Off Limits (12 page)

Framing my face with his hands, he leans into me and places his forehead against mine. "I'm sorry," is all he says before walking into the living room to greet Linc.

And I'm left wondering what he is sorry for. For crossing a line with me or for Linc's untimely appearance?

Nix

Un-fucking-believable!

Linc would have to come home right now. It kills me to walk away from Emily in the kitchen, with her face all flushed from that climax she just had. I'm sure it's evil of me, but I'm prideful that I put that look on her face. And I will put it there again but apparently not tonight.

I head into the living room, assuming Emily is right behind me. Linc is setting his equipment bag on the floor and he looks up at me.

"Hey, man," I say.

"Wazzup?" He gives me a warm smile and then his eyes widen in surprise. He's looking right over my shoulder and I'm aware that Emily has walked into the room.

"Emily?" Linc asks in surprise, as if he can't believe she's standing here. Hell, I can barely believe it.

I turn to look at her and she appears cool and composed. She's even holding the glass of wine in her hand. "Hey, Linc. How are you?"

Linc is looking back and forth between me and Emily, like he can't put his finger on our connection. And there's no reason why he should. I've never told him that Emily hit me, or that she is working for me.

"I'm good," he says slowly. "What are you doing here?"

He asks the question of Emily but looks at me for the answer, like I must have her here against her will or something. Thankfully, my hard-on has almost completely diminished so he shouldn't be making that connection.

"Emily's working for me part time," I supply. No sense in hiding the truth. It's not like it's a secret. I've just never told Linc because I never thought to. It wasn't that big of a deal to me.

"She's working for you? Why?" He's now asking me the question, but looking at Emily for the answer. That tells me he's skeptical.

Emily leans up casually against the wall and takes a sip of her wine. She is visually stunning and I'm amazed at how composed she is right now. Just two minutes ago she was riding my hand and screaming out my name. I do get a small sense of satisfaction over the fact that her cheeks are still a little flushed.

"Well...it's kind of a funny story," Emily answers him. "Would you like to tell him, Nix or should I?"

I turn the palm of one hand face-up and sweep it in a grand gesture toward her, giving her the all clear to tell him the details.

Emily's gorgeous mouth turns up into a smirk when she says, "I accidentally ran over your brother with my car that day I interviewed you. I happened to mangle his motorcycle pretty badly, and now I'm an indentured servant to him until I work the debt off."

Linc's eyebrows shoot for the stars. "You're kidding?"

"Nope. I almost killed your brother." She's grinning as she takes another sip of wine.

"Why in the hell are you working for him? Aren't the Burnhams richer than God?"

Emily snorts—quite unladylike—but she doesn't even look embarrassed. I like that.

"Let's just say that I've been cut off from my family's riches for a while. Besides, I'm actually enjoying it. I even had a lot of fun painting Nix’s living room yesterday."

I almost choke when she says that. She's clearly referencing the scorching kiss we shared, but Linc doesn't know that. It doesn't stop his jaw from dropping just over the thought of wealthy, socialite Emily Burnham painting my living room.

Linc nods his head up and down as if he understands, but his vacant expression says he doesn't. It’s actually amusing me to see his consternation.

"Well," Emily says as she hands me her wine glass. "I really need to get going. Thanks for the glass of wine and the talk, Nix. Linc...I'll see you around."

I walk Emily to the door and Linc says goodbye before heading back to his bedroom. As she steps out into the hallway, I walk out with her.

"I'll walk you down to your car," I offer.

"No need. I'm good. I'll see you after school on Monday."

She starts to walk away and I don't like this cool, nonchalant, "I can easily walk away from you after a mind-blowing orgasm", Emily. I reach out and grab her wrist. She stops and looks at me, her head slightly tilted at an inquiring angle.

"Are you okay?" I don't know what makes me ask this, or why I'm even worried about it.

She gives me a soft smile. "I'm good. And...we're cool, Nix. No worries."

Now, what the fuck does that mean?

I release her wrist and watch her walk to the elevator. She stands there staring at the doors, tapping her toe. The smile is still on her face and I wonder if she's thinking about what just happened when we were in the kitchen.

That memory is certainly going to stick with me.

The elevator opens and she steps in. I start to turn away, but she calls my name. I look back, and her head is peeking out the doors at me. She looks like a cat ready to pounce when she says, “Next time...I get to reciprocate.” She gives me a little wave then disappears behind the doors.

I walk back into Linc's apartment, shaking my head. The thoughts of her reciprocating are almost too much for me to bear knowing that she’s not within arm’s length of me.

Heading into the kitchen, I can't help but wonder what would have happened tonight if Linc had not shown up. At the moment he walked in the door, I was dead set on losing myself inside of Emily. But I also wonder if I would have talked myself out of it. I mean, it's one thing to pleasure the hell out of her which was oddly and incredibly gratifying to me as well. But if we had sex, the ballgame would change completely. Would it be worth potential complications that would arise down the road? I'm betting it would be.

