Off Limits

by Lola Darling

  I wake several hours later in my darkened room, a painful tingling in my left arm. I’m fine with the pins and needles because Chloe is still cradled in my arms, her back against me, her breath soft and even with sleep. I shift a little closer to her, savoring the sensation of her bare ass against my cock, which twitches to life again, hardening as she sighs in her sleep, her ass snuggling back against me even tighter.

  A buzz interrupts my thoughts.

  Shit. My phone’s ringing.

  I ignore it. Voicemail can take care of whatever client has an emergency at this hour—probably someone international who didn’t bother to check the time on the West coast before they called.

  Memories of the night play in my head—licking Chloe’s pussy wet once more before pulling her on top of me for round two, and bending her over the little sink in the bathroom when we couldn’t quite make it all the way to the shower.

  I trace the line of her arm with a fingertip, debating waking her up now. Her ass is pressed against me and feels so fucking good, and fuck, I’m rock hard again.

  The goddamn phone lights up and starts to buzz once more. Shit shit shit. Whoever this is isn’t taking no answer for an answer.

  With a regretful sigh, I gently draw my arm out from under Chloe and disentangle myself from the sheets. I roll over and squint at the name on the screen. Only then does panic mode kick in.

  Travis.

  He would never call me at this hour. Not if it was anything less than a life-or-death emergency.

  Moving as quietly as I can so as not to wake Chloe, I tiptoe out of the bedroom and shut the door as I answer the phone. “Travis?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.” He sounds breathless, panicky, like he’s holding back tears.

  “That’s okay. Hey, hey, you can call me anytime, okay? You know that. What’s going on, what’s wrong?” I try to keep my voice as low as possible, but it’s hard when panic is building in my throat.

  “It’s Mom. Something’s wrong with her, I don’t know. I heard a crash in the kitchen, and now she’s on the floor; she’s breathing, and I called an ambulance, but I don’t know what to—”

  “I’ll be right there,” I say, already cracking the bedroom door open wide enough to grab the nearest pair of pants and shirt. “Don’t worry. I’ll always be here for you, okay?”

  A long hard sniffle from the other end of the line. “It’s okay, if you’re busy …”

  I draw the bedroom door shut again as I hop on one leg to pull on my jeans. “I’m never too busy for you. I’m glad you called me.” Back in the day, there was a time when Travis would never have trusted me this much, would never have admitted that something was wrong, even something like this. He has a problem trusting people, but guys especially.

  He’s never said anything, but I suspect his most recent stepdad, the one his mother fled here to escape from, was probably abusive to his mother.

  Christ, I hope she’s okay.

  “I’m glad you trust me,” I say, my voice soft again to keep from waking Chloe, as I yank on my shirt as well. “I’ll never hurt you.”

  I hang up to the sound of him sniffling again, much as it tears at my heart to do so. Luckily I still have the rental car downstairs, so at this hour of the night, I can get across town to him in less than ten minutes.

  I race down the steps and hop into the car. Only when I’m inside do I realize I should have left a note for Chloe. But I’ll text her in the morning, from the hospital, once we’ve figured out what’s going on. I don’t want to wake her up now just to trouble her with my personal life.

  I turn the key in the ignition and speed across town as fast as I can.

  Twenty-Three

  Chloe

  Max’s arm sliding out from under me wakes me up in the wee hours of the morning. I’m not sure what time it is, but judging by the fact that we were up half the night distracting each other, and the fact that dawn hasn’t touched his curtains yet, it has to be about 3 or 4 in the morning.

  That’s when I hear the faint vibration of his phone. Ugh. Work?

  I bury my head deeper in the pillow and shift around to get comfortable. Well, he’ll be back soon, I’m sure. I’ve taken international calls at this hour before. It’s a pain in the ass, but you do what you have to do for work.

  Then I hear his voice from the hallway, soft and reassuring. “You can call me anytime, okay? You know that.”

