they go off to schmooze the recalcitrant auteur.
I smooth my hair, run my hands over the leather-and-tulle skirt, and then follow.
It’s going to be a long night—at least I have Vertical Smile to look forward to.
Eleven
Nat
* * *
The mood in the bar tonight is rowdy and exhilarating, but something feels off and I can’t quite put my finger on it. My brain is on a constant loop of Bex is coming. And Oh shit, what the fuck am I doing? And then it settles out into something’s got to give something’s got to give something’s got to give…
And the music, for once, isn’t helping. The usual shenanigans feel too scripted, and I throw Jacks’s arm off my shoulders when he slides up behind me. I flip him off, snarl, and put my mic back on the stand.
Teri gives me a look, but she can’t stop me, and she knows it. She gives Ritchie a nod and breaks into her solo.
I dive.
There’s a split second of fear, the voice screaming in my head—what if, what if, what if?
But then the hands are all over me, the shouts in my ears rather than my head, buoying me up, a playful wave of human connection, and this, this is what I need tonight.
All too soon, the sea of hands is pushing me back to my feet on stage, and I grab my microphone and launch into the next verse, pacing the stage like a caged animal—feeling like one—and shouting my frustration into the crowd and feeling them shout it right back.
At the set break, Jacks corners me backstage.
“What the fuck, Natty? This isn’t the Nat Marshall show. We do this thing together.”
I wipe sweat from my brow with the bottom of my beater. Fat lot of good that does, since it’s already soaked.
“I’m sorry, I’m not sure what got into me. I’m feeling—off.”
“Well, get over it,” Teri butts in. “At least until the end of the show. And no more stage diving. Our audience is riled up and turned on. That’s a recipe for trouble when you throw yourself into the crowd like that.”
I roll my eyes. “They were fine. I needed to feel that connection.”
“No, you didn’t.” Teri’s voice is firm. “You need to connect with us. On stage. I don’t know what you’re running from tonight, but the answer isn’t a night in the ER with a broken arm—and don’t you fucking roll your eyes at me again, Nat.”
&nbs
p; I stop myself from doing exactly that by pushing past Jacks and walking out the back door, into fresh—ish—air. I sit on the stair railing, letting my feet dangle.
A few minutes later, Ritchie joins me. “Hey.”
Him, I roll my eyes at.
His answering chuckle makes my lips twitch. It’s not quite a smile, but just having him here, a living, breathing incarnation of wild compassion—yeah, I start to settle down.
“So, what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I feel like my skin’s a tight shell filled with bees.”
“Are you high?”
“No.” I wonder if he’s got any. Would a hit help me or make it worse? Sometimes weed makes me paranoid. No.
He nods. “Anxiety? You’ve got a lot going on these days.”
“No—I don’t know. Just restless. I can’t settle into the show, and my brain won’t turn off. Something’s got to give, right? But what?”
“Baby, you’re the glue holding your own life together. If something isn’t working…”
“But it is. Everything is working. Everything is working but me. I’m the part that isn’t holding up. You guys can see it.”
It’s the first time I’ve admitted to the cracks in the facade.
“Yeah, we see it. We’re family—right?” He doesn’t pause for an answer. “We love the shit out of you. And seeing you like this—it’s scaring us.”
God, I’m such an asshole. After everything they’ve been through, together and separately, now I’m pushing my baggage on them too?
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Just come here.” He holds out his arms and I hop off the railing and wrap mine around his waist. He squeezes me tightly and murmurs nonsense-words into my hair.
“I’m so tired, Ritchie.”
“Stop trying to be perfect, then. Let the rest of the world take up some slack.”
For the second set, I let the rest of the band take up the slack—they reel me back into our comfort zone, and I might be imagining it, but Teri and Jacks seem to be handling me with extra care, as if they’re trying to reassure me that my outburst and unprofessionalism didn’t ruin everything.
Afterward, I woman-up and apologize.
“Guys, I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me, but you didn’t deserve the way I was acting. I’m really, truly sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Teri gives me a half-smile.
Jacks shrugs. “Yeah. Forget about it.”
“See, babe? All’s forgiven.” Ritchie throws an arm around my shoulder in a half hug. “Now go do some self care.”
I mumble my goodbyes, and I leave my gear backstage, my body still buzzing with uncertainty.
And then I see her.
Seated at the bar is none other than Bex’s movie star mother, the one and only Tammy Dean. She’s a beautiful woman in her fifties, and she’s definitely got the attention of the lingering crowd, but I’ve only got eyes for the woman inching out of that crowd and heading straight toward me.
She’s dressed in leather and lace, her blonde hair hanging from an elaborately high ponytail. Fishnet stockings and thigh high boots, dear god, she looks like something out of a late nineties German fashion magazine. My mouth runs dry and a shudder of longing racks my whole body.
The buzzing stops. It’s like one of those perfect moments in a movie, where the music swells and eyes lock, and you know—you just fucking know—the epic kiss is about to happen.
Yeah, something’s got to give, all right. But tonight, it’s not going to be this.
Bex
* * *
I catch sight of Nat and start walking toward her, and then her eyes lock with mine and I stop still, a thrill of adrenaline running through me at the expression on her face.
She stalks toward me like a predator, all fluid muscle and raw, sexual energy. She stops right in front of me and stares at me for a moment. I don’t even know what to say or do—this has been a spectacularly weird night, and I don’t ever want her to stop looking at me like this. I leave her to break the silence, but she doesn’t say a word.
