Off Limits (4 page)

Emily

I'm driving to Hoboken for my first day of work for Nix. He texted me his address this morning. That's it...just his address. There was no "Hey. Here's my address. See you later." The man is definitely short on words along with manners and civility.

I'm nervous, no doubt. There is something about Nix that sets me on edge. When I first laid eyes on him at Linc's party this past weekend, I didn't actually connect who he was. I mean, I recognized him as a gorgeous man, and a jolt of pure energy coursed through my body when I made contact with his gaze. I felt instant, sizzling chemistry with this person. And that lasted for two seconds before my brain caught up to my body, and I realized it was Nix.

Our conversation was frustrating. I hated telling him that I couldn't come up with the money. But it was nowhere near as bad as how I lost access to the money.

I shudder even thinking about the conversation I had with my mother. She called me last Friday, furious. Apparently, Columbia's School of Journalism sent me a letter confirming my major declaration and promptly mailed it to my home address on file. Mother minced no words when I answered the phone.

"Emily...how could you declare journalism as your major? We talked about this and you are supposed to go pre-med or pre-law."

I took a calming breath and counted to five before I answered. "Mother...I don't want to be a lawyer or a doctor. I want to be a sports journalist."

I heard my mother's sharp intake of breath and you would have thought I just told her I murdered someone. She responded to me in the only way that Celia Burnham knows how...with brute force. "That is unacceptable, young lady. You are to go first thing Monday morning and change your major."

There was no amount of oxygen on the planet that would give me a calming breath right then. I gritted my teeth but tried to remain respectful. "I'm sorry, Mother, but I won't do that. I want to pursue a career of my choosing, not yours."

I heard my mother sigh, and I knew she was changing tactics on me. She practically whined to me when she said, "Emily...you know how crucial it is at this time that our family appear as powerful as possible. A daughter in medical school or law school will be a major boost to your father's campaign."

I felt a screeching headache coming on and rubbed gingerly at my temple. "Mother...please don't make me feel guilty about this. There is nothing wrong with a journalism major. It's completely respectable."

And then my mother changed tactics again. This time she got my attention. "I've had enough, Emily. If you do not change your major back, your trust fund is going to be suspended."

I was so tired of her holding that trust fund over me. I wish sometimes it never existed. If she thought that would get me to back down, she had another thing coming. In fact, she had made me so mad that I almost told her I was going to drop out of school and become a topless dancer. Instead, I said in a firm voice, "So be it, Mother. Good bye."

I hung up the phone, had a brief moment of glory over standing up to my mother then I had a major panic attack. Two problems came immediately to mind. First, how was I going to pay Nix the money for his motorcycle, and second, how was I going to pay tuition next semester? This semester is no problem. My parents had paid that in full already, along with the lease on my apartment. I can get a part time job for incidental expenses. I mean, I've never had to work a job in my life, but how hard could it be really? But there was no way I could stay at Columbia next semester without my parents' help and no way to access my trust fund until the following summer.

I hated to do it, but I got in the car and drove over to Ryan's. He wasn't there but Danny sat down and listened to me. After I poured out the story of my mother’s phone call, she didn't hesitate. "Emily...you have nothing to worry about. Ryan and I will pay for your tuition next semester if your parents don't come around."

I was so relieved, I jumped up and hugged her hard. She returned it with vigor.

I didn't tell her, though, about owing the money to Nix because she and Ryan didn’t need to be burdened with my own stupidity. I was still stewing about that when we went to the party at Linc's condo, and so on top of the shock of seeing him standing there I now realized I had to confront the dilemma that faced me. And since they say that honesty is the best policy, I figured I should spill my guts to him.

I have to say, based upon my limited experience with him when I flattened his motorcycle, Nix actually took my inability to pay him much better than I thought he would. I could tell he wasn't happy about it but his offer to let me work the debt off was the best I could hope for.