  Don’t listen, Chloe. It’s his business. But I can’t help it. He’s talking too loud for me not to hear, especially when the bedroom door opens a moment later and I hear him shuffle around, pulling clothing from a pile.

  “I’ll be right there. Don’t worry. I’ll always be here for you, okay?” His voice trails back out toward the hall. “I’m never too busy for you. I’m glad you called me.”

  Must be a family member, I tell myself. Or a close friend. Something must be wrong.

  But there’s a little knot of doubt in the pit of my stomach. A close friend who calls at this hour of the morning? And asks him to come over right away?

  I lean up in bed, unable to stop myself. I know it’s wrong, but I just want to find out what’s going on, if he’s okay right now. Then I hear the last words he says.

  “I’m glad you trust me. I’ll never hurt you.”

  They hit like a blow to my diaphragm. I grimace as I listen to his keys jangle, then the front door open and slam shut. I force myself to lie back against the pillows and breathe.

  It’s nothing, Chloe. I’m sure it’s just a family problem. Something going on that he’ll explain in the morning. I’ve been jealous before, and it’s turned out to be nothing.

  Maybe that was your instinct trying to tell you something, says one part of my brain. The part I want to drown out, to force to shut up.

  I close my eyes and keep breathing. It’ll be fine. He’ll explain it all in the morning, I’m sure.

  But I can’t sleep anymore. I lie wide awake all night, staring at his ceiling, alone in his unfamiliar house, in a bed that still smells of sex, of him, of us together. I stare at the ceiling until dawn paints it in rosy streaks, and then I climb out of bed and take another shower. A long, slow shower, to give him plenty of time to text me. By the time I’m finished, I tell myself, there will be a message waiting. An answer to what the heck is going on.

  I climb out of the shower and wander into the kitchen, pretending to be sedate about it, though really my heart is in my throat. I want this to be a misunderstanding. I want it to be nothing. But part of me can’t shake the feeling that of course Max was too perfect to be real. Of course he’d have some other woman calling him in the middle of the night. Probably a significant other, some girlfriend he doesn’t talk about at work so that he can keep pulling shit like this, sleeping around at the office.

  God I am such an idiot.

  Sure enough, no new messages on my phone. Not even a phone call. I glance halfheartedly around the kitchen, but there’s no note. No explanation anywhere.

  I stay long enough to toast a bagel from his cupboard, eat it alone at the small counter with only one stool—such a stereotypical bachelor pad, this place—and then I leave my plate in the sink beside his other unwashed dishes, pull on yesterday’s clothes, and see myself out.

  Max doesn’t text me until 3pm. By which point I’m already halfway through the stack of work I took home for the weekend—reviews for the case, preparation for our trial date, which has been bumped up to just two weeks from now.

  Sorry about last night, his text says. Personal problem cropped up. Hope you slept okay. xo

  I stare at my phone for a solid minute, then leave it on my desk and go back to working. Sometime around 6pm, when my stomach finally growls at me to make some real food for dinner, not just the bag of potato chips I’ve been living on since lunch, I finally squint at the screen again.

  Nope. That’s still the only explanation he’s offered. Personal problem. That’s when it really starts to hit me.
>
  I can’t do this.

  It doesn’t matter if that was a girl calling him or not. The problem is, I don’t trust him. I don’t know how to make myself trust him. And if I can’t do that, then this was never going to work anyway. Just look at this case—we’re supposed to stand in front of a courtroom in a little less than two weeks and argue this thing together. How am I going to be able to do that if I’m distracted the whole time, freaking out about his possible ulterior motives, or worrying if he’s everything he claims to be?

  It’s hard enough to work with people you don’t trust. It’s nigh on impossible to work with them and carry on a relationship too.

  I think it through over dinner, but the answer remains the same. There’s only really one thing I can do right now. Only one sane thing to do. The thing I should have done all along. The thing I’ve been too cowardly or too selfish to see is the right move from day one.

  I’m sorry, Max, I text him as I unbury a whole container of Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra from the freezer for dessert. God knows I’ll need it. I hope that you figure everything from last night out. But I can’t do this anymore.