I grab the beer I had been drinking and take a long swallow. When I raise the bottle to my mouth, I can smell Emily's sweet scent on my hand and my dick starts twitching again. It doesn’t need much encouragement after Emily’s last words.

"What the fuck are you doing with Ryan Burnham's baby sister?"

I spin around and see Linc walk into the kitchen. He grabs a beer out of the fridge and pops it open. His words aren't menacing...more disbelieving if anything.

"I'm not doing anything with her. She came by to talk and she had a glass of wine."

"Talk my ass," Linc says. "You were sporting a major woody when you came into the living room and there's no way you got that just by 'talking'. So fess up."

Shit! He saw that, huh?

Well, I'm not going to lie about it further. "Mind your own business. We're two consenting adults."

I haven't admitted details but by telling him to keep his nose out of my affairs pretty much admits that something is going on.

"So, that whole story about her hitting you and working the debt off is fake?"

I smile at him. "Nope. That's true. She almost killed me and now she paints my house as well as a variety of other menial tasks."

"Menial tasks? Please don't tell me she's working it off in the bedroom, Nix! Please, please tell me I'm wrong to be thinking that."

"You're a damned pervert, Linc. Of course she's not paying her debt off that way. She's doing secretarial stuff for my business...and...well, yeah, one day I had her paint my living room but that was just to keep her out of my hair for the day."

Linc doesn't say anything and takes another sip of his beer. His voice is serious when he says, "Don't hurt her, Nix."

My blood immediately flares then boils over. "Why? Do you have a thing for her?" There is no way Linc is having Emily!

"No, I don't have a thing for her. I mean, I would have a thing for her if she gave me the time of day but she never has." He pauses, trying to find the right words. "It's just...if you hurt her, it's probably going to ruin my relationship with Ryan. Which, I hate to say, could jeopardize our playing together. Just be considerate of others is all I'm saying."

Wow. I didn't consider that there could be further reaching implications than what I had originally imagined. But I shake it off. "We're good, Linc."

He looks at me with continued worry.

I try to reassure him, and myself. "Emily and I have an understanding. No worries."

***

Emily has been gone a few hours and I'm lying in my bed, trying to go to sleep. Fat chance of that, seeing as how I can't stop replaying those few minutes we had together in the kitchen. She was so free, so accepting of everything I gave her. I half expected her to be strung a little tight. Like when I pulled her dress off of her...I expected her to be shy, or nervous, or even slightly distressed we were in the middle of the kitchen. But Emily...she was the opposite. She reveled in her sexual nature.

I have no clue what her level of experience is, and frankly, I don't give a shit. I've already breached that wall of worry and there's no going back now. I tried—very hard—to keep my distance from her. Every logical argument as to why I should stay away from Emily Burnham has played through my head and I've decided to reject them all.

It's like I told Linc. We're both consenting adults. There is nothing standing in our way from exploring our sexual attraction to each other. Hell, those were Emily’s very arguments she made to me.

Still...there is that small part of me that wonders if Emily can truly handle a no-strings relationship. I know I won't be able to handle it if she wants to pin me down in any way. Just the thought has me feeling boxed in and anger surges through my veins. My heart rate picks up.

I take a few deep, calming breaths. Just the way Dr. Antoniak taught me. I really need to pay her a visit, and probably soon. My talk with Paul the other day has me spiraling a bit. I'll make sure to call her tomorrow morning and make an appointment.

As if sensing my need for him, Harley gets up from the bottom of my bed and moves his body next to mine. He places his warm head on my chest and just stares at me with those chocolate eyes. I reach up and lazily scratch his head, running my fingertips behind his ears. I concentrate on the softness of his fur.

As I continue to rub Harley's head, my heart rate starts decreasing and after a few minutes, I'm not only calm but feeling drowsy. My thoughts drift back to Emily and the image of her breaking apart under my hand is the last thing I remember thinking about before I fall asleep.

Nix

I call first thing Monday morning and luckily, I am able to get an appointment with Dr. Antoniak for the following day due to a cancellation she had. I fire off a text to Emily that I will be gone out of state for a few days and just to come in to work on Wednesday.

My text doesn't say anything else and I actually struggled for a few minutes over whether I should say more. Part of me wanted to ask how the rest of her weekend went, and how she was doing, and was she thinking of me the same way I was thinking of her. Then I scoffed at myself and put my phone back in my pocket.

Any such actions on my part will give Emily the wrong idea. It will push whatever this is between us into a different realm. I decide I'm going to treat Emily the way I would have treated someone like Lyla, for example.