Unlike the first times we kissed, which were all wild animal attraction, when Natalie kisses me, it’s the softest brush of her lips over mine, back and forth, then plucking gently.
She doesn’t shove me up against a wall—instead she draws me into her, cupping my face with one hand and wrapping one slender arm around my waist. Her hands don’t stop moving, and I realize she’s seducing me, every bit as much as I attempted to seduce her. When her thumb traces circles at the edge of my jaw, my breath shudders out of me, and she slips right in.
She’s not just kissing me; she’s pouring herself into all the cracks in my psyche, filling me up with a tenderness that makes me want to cry. I lean into her and she widens her legs to take more of my weight, coaxing me closer with her hands.
The kiss changes, grows hungrier, and she growls low in her throat and pulls my ponytail. I grab her ass and pull her tight against me, wishing I could take her right into me.
My breasts ache and my pussy swells and pulses, and the idea that she’s as turned on as I am sends a tighter, sharper heat through me.
I draw back for breath, and our eyes meet. Her smile is somehow both tentative and knowing, and she traces my lips with a fingertip.
“Oh, Bex,” she murmurs. “What am I going to do about this?”
I know she could get in trouble if word got back to the Thorns, but here in this dark queer bar in Bay Ridge, the Thorns Social Club seems lightyears away, and I feel like we’re invisible.
“You don’t have to do anything,” I tell her, and her hand tightens on my waist.
“I know.” She nips my lip and smiles.
My brain is completely scrambled. My body is aching in all the very best ways, and I’ve got to be dreaming, because she says, “Come home with me.”
“I’m sorry?” I shake my head. “Did you say…?”
“Yeah.” She grins. “I did. But first, introduce me to your mother.”
Twelve
Nat
* * *
Tammy Dean is delightful.
Bex takes my hand and tows me through the crowd of admirers hanging on Tammy’s every word. Somehow, they seem to part like the Red Sea, and then I’m standing in front of her, and she’s not just a famous movie star—or a member of the Rose and Thorns—but she’s Bex’s mom and she’s hugging me like a long-lost friend.
“Your music was incredible!” she shouts in my ear. “I need this in my workout mix! Do you have a CD?”
“We’re on iTunes,” I tell her while inside I completely freak the fuck out. Tammy Dean wants our songs in her workout mix? How is this my life?
“Fan-fucking-tastic! Now, tell me all about yourself. My daughter won’t tell me anything.”
I smile at Bex’s eye-roll and hold eye contact as I reply, “She doesn’t know a whole lot to tell you yet. We’re new.” Bex’s eyes widen and she glances away.
I sit on a barstool and tell her mother the abbreviated version of my life story while Bex stands behind me, arms around my waist, her closeness a drug. And finally, I say “And I haven’t had a decent plate of biscuits and gravy since he died.”
“Oh, honey.” Tammy touches the side of my face in a maternal gesture. “A good southern girl shouldn’t have to live without biscuits and gravy. Or a family.”
“I’ve got the band,” I say helplessly. “They’re family.”
She sighs. “I know. But if you’re ever in LA, you just stop by the house and let my chef cook you up some biscuits and gravy. I’m going to download every one of your songs tonight.” She stands, and two men step out of the crowd to flank her. They look desperately out of place, as though they were dressed to blend in at some kind of fancy black-tie bash, but they don’t seem to care.
“Your driver is around the block, ma’am.” One of them takes her arm.
Bodyguards.
Holy shit, Bex’s mom has bodyguards. And she invit
ed me to “stop by the house.”
“Breathe. She puts her underwear on one leg at a time, just like you,” Bex murmurs in my ear.
“How do you know I’m wearing any?” I snap back.
“Because I saw your RodeoH’s waistband onstage.” She reaches behind me and snaps it playfully. “And it got me wondering if you’ve got a dick for those.”
Shameless. She is utterly shameless. And I can’t fucking wait to get her in my bed.
Bex
* * *
After we say goodbye to my mom, Nat wanders backstage for a moment, asking me to “wait here.”
My stomach flutters and my knees go weak as I think about that last kiss, and how good it felt to have her in my arms, wanting and willing. What’s changed?
When she emerges with a bag over her shoulder, she nods a goodbye to Farrah and grabs my hand.
“C’mon. We can walk.”
I follow her outside, where a late-evening storm has painted the Brooklyn streets with shiny reflections. I can’t help but stop and stare for a moment.
“What’s wrong?” she asks softly.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, a burst of warmth rolling over me. “It’s beautiful.”
She laughs, and her voice is full of affection. “Weirdo.”
If it were anyone else, the word would sting, but I’ve seen how she is with her bandmates, with Karina, with anyone who doesn’t quite fit the mold. Maybe that’s me too. My whole life I’ve been trying to fit a mold, and maybe she sees all the ways I don’t. And she wants me anyway.
My banked arousal flares back to life.
Her apartment is only a few blocks away, and she lets me in with a quiet sigh as the door shuts behind us with a click.
“It’s still weird, coming home and him not being here,” she whispers. “I feel a little like I’m trying to sneak you in.”
She flicks on the light, and her home is so—normal.
Framed photos of Natalie and a handsome, chubby man in his fifties or sixties line the walls, along with a few pieces of schlocky discount store “artwork.” The effect is homey—like walking onto a sitcom set. And it hits me that sitcoms are meant to imitate homes like this, not the other way around.
Off Limits Page 8