  My finger hovers over the send button for what feels like an eternity. When I finally tap it, it feels like reaching into my own chest and wrenching my heart out.

  My phone lights up with a call from him less than a minute later. I send it straight to voicemail, ignoring the churn in my gut, the ache in my chest.

  What’s going on, Chloe? Don’t shut me out. Is this about me leaving last night?

  Text after text flashes across my screen, until I can’t take it anymore. I turn my phone off and pick up my landline instead. I dial the only number I can think of in a moment like this.

  Heather picks up on the first ring. “Sup girl? This had better be good, because season four of my all-time fave just released on Netflix, so—”

  “I broke up with Max,” I stammer, before realizing that a) we were never exactly dating in the first place and b) I never told Heather we were hooking up to begin with.

  “Hold on.” I hear the telltale creak of Heather’s favorite leather chair snapping shut, presumably as she pulls herself out of a TV-binge-preparation phase. “You were dating that guy? The office manwhore one you kept talking about?”

  “No. Well. Not when I talked to you about him. Well. Not ever, really. We only went out once, but like—”

  “OH MY GOD, stop right there, I’m coming over.”

  I half-laugh, half-cry as my best friend slams her phone down. Then I collapse on my couch and take a stab at my ice cream.

  It doesn’t take her long to buzz my door. Half an hour later, I’ve shoveled half of the B&J’s into a separate bowl for her, and we’re perched in front of my TV, which is muted on some terrible reality show that neither of us really care to watch, but which has become tradition to have playing in the background of our rant fests.

  “So you slept with him how many times?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “Uh. Only two nights, I guess.” I purse my lips around my spoon. Why does this feel like such a bigger deal than that? Two nights is hardly anything more than a hookup.

  Heather’s eyebrows know all. She levers them at me now. “How many times in two nights, then?”

  I do a quick mental calculation, and feel my face flush. “I dunno, seven or eight.”

  “Shit, girl. Okay, so you had some hot sex. But…” Her eyes narrow at me. “You developed feels, he didn’t?”

  “He says he did. I don’t know.” I throw my spoon at the table hard. Even ice cream isn’t helping with this one. I tell her everything then, start to finish. From the flirting at Suzie’s house, to our first hookup, to our very last, and his weird conversation in the morning, followed by fleeing the house like he couldn’t run away from me fast enough. And never once offering an explanation.

  By the time I finish venting, she’s shaking her head. “I mean … it sounds sketchy as hell, yes. Especially not texting you a better explanation. But … you don’t know him that well, yet? You don’t know what he might have going on.” Then she purses her lips. “On the other hand, you do already know he’s the office Slutty McSlutface” —she raises a hand to stem off my protest— “or at least, that’s what rumor claims, so … he could just be good at the lying and sneaking around thing. I mean, would you put it past him to have two girls going at once?”

  He’d never do that, says my heart. He sure as hell could, counters my brain.

  “I don’t know,” says my mouth, which still cannot decide where its loyalties ought to lie.

  “Well, you seemed pretty sure he was that kind of guy before, so either in getting to know him, you learned that he isn’t, or in getting to know him, his hotness has bedazzled you into wishing he wasn’t that kind of guy.” Heather pauses to gulp down a huge mouthful of ice cream, which she then speaks through. “So which do you think it is?”

  I frown. “How am I supposed to know? I’m not inside his brain. And isn’t that the problem—that I don’t know which he is?”

  “But you don’t want to give him a chance.”

  “What if I’m wrong and I become the next juicy piece of office gossip, right as I’m on the brink of this huge case that could propel my whole career forward—I mean, Paul was talking partner-track, Heather.”

  “True. But notice that you said what if you’re wrong. Which means you already think that he isn’t that guy.” She smirks at me around her spoon, and I groan.

  “Semantics.”

  “I’m just saying!” She shrugs. “And anyway. What if you’re right? What if he isn’t a skeezeball at all? What if he’s as good as you seem to hope he is, what then?”

