Off Limits: A Bad Boy Romance

by Lauren Landish

  "I'm so sorry, Daddy."

  "Shh, we'll talk about it later," he said, in that way that told me everything would be all right. "We've just been worried sick about you, honey. Come on, let's get you up to your room where you can change clothes. Do you need anything?"

  "I just want to sleep," I said, my exhaustion hammering into me. Despite the cat naps I'd taken during the night with Dane, I was shattered and barely able to stay conscious. "Please, I just need sleep."

  "Then let's get you to bed," he said. "We can talk after you wake up."

  I felt like a zombie climbing up the stairs to my bedroom, Daddy and Brittany helping me the whole way. Daddy stopped at the door while Brittany followed me into the bedroom, helping me with my clothes. "I'm sorry I was so strict with you, Abby," Brittany said after the door closed and we were alone. "I didn't mean to make you run away."

  "It's okay, Brittany," I said, too tired to say much more. "I just . . . I need to sleep."

  "I understand, honey," she said, tucking me into bed. She sat down next to me, brushing the stray hairs out of my face. "I know that I come off as a bitch to you, Abby. I'm sorry about that. I never had a daughter of my own before. But I do love you, and I want to at least be your friend. I'll never try to replace your mother."

  "Thank you," I whispered, my eyes drooping. "I know you care."

  I didn't hear her answer as the black curtain of sleep started to fall over me and I descended into my dreams.

  * * *

  By the time I woke up, afternoon had come, as evidenced by the bright light that poured through the windows to the left of my bed. Atlanta's a warm city, even in winter, so my bedroom faced west to minimize the amount of sunlight that came through the glass during the day. With the way my bed was arranged, that put the main window off to my left.

  I yawned, feeling myself remarkably refreshed and much better than the weepy, sobbing wreck that had been put to bed hours earlier. Stretching, I thought about the conversation that I would have to have with them, but I was more prepared for it than I had been that morning.

  I looked down at myself, not realizing how much Brittany had helped me get changed. I was still wearing the same panties as the night before, but I had on one of my sleep t-shirts and a pair of my old cheerleading shorts that I still wore for sleep and exercise. I went over to my dresser and peeled my shorts off, changing into a pair of pink boy shorts that matched a t-shirt bra that I liked to wear around the house. There was no need to make Daddy feel embarrassed.

  I looked at the panties in my hand, seeing a faint bit of dried mess from the night before, and sighed. I wasn't so much panicked anymore as I was ashamed. I'd acted like a total slut, practically jumping on Dane's cock as soon as it was out of his pants. A few tattoos, a little bit of a bad boy vibe to him, and I melted right into his hands . . .

  And the way those eyes looked at me when he touched me, the voice in my head said in his defense. Face it, you were falling for him.

  I was, but that doesn't mean I need to keep it up, I bitterly said to myself. I balled up the panties and threw them into the hamper. Much like the night before, I scored, this time two points.

  I headed downstairs and found Daddy and Brittany in the living room. Daddy saw me first and turned off the television, which had been showing a Braves game. "Good to see you awake, sweetheart," he said, setting his remote aside and standing up. "How do you feel?"

  "A lot better, thank you," I said. "And thank you, Brittany. I saw that you helped me change. Honestly, I don't remember much of that part."

  "You were pretty exhausted, Abby. Come now, have a seat."

  I rubbed my stomach, thinking. "What time is it?"

  "Just after two, sweetie," Daddy said. "You look famished."

  I shook my head. "No, Daddy. I think I can wait until dinner time. That is, if you guys don't mind eating a little earlier than normal?"

  "I don't think that'll be a problem, dear, but how about a glass of milk at least?" Brittany asked. She stood up, then stopped. "Sorry. I've been thinking, and I feel like I owe you an apology. I feel like a lot of what caused last night are my suggestions to you."