I ask myself,
Would I have asked Lyla how her weekend went?

The answer is easy. No, I would not.

Therefore, I will not ask Emily.

And it doesn't matter at all that I actually want to know what she did all day Sunday. I never gave a rat's ass what Lyla did once she left my bedroom, but I do think a lot about what Emily is doing.

It's just another source of tension I'll need to deal with, thus making the trip to see Dr. Antoniak even more relevant.

The better part of Monday is spent working on some sketches of a custom metal arbor I've been commissioned to make. Then I pack an overnight bag and Harley and I hit the open road around mid-afternoon.

It takes us about three and a half hours to make the drive from Hoboken to Bethesda and my timing is nothing short of impeccable. I arrive right in the middle of rush hour traffic.

Finally, I pull into a hotel that is conveniently located near Walter Reed National Military Medical Center. Harley and I settle in for the night and I think about all of the things I need to talk about in the precious hour that I have with the good doctor.

***

The next morning, Harley and I head over to Walter Reed. I graciously pull through McDonald's first to get us each a sausage biscuit. We contentedly eat our breakfast in the parking lot, and when we are finished, I walk to the passenger door.

Harley always sits in the front seat when he rides with me. I clip his leash on and he hops out. I put him in a "sit" and then reach into my pack. I pull out his Service Dog vest and fasten it on him. The damn dog's chest actually puffs with pride when his uniform is on, I swear it.

Harley and I navigate the hallways until we make it to the Neuroscience Department. There was a day when I hated coming here...despised it beyond all measure. Now, it sort of feels like an old glove.

I haven't been to see Dr. Antoniak in a few months. I was officially released from her care over a year ago, but I've made trips back every so often.

It's not long before we are called in and we step into her office. She steps from behind her industrial, military issue desk and comes around to shake my hand.

"It's good to see you, Nix." She bends over and gives Harley a rub on his head. "And you too, Harley."

I take a seat opposite her desk. Her office is small and sterile which makes me feel oddly comforted. She takes her seat behind her desk, appraising me with interest and a slight fondness that has developed over our months of therapy. There was a time she would do that and I wanted to throttle her, so great was my anger in those days.

Dr. Antoniak is an interesting doctor. She's a diminutive woman with steel gray hair cut closed to her scalp. She has piercing blue eyes and when I say piercing, I mean they could cut through some of the thickest metal I work with. Her intelligence is a weapon and she will not let me get away with any misstep in what I say. The woman probably has reams of paper dedicated to our meetings and yet she never has to look back to reference our discussions. She can remember something I told her two years ago as it if happened only yesterday. She's been my neuropsychiatrist from the moment I returned from Afghanistan on a military medical flight.

"You look well, Nix. Hair's a little long."

I smirk at her. "That's what my dad says every time he sees me."

"So, what brings you in today?" Her voice is warm, completely at odds with her iron looks.

I shrug my shoulders. "Just like my dad has an opinion about my hair, he suggested it might be time for a tune-up with you."

Dr. Antoniak gives a bark of laughter. "A tune-up? I love it."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't have come but he's been riding me about it."

"And you don't think you need any follow up treatment or counseling?"

I shrug my shoulders again. "Not really. I think I'm coping well."

"No headaches?"

"Nope."

"Rages?"

"Nope."

"Nightmares?"

I almost say "nope" but she'll know I'm lying. "A few times a month."

She jots that down on a notepad then pins me with her blue lasers. "Have you talked to Paul lately?"

Shit. I knew she'd go there but it still threw me. Thank God I just talked to him. I smile confidently when I reply, "Sure. Just last week."

She returns the smile. "That's wonderful. And you initiated the communication?"

Fuck.

She's too damned insightful and it pisses me off. But truth be told, this is the main reason I made the appointment with her.

"No. I returned his call."

"And how many times had he attempted to call you before you returned his call?"

"Several," I grit out.

"Why are you avoiding him, Nix?"

My anger flares white-hot. I reach for Harley's head and start rubbing it.

"Why are you so nosy?" I ask her.

"Come on, Nix. Quit fucking around. You know we don't have long."

Dr. Antoniak's bluntness is one of the things I appreciate about her. She never would let me escape from the difficult conversations, and she's not about to let me do so now. It's part of the Exposure Therapy she had been torturing me with over the two years I've known her.

Might as well get this over with. She'll never let me leave here without answering the question so I take a deep breath. "He makes me feel uncomfortable."

"Why?" she asks simply and without judgment.

How do I say these words without sounding like the biggest asshole, prick on the planet? "He acts too happy...too well-adjusted. It just makes me feel...bad."

"Do you doubt he's happy and well-adjusted?"

"Yes." The answer pops out before I can analyze it.

"Why?"

"Why? Well, because his legs were fucking blown off. How's that for starters?"