And so, here I am, driving to Nix’s house in Hoboken. I've been wondering all weekend why Nix was at that party. I never got a chance to ask him because after we struck our deal, he didn't say another word and just walked away. I didn't see him again for the rest of the night. I would have to remember to ask him why he was there.

I pull into the driveway of the address Nix had sent me. It's a two-story home in a middle class, slightly rundown neighborhood. Large oak trees line the streets and a few kids are riding bicycles on the sidewalk. I pull in behind a dilapidated Ford Bronco that has chunks of the body rusted completely through. Guilt courses through me as I realize this is what Nix is probably driving since I killed his motorcycle.

I knock on the front door but no one answers. I walk around the back and see a large garage and workshop at the rear of the yard. I head that way.

When I get to the workshop, I open the door and walk in. It's spacious and well organized. There's a large worktable with various pieces of equipment all around. I wonder what he does with all this stuff. I notice a desk sits against one wall and it's covered with mounds of paper. My new job, I assume.

Nix isn't in here but there is a door at the back of the shop so I decide to check in there. I open the door and get a brief glimpse of a white, hot light and sparks shooting everywhere.

"Get the fuck out, Emily!"

I jump about a foot in the air when Nix yells at me and stumble backward through the door. He's stalking through it toward me, even as I'm still stumbling backward. He's furious and I have no clue what I've done.

"Don't ever go in that room when the door is closed. That means I'm welding and you could burn your eyes if you look at that light," he bellows.

My blood is zinging through my body. He scared the crap out of me when he yelled and now he is just pissing me off. "Don't yell at me like that. I had no clue that was dangerous. Maybe if you posted a sign on the door, I wouldn't have gone in there."

He stares at me for several long seconds then seems to deflate. "I'm sorry," he grumbles at me. "I was just worried you'd get hurt."

This appeases me somewhat and I can feel my heart rate slowing. Nix turns his back to me and walks over to a counter mounted on the wall. He removes a pair of gloves and I take the opportunity to check him out. He's wearing a pair of well-faded jeans that look soft as sin. They hang right at his hipbones, held up by a thick, black belt lined with metal studs. He's wearing an olive green t-shirt that is tightly molded to his chest. He reaches up to put his gloves on a shelf and his shirt creeps up just a bit.

Nice!

Black biker boots complete his outfit and while it's not the attire I normally see on guys I associate with, I have to say it looks damn fine on him. It speaks to who he is...casual and rough. And sexy.

And completely out of my league.

I take in his clothing with just a quick glance but I'm fascinated by the tattoos that are peaking out just under the sleeves of his t-shirt. He has three strands of black barbed wire circling each bicep. Some of the prongs have been inked to look like they are digging into his skin, and there are realistic drops of blood dripping from each wound. It's a terrifying piece of artwork and sinfully erotic just because of its badass look. I've never seen anything like it.

I pull my eyes from his tats and look at him. My face heats up as I realize he's been watching me ogle his arms.

"Like what you see?" The remark should have been a teasing comment but his voice is hard.

I try to play it cool. "Not really. Just fascinated, that's all."

"If you want to see more of my tattoos, you only have to ask. I'll be glad to strip down and show you everything." There...now that was teasing in his voice but his eyes are still hard. It's like he wants to tease me but has no clue how to do it. For some reason, that makes me feel sad for him.

Nix is eyeing me closely for my response. I have to reflexively push my tongue to my lips to keep from swallowing it. The thought of him pulling his t-shirt off so I can see his tattoos causes warmth to rush through my entire body and my gut clenches almost painfully. With every bit of strength that I can muster, I calmly respond, "No, thanks. I'm here to do a job, and that's all."

Nix shrugs his shoulders as if my disinterest doesn't bother him and I suddenly realize his offer to strip was only done to throw me off. He really has no interest in me that way at all.

Which is a relief.

I think.

"So, you won't need the whole tour because you've pretty much seen all there is. Again, don't go in there when the door is closed," he says while pointing at the welding room.

"You clearly made that point already."

He walks over to the desk and waves a hand at it. "This is your job. Organize me."