  I took a deep breath, having a seat on the couch. It had taken a lot for Brittany to say what she had to me in my room. It had been just the two of us. There hadn't been a need to show off to Daddy. Her words had come from the heart. "Brittany, I'll admit that there was a part of me that got up because of that. I had an overwhelming need to rebel. But that wasn't all of it."

  I took a deep breath and looked at Daddy. "Part of it was you. I know you love me. And I know you want what's best for me. But Daddy, I can't keep living inside the bubble you've built for me. And as much as it may pain you, I'm not cut out for the world that Brittany is so familiar with."

  His face pinched, and Brittany had a worried look, but both of them held a respectful silence as I continued. "I'm not cut out to be a debutante! Nor am I the type of girl who enjoys putting on a thousand-dollar dress to drive over to Camden in April to hobnob at the Carolina Cup only to have some frat boy from Duke end up puking all over it. I'm blue jeans and t-shirts, and during the summer, sometimes I like wearing Daisy Dukes and a blouse."

  "Yes, much to my worry, honey," Daddy said. "Why do you want to live the way I had to? Dirt in my hands, the sun on my neck, and sometimes my father having to choose between paying the electric bill and paying for food. I just don't want you to live like that."

  I smiled and came over, sitting in between them, taking both of their hands. "Daddy, that's not going to happen. Your hard work has put me through GT, even if you never give me another dime in your entire life. You've put a roof over my head, food in my belly, and most importantly, love in my heart. After Mom died, you worked hard, but you also loved me hard too. And Brittany, I have to say sorry too. I know you were trying to help me, and I'm not trying to demean who you are or where you come from, but it's just not me. I'm sorry if I couldn't appreciate what you were trying to do."

  Daddy squeezed my hand and smiled. "It's hard to believe that my little girl’s grown up so much. I guess part of me still thinks of you as the little girl who used to want to do coloring books and would mess around in the old workshop with me."

  "Part of me still is. But I've grown up, too. I know part of me is still a bit jealous that I have to share my daddy with another woman, and again, I'm sorry for that, Brittany. I feel like I haven't always been fair to you about it."

  Brittany smiled and squeezed my other hand. "Abby, I think you did more today than anything I've seen to show me that, while you may not exactly fit in with some of the country-club set, you've got more than enough moxie to be able to stand on your own two feet. I'll be honest, I don't think I could have done what you've done over the past few years when I was your age. And one other thing."

  "What's that?" I asked, somewhat stunned by her words.

  "I love you very much, dear."

  I blinked, smiling as tears threatened my eyes again. "I don't say it enough, but I care for you too, Brittany. You've got some ideas that I may not agree with, but you love Daddy, and that’s most important to me. And if you don't mind, I’ll take some of that milk."

  Brittany smiled and nodded. “How about we make it chocolate?”

  * * *

  Despite the improvement in my relationship with Daddy and Brittany, life refused to get back to normal. I was glad that classes were nearly finished for the semester, because I was too caught up in my own drama to be able to focus on tests or papers or anything like that. Still, I had finals coming up in a month, and I knew that when those rolled around, either I had to get my act together, or else my GPA was going to drop. With grad school admissions coming up soon, I didn't want anything to put my chances of getting accepted in danger.

  The problem was, I couldn't get Dane out of my head. When I woke up in the mornings, his name was on my lips more often than not, and I hated myself for it. How could I still be obsessed and thinking about this man who was a killer
? Was I really that hard up for a relationship, or was there something wrong in my head? I thought about those sick, twisted women who would write convicted murderers in prison and supposedly fall in love with them. Was that what was happening to me?

  He said there was more to the story, the little voice in my head would say whenever I thought about him. He sounded so genuine when you were running out of the apartment.

  An apartment that wasn't his, I reminded the little voice. An apartment that he was only crashing in because he was a convicted killer who didn't have a job, and probably didn't even have two dimes to rub together.

  You mean like Daddy didn't have when he was growing up? the voice asked again. And just how did he turn out?

  "That's different," I muttered to myself.

  "What'd you say?"