"And why can't someone who lost their legs be happy and well-adjusted?"

Why indeed? Why, why, why?

But I know the answer to that too, and I don't need Dr. Antoniak to shrink me to know it either.

I sigh. "Because...what happened to me wasn't even a tenth of what he's gone through and I'm pretty fucked up."

"Maybe the problem is you're diminishing what you've been through."

I kick my legs out in front of me so she sees them. "Nope. My legs are working just fine."

"But your legs weren't hurt, Nix," she says softly, bringing me back around to the real issue. "Your brain was hurt. Your chest was hurt. Your mental health was hurt."

I want to scream at her,
So fucking-what?
But I don't. Because, if it's one thing she has taught me over the past two years was how to control my rage. Instead, I say, "And here we are back to the beginning. I'm pissed he's doing so well."

"Be honest, Nix. You're not just feeling anger..."

She trails off, waiting for me to finish her thought. I pick it up. "I'm feeling guilt. I know." My voice is heavy and resigned.

She picks up my file and flips through it, taking a few minutes to read something. I don't know who she thinks she's kidding, but she doesn't need to review anything in there. She knows me well.

"The last time we met...four months ago...you had agreed to go visit Paul. I'm assuming you haven't done that?"

"I've been busy."

It's a pathetic excuse. She knows it and I know it.

"We talked about this before, Nix, but let's go over it again. Your guilt is impeding your full recovery. You've made remarkable improvement since your injury. Your brain is fully functioning now and your cognitive therapy has worked wonders to help you deal with your rage issues. But you need to work on this guilt issue over Paul and his injuries. It's holding you back."

I just stare at the floor. I've heard this all before. Many times. I know she's right. Hell, I'll even walk out of here charged up and ready to go see Paul. But then time and doubt will get in the way, and I'll head back to a life of isolation to ease my burden.

"Nix," she says softly and I raise my eyes up to hers. "Guilt is a poison. It will slowly choke out everything you have worked so hard to overcome. And when it's destroyed all of that...it will keep on killing everything that's good in your life."

***

Harley and I are heading back to Hoboken. I'm lost in my thoughts and Harley is snoozing, curled up into a tight golden ball on the front seat next to me. I reach over and absently rub his hipbone.

Just three months from my enlistment with the Marine Corps ending, my squad and I had been injured in a blitz by the Taliban, normally called a “green on blue” attack. Paul lost his legs.

In some ways, his injuries were easy to treat in that they were palpable...physical...you could see them. The doctors could see the damaged blood vessels and nerves, and knew exactly what they had to do to heal him.

It wasn’t as easy for me. In addition to getting shot in the upper part of my chest, which was the least of my worries, I'd suffered a Traumatic Brain Injury. You couldn't see my injury on films. There was no gaping wound or missing body parts. Just millions of tiny pieces of tissue that were shredded and torn, causing me to turn into a monster.

My injury was complicated by an additional diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. That's what Harley was for. The Veteran's Administration doesn't pay for psychiatric service dogs, but they are still a legitimate and necessary form of treatment under the American's with Disabilities Act. So after shelling out thousands of my own dollars to get Harley, he's allowed to go everywhere I go by virtue of his status as a service dog. I certainly don't take him everywhere with me, because I have made massive improvement, but I love being able to all the same.

Between the brain injury and the PTSD, the Nix Caldwell that returned to Hoboken, New Jersey was unrecognizable from the fresh faced kid that left when he was eighteen. I was angry, filled with wrath. The smallest thing would set me off and I'd want to smash something. Nightmares plagued my sleep every night. And if I wasn't raging, I was just plain mean, moody and irritable. Loud sounds would cause me to jump. People walking up behind me would cause me to panic.

After recovering from my chest wound, I started intensive cognitive and exposure therapy and I'll grudgingly admit, I've made major progress.

And while I'm able to control my temper in most every situation, I'm still a moody jackass most of the time. My nightmares have diminished a lot and I no longer feel the compulsion to kill someone for looking at me wrong.

Lots of progress.

But not enough apparently.

I ease back into remembering the last fifteen minutes of our session. I told Dr. Antoniak about Emily. It felt silly at first for me to bring her up, considering she seemed to be the one good thing I had going for me right now. But I'd be lying if I didn't say I wasn't very concerned over how she would play in my recovery.

Part of my therapy is confronting my trauma. Confronting trauma means talking about it. Emily is the only person I know of that has come even close to getting me to open up about anything. Frankly, I'm scared shitless that she'll continue to expose my demons.

I have to reiterate to myself that what Emily and I have is nothing more than a sexual relationship. However, I'm not stupid enough to ignore the fact that sex is an emotional activity...particularly for women.

When I see her again, I really, really need to set some boundaries with her and make sure she understands there are certain lines that cannot be crossed.