"That's it? Just organize you? I have no clue what this stuff is."

"Well, that makes two of us. Just go through it and try to make some sense of it. You can obviously throw away junk mail. Once you get it sorted out, I'll give you some more direction. I don't have time to hold your hand on this."

"Okay," I respond, but I'm not okay with this. I'm going to look like a complete idiot.

Nix turns away and starts back toward the welding room.

"Hey," I call out. "I have a few questions."

He looks irritated when he turns around. "What?"

"What does Nix mean?"

His eyebrows shoot up and it's like no one has ever asked him such a personal question before. "It's short for Nixon."

"Oh. That's cool."

He remains in place, staring at me, and I realize I had said I had questions...as in plural.

"Why were you at Lincoln Caldwell's party last weekend?"

I watch as he smiles at me and it's so surprising I have a momentary feeling of giddiness. I can tell he doesn't do it often...not a true smile anyway. And it is beautiful. "Linc is my younger brother. I'm actually staying with him at his condo until I can make some remodeling repairs on my house."

"Oh," I say. "Okay. Well, I'll get to work."

He gives me a curt nod and closes himself off in his welding room.

Hmmmmm. Nice to meet you Nixon Caldwell.

***

After four hours of solid work, I've managed to take the voluminous amount of documents and put them into neat piles. I've thrown away a large amount of junk mail but it really didn't put a dent in my work. So far, I've been able to glean that he has about four months of unpaid bills, about ten months of bank statements that haven't even been opened, and a sales tax booklet where the seal has not even been broken.

I'm sitting at the desk, and I have no clue what to do next. But I hate remaining idle so I start opening all of the bank statements and flattening them out. I'm so engrossed in this menial task that I don't hear the welding door open.

My first awareness that Nix is there is when I feel his breath on the back of my shoulder, which is covered only by the thin strap of my camisole.

I turn my head to the side and I see he is bent down, looking over my shoulder at the paperwork on the desk. I break out in goose bumps from his close proximity. The realization that this man can have an effect on my body just by standing near me is a little intimidating.

"I see you made some progress." The timber of his voice is rough.

I push forward in my seat to put some distance between us before I answer. "Well, I've got piles. Here are your bills. It doesn't look like they've been paid in months. Frankly, I'm surprised you still have your electricity on."

He surprises me when he laughs. "No worries. I have all of my bills on auto draft. Everything is paid in full. But I will need you to match them up to my bank statements to make sure they match."

I nod. "Which brings me to the next pile. These are your bank statements that date back ten months. You clearly have not reconciled your accounts, so I'm not sure how you know you have enough money in your accounts to pay your bills."

He straightens up and turns, setting one butt cheek on the corner of the desk. He crosses his arms in front of his chest while he looks down at me. I can't help but notice the way the muscles in his arms roll and flex with his movement. Or the way his jeans pull tight against his muscular thighs.

"Again...no worries," he says. "I have plenty of money in my account to cover everything."

"Okay. This," I say, holding up his sales tax book, "is apparently tax forms that you should be filing quarterly. It's dated a year ago and it's clearly never been opened."

Nix scratches his head, ruffling that silky hair. He sighs. "I guess that's probably a good place to start. Call the Department of Revenue and find out what I need to do to get the taxes caught up."

He leans toward me and I start to pull back, but I notice he's only opening the desk drawer. He reaches in and pulls out a checkbook. Throwing it on the desk, he points at it. "Just write a check for whatever the taxes, penalties and interest are and get it mailed."

My jaw hangs open. I've never met someone that is so cavalier about money. "How do you know you even have enough money in your account to pay the taxes?"

Nix just gives me a patient smile. "You know that motorcycle of mine that you flattened?"

I nod.

"Well, remember me telling you that it would cost $10,000 just to repair it?"

I nod again.

"I build those for a living. I build about five a year, and $25,000 is one of the cheaper bikes. The one you flattened is closer to a $40,000 bike. Do you get what I'm saying?"