  I started, looking up, and realized that Shawnie had spoken to me. We were sitting outside a pizza joint near the GT campus, where she'd invited me to grab some lunch with her before her afternoon lab class. "Sorry, Shawnie. Just talking to myself."

  "You've been doing that a lot lately,” she said, taking a sip from her Coke. "People are going to think you've gone crazy."

  I shook my head, wondering just how close to the truth she was. I took a deep breath to force my mind off the subject and looked over at my friend. "They already know I'm crazy, Shawnie. About the only sane thing I do is hang out with you."

  "My case in point," Shawnie said with a laugh. She was wearing her typical campus clothing, a pair of jeans and a Georgia Tech t-shirt, the G and the H poking out a lot farther than the center of the shirt. If I was to be accused of being curvy, Shawnie was nearly a cartoon caricature come to life. She took it all in stride though, and more than once had shut down a horn dog that tried to ease up on her with a lame 'hey, shawtie' come on. She liked her men intellectual and cultured, something that was pretty hard to find around campus. "Seriously, though, is everything okay? You've been off for the past few weeks."

  "Yeah," I said, sighing. "Just . . . well, remember that night I said I was going to meet you at the art exhibit?"

  "The one by the German? Yeah, I remember being pissed off at you, and even more when I found out that you were at the dinner for Greg DeKalb, of all people. But you told me you got hung up on some stuff. Why, what's up?"

  "Well, I tried to walk to the gallery," I said, and Shawnie held up her hand, shocked.

  "You did what? Abby, Atlanta might be safer than it was a few years ago, and this certainly isn't Freak Week, but are you out of your damn mind, girl? And you're a native of this area. What were you thinking?"

  I smiled and took a sip of my own Coke, reaching for a slice of the medium pizza we were sharing. "Careful, Shawnie. Your Sandhills drawl comes through more when you get all worked up. But, as I was saying, I tried to walk. I ran into some trouble, and before you say anything, I know I was being stupid. But I got some help, and the guy who helped me . . . I’m just having problems getting him out of my head."

  "Ooh, I see," Shawnie said. "Tell me, was he cute?"

  "He was." I nodded. “A little different from the type I normally go for. Maybe that’s the attraction.”

  "So why haven't I been introduced to him? Afraid I'll try and take him from you?"

  I was about to answer when my phone buzzed. I picked it up off the table and grimaced when I saw the number. It was Dane, and while he wasn't exactly pestering me with phone calls, he had called me a few times in the three weeks since we'd spent that night together. I hoped he'd have given up, because every time he called, I was almost guaranteed to dream about him that night. I hit the red call rejection button and set my phone down. "Because sometimes guys aren't what they seem to be.”

  Shawnie looked at my phone, then up at me, and sat back, tenting her fingers under her chin in the way that told me she was being perceptive. For a girl who was in school for engineering, she had a deep psychological streak that could either be helpful or frustrating, depending on the situation. "Really? And without going into too many details, since I can tell you don't want me to know exactly who this mystery man is, what is it about him that has you so worked up?”

  I sighed and shook my head, confused. "Shawnie, it's just that . . . I thought he was a good man. But, how can a good man have done terrible things? I mean, he's been in prison."

  Shawnie tilted her head, smirked, and shrugged. "You mind if I tell you something?"

  "You know you can say anything to me. You're my best friend."

  "Abby, you come from upper crust society. Atlanta upper crust at that, which makes even Charleston look downright Hicksville. I'm from parts of South Carolina where a lot of the folks I graduated high school with, their greatest goal in life was to get a job at the DuPont factory down the road and buy themselves a new Chevy pickup. Guys I used to date, the pinnacle of their entire lives will be the two years they played varsity football for the local high school. I guess what I'm saying is, you grew up somewhat protected. Now, I'm not saying you're prejudiced, no more than I am, but you never faced the choices that some of the people I knew had to face."

  "I know," I said, thinking of some of the discussions she and I had shared over the years we'd been friends. "It's kind of what makes you special. You're also one of the few people I know who doesn't try to kiss my butt or hold it against me that I am who I am."

