Forbidden Games

Daddy's Girl

In less than a week, the king of jerks has already pulled every trick in the book.

His first exploit: locking me out on the veranda in the evening and only letting me in once I'd lost my voice from screaming and swearing at him. All the while, I could see his satisfied little smile through the glass. The next morning, my hot cup of coffee was waiting for me on the kitchen counter, like every morning – my dad is sweet and always gets it ready for me before leaving for work. Except that morning it was full of salt. Ten seconds after I'd spit out the disgusting drink, the little brat was there to savor his victory yet again