Off Limits (Off 2)

I smile at my dad. It's ghost thin, but it's still a smile. "I know, Dad, and I love you too. I'll get up with him. Don't worry."

"That's my boy. I'm proud of you, Nix. So damned proud."

A pit forms in my stomach at those words. Why does he have to say things like that? There's nothing to be proud of here. The fact that he tells me he's proud only makes me more shameful. Acid churns and I can feel the beer and pizza wanting to make a re-appearance but I push it back down. Luckily, dad doesn't say anything else and the subject is dropped.

I stick around and watch half of the Pittsburgh/ Baltimore game before heading out. Dad gives me a hard hug again, holding on a little longer this time. I take in a deep breath and smile inside at the hint of Old Spice aftershave. It's one of the smells I remember from my childhood. Back when things were simpler.

Harley jumps in the truck and we head back to Linc's place. He's still out of town and won't be back until tomorrow. Which I'm glad. I think he and dad are in a conspiracy to get me to talk about old wounds. He always grills me after I come back from dad's, wanting to know what we talked about.

I take Harley for a walk around the block and let him do his business before we head in. I'm dreading what I need to do and I decide a little fortification is necessary. I only had two beers at dad's so I need something a little stronger. I pick up a bottle of Jack Daniels from Linc's bar and pour a shot. I toss it back swiftly, enjoying the burn as it goes down. I stare out the window as the night sky darkens, mesmerized by the twinkling lights of Manhattan across the river. I wonder what Emily is doing right now.

Shaking my head from thoughts of the dark haired beauty, I pour one more shot and slam it back. The burn is equally as pleasant.

Walking into the living room, I bring the bottle and shot glass with me. I sit down on the couch, drink one more shot, and then put my implements on the coffee table. I pull out my cell phone and dial Paul's number.

It rings four times and I consider hanging up but then he answers. "It's about fucking time you called me back, you prick."

I smile. Only Paul.

"I've been busy, man."

"So damned busy you can't call your best buddy back? Oh, and did I tell you, you are a prick?"

I laugh. "I get told that every day by someone. I don't need you to confirm it."

There's silence there for a minute. Both of us waiting for the other to say something.

I go first. "So, how are you doing?"

"Freakin' peachy keen, jelly bean. Got my new walkin' legs last month. Of course, you'd know that if you ever called me back."

I grimace and my stomach churns. I'm in danger of losing the Jack all over Linc's living room carpet. "That's great. Do they put Lieutenant Dan's to shame?"

He busts a gut laughing at me. "They sure do, Forrest. Titanium steel. Actually, they have these new spring mechanisms in the knee joints that really take a lot of pressure off my hips and lower back. It's like walking on a cloud of air."

I lean back into the couch cushions, close my eyes and listen to Paul talk. He tells me all about his new prosthetics, he tells me about starting college, and he tells me he's going to ask Marie to marry him. He's happy, and well adjusted, and I want to vomit listening to it. Because I'm afraid he's putting on an act just to make me feel better.

And because it's my fault he lost his legs.

We talk for about an hour, and I doubt I hear ninety percent of what he says to me. I promise I'll come visit him soon, but we both know it's probably a lie.

After I hang up, I pour another shot of Jack and drink it down. I stare at the empty glass. It's how I feel. My instinct is to hurl it across the room as hard as I can and watch it shatter into a million pieces. But just as quickly that thought is gone because it just seems like too much work. Instead, I set the glass gently on the coffee table and stand up. I take the bottle of liquor back with me to the bedroom.

I'm not done with it yet. And it doesn't escape my notice the next time I tip the bourbon up to my lips that it's the same color as Emily's eyes.

CHAPTER 13

Emily

It's Friday and I can't believe I'm actually going to be painting Nix's house today. It's not that I mind. Heck, I owe him money so I'll work it off however I can. And part of me is sort of excited to try this. I've never painted anything before. I imagine what my mother would say and I practically cackle with unfettered glee.

I hope I don't screw his walls up too bad, but if I do, that's his problem. I'm just doing what he tells me and if he wants to hire an amateur, so be it.

And while I don't mind doing any type of manual labor at the behest of my employer, what I do mind is the fact that Nix has been a grumpy bastard all week to me. I think he's having me paint inside his house to keep me out of his workshop. And that sort of hurts my feelings.