  "You can't help it, just like I can't help being fine as May wine," she said with a laugh. "But what I'm trying to say is, there are times when good people either just make stupid mistakes or are forced into bad situations. Did you know, my graduating class's salutatorian is doing ten years at the Broad River Correctional facility back home?"

  "Really?" I said. While Shawnie had been more than willing to share her observations on things or offer up a bit of down home country advice, she'd never really talked about her growing up in South Carolina except as an illustration of another point. "What happened?"

  "He had a cousin in the county over that got in trouble with the wrong type of people. He agreed to help his cousin out by making a run over to the Myrtle Beach area to pick up a package and bring it back. Now, you know, I know, and yes, even he knew that nobody forgives a multi-thousand-dollar debt for running down to the Beach to pick up some doughnuts and maybe some crab cakes. But, he decided the risk was worth it to help out his family. So he took his car down there and picked up the package. He probably would have gotten away with it, too, if there hadn't been a drunk driver on the road behind him on the way back. They ended up crashing, and the cops found sixty pounds of weed in the trunk of his car. He got tabbed on a Class E felony, and even though he was eighteen and it was the first time he'd done anything, the judge was one of those hard-ass types who looked at kids like him and threw the book at him. Maximum sentence, ten years at Broad River. If he gets time off for good behavior, and a little bit of luck, he might be out right around the time you and I start grad school."

  I thought about it, then shook my head. "So you're saying the next time he calls, I should pick up?"

  She might have had a point, but then again, we weren’t talking about naively smuggling some drugs here. Dane took a man’s life.

  Shawnie shook her head and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "What I'm saying is that you should think about it before hitting that red button so hard or so fast next time. Is there something you don't know about this guy? Is there more to the story than what you know already? And also, more than anything, is there a reason you're still thinking about him weeks after you met him for only one night? Oh, and one more thing."

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "Are you going to eat that last pepperoni?"

  CHAPTER 8

  DANE

  I was sitting on the couch that separated the bedroom area of the loft from the living room area when I heard the doorknob rattle, and insane hope flared inside me. In the time since my night with Abby, life had become painful at best. Each day had started with rolling out of bed, a desultory shower, and then
off to find a job. My list of rejections was now standing at two hundred and thirty, the latest being at a soul food restaurant on Peach Street that had five customers along with one of the dishwashers in the back having gang tattoos when I'd put in my application. However, one look at the box and the details of my conviction, and the manager hadn't even given me the respect of waiting until I was out the door to throw my application in the trash. Instead, she had balled up the paper in front of me and tossed it in the trash can by the door. "Boy, we don't need your kind around here," she'd told me. "Now get out, and I don't want you here as a customer either."

  I'd tried again afterward to call Abby, but just like she'd done the other times I called, it went to her voicemail. I'd left her a message, then went on my walks again.

  That morning, though, I woke up totally broken. Lying there in bed, staring at the ceiling, the thought of trying to get out of bed, shower, and go out job hunting again was too much. Even the thought of going downstairs to the library and grabbing yesterday's copy of the Constitution-Journal just felt like too much effort. Even the time I spent in Iraq wasn't so exhausting.

  So that day, I lay in bed until nearly eleven o'clock before my bladder chased me out of bed. I'd always been a guy whose body seems to run by an internal clock that rarely varied. I sighed. I had exactly five dollars left on me and not a prospect in sight. Still, there was no way I could face going out there that day, not after two hundred and thirty rejections. And especially not after Abby.

  So I crashed on the couch, foregoing a shower for the first time in over five years, the first time since Iraq. Instead, I lay on the couch, watching as people with even more fucked up lives than I had yelled at each other over paternity tests, who was sleeping with whom, and who was going to kick whose ass later on. It helped. No matter how fucked up your life gets, no matter how low down the ladder of life you felt you were, you can always turn on daytime TV and find someone who is worse off than you.