  “Then …” I shake my head. “We still might not work out. We might not be compatible in the long-term, we might just have a physical attraction that never amounts to more and can’t stand up to the test of time—”

  “How long have you known this guy?” she interrupts. “It’s not like this is some one-night-stand you picked up. Besides, you could say that about any guy in the world. All relationships are an inherent risk. But if you don’t take a gamble, you can never win. Those are sorta the rules, girl.” Heather slaps my knee.

  “I know.” I grimace. “I just … maybe gambling at work isn’t a great idea. Especially when the odds are already stacked against me.”

  We sit in silence for a moment, both of us watching the reality show play across the screen. One of the characters is throwing a glass of wine at another, and they’re both screaming. It would probably be funny unmuted, but with mute on, they both just look completely insane. Sort of like how I feel, for ever believing this was a good idea in the first place.

  “Well,” Heather says after a long pause. “If worse comes to worst, Mark has some pretty hot friends.” She tests out a sideways grin on me, and I roll my eyes.

  “Let’s stick to one boy drama at a time, huh?” I mumble.

  She punches my arm. “If you’re sticking to this drama, you need to give the boy a chance to explain, then. That’s my two cents, anyway. And also a threat, just so you know. If you don’t give him a chance to explain, I’m taking that as permission to set you up with the first guy Mark comes up with.”

  I roll my eyes. “So supportive.”

  “I try, girl. God knows you don’t make it easy sometimes.”

  I glance sideways at her, meaning to deadpan, but that one does eke a tiny smile out of me. Then I unmute the TV. Since she’s here, we might as well make this a full-fledged girls’ night instead of a pity party for one.

  Twenty-Four

  Max

  By the time I make it to Travis’s house, there’s already an ambulance parked out front. I race up the steps two at a time and meet Travis by the door, just as they’re carrying his mother out on a stretcher. Her eyes are open, thank goodness, and she looks simultaneously embarrassed and relieved to see me jogging toward them.

  “Max, thank you so much for coming. I’m sorry about this, Travi
s panicked—”

  “I’m glad he called. I’ll come with you both,” I say, in a voice that leaves no room for her to politely protest her way out of it. Travis can’t handle the hospital trip alone, with her sick, and I think she knows it.

  Her eyes find mine, and they’re distant, a little hazy, as the stretcher bumps down her front steps. I jog alongside her to keep up. “Thank you,” she murmurs.

  “She’s diabetic,” one of the EMTs explains as the other one loads her into the truck. “Her blood sugar crashed and she fainted. She should be fine, but we want to stabilize her blood sugar, make sure she didn’t get a concussion or anything when she fell, all that.”

  Travis jogs up beside me, shivering a little in the evening air.

  “Grab a coat, buddy,” I tell him. We take a minute to collect ourselves, and then I trail the ambulance to the hospital, with Travis riding shotgun beside me.

  “Sorry I called you,” he mumbles again.

  I shake my head hard. “I’m glad you did. You needed help, and you reached out. That’s what friends are here for.”

  Travis chews on his lower lip in silence, eyes locked on the back of the ambulance. Finally, he swallows hard. “Last time I didn’t call anyone,” he mumbles.

  “Last time?” I ask, one eyebrow raised.

  He nods at the ambulance again. “When … my stepdad … they were fighting, and…” He frowns at his lap and shakes his head.

  I reach over to squeeze his shoulder. “I’m glad you called me,” I repeat, softer this time. “You always can, bud. Anytime, day or night.”

  He nods at his lap, then turns to look out his window, and I pretend not to notice the tears that are swimming in his eyes.

  At the hospital, we hang in the waiting room for what feels like eternity. They must be backed up, because we get there at 4:30 in the morning, but nobody calls us in to see her until 11am. By that point my eyes are bleary, and I’ve dozed off at least a dozen times in the uncomfortable waiting room lounge seats. Beside me, Travis’s head droops all the way onto the back of his seat, and he’s snoring softly.