I thought we were opening up some doors of friendship this past weekend, particularly after he sort of...maybe a little...well not really, opened up to me. But he had engaged in honest conversation and I was wise enough to know when to back off. And he had genuinely been interested in me, too. All of those things had helped to ratchet up my attraction to him.

Now, I didn't feel so shallow. I was attracted to more than just his body. The thought amused me greatly.

When I had come in to work on Monday, it was with utter disappointment that I found the original, brooding and somewhat offensive Nix Caldwell. I can only assume that something happened to put him in a really bad mood on Sunday. He didn't even bother to try to be polite. He just barked orders at me and then shut himself off in his welding room. He never came back out, even though I loitered around a good fifteen minutes after I had finished my tasks for the day. I thought maybe he was just busy.

But when I returned on Wednesday, I was met with the same thing. He apparently didn't have any welding to do but he practically told me to keep my mouth shut and not bother him while he was working. So I watched him a lot while I worked on setting up vendor accounts in his new Quick Books program on the laptop.

He was meticulous in his work and utterly focused. That I could understand and respect. It was even sort of cute when he was really concentrating hard on something, sometimes the tip of his tongue would stick out from between those generous lips of his. His eyebrows would scrunch together. And when he completed the delicate work he was doing, it was a joy to watch his face smooth out and a small smile curve his lips.

It was practically hypnotizing and difficult to tear my eyes away from him. He actually caught me staring at him once and glared at me with venom. I immediately dropped my head back over the laptop, and typed furiously on the keyboard.

The second time he caught me looking at him, he snapped at me, "What the hell are you looking at, Burnham?"

He didn't even have the grace to call me Emily. He freakin' called me Burnham.

Asshat.

Just before I was preparing to leave that day, he told me to wear old clothes on Friday. When I asked him why, his smile was almost evil when he told me I'd be painting inside his house.

I wasn't about to let him see that I was bothered by this news. First, the only thing that bothered me was that he clearly didn't want me in the same room with him. But if I showed him that I was bothered, he would think I was nothing but a spoiled, brat, and I had worked hard the last few years to shed that image.

Hell, I even volunteered with Danny two weekends a month at a homeless shelter. The old Emily Burnham was hopefully nothing more than a faded, somewhat embarrassing, memory.

So here I am. Stan

ding in Nix's living room, watching him lay out all of the painting supplies. And, of course, I'm admiring the way the muscles in his back bunch and ripple underneath his t-shirt as he lifts a bucket of paint up. Or the way his jeans mold to his ass when he bends over to lay the drop cloth on the floor. I shamelessly ogle and I don't have an ounce of guilt. Especially since he's been a jerk all week, it appears the only thing that is appealing about him right now is his body.

I will never admit this in a hundred years, but when Nix told me he wanted me to paint his living room, I did have a moment of panic. I may not have ever done this type of manual labor before, but that fact alone would not fully ease my conscience if I really screwed his walls up. The fact of the matter was, I hated failing at anything. So, I actually diligently studied up on the subject. I read a few articles online and then I went to the god of all internet teachings...YouTube. You'd be amazed at how many videos there are on how to paint walls and trim.

So while it's true I've never done this before, I now actually feel a little confident that I will at least not look like a complete buffoon.

Nix has everything laid out and he stands up straight to look at me. He tersely points out all of the materials and tells me that the walls have already been primed. I can tell that because the faint odor lingers in the air.

He shows me how to use a screwdriver to pop the lid off the paint can, and stirs it up with a wooden stick. Wiping the excess off, he lays it on a corner of the drop cloth. And while I don't need the instruction--again, thank you YouTube--I very much enjoy watching him bending, stooping and straightening back up as he demonstrates to me the finer points of how to use a paint roller versus a paintbrush.

When he's finished, he asks if I have any questions.

"Nope."

His gaze rakes over my body, and he sort of sneers at me, "I told you to wear old clothes because you will get paint on yourself. And that's the best you could do?"

I look down at myself and I can see a little of what he is saying. It's not like I had a pair of paint coveralls in my closet so I'd worn my oldest and most casual clothing. A pair of old khaki cargo pants, a white tank top and flip-flops. I tell him this, although I leave out the part that I painted my toenails the night before a lovely shade of pink, because it goes well with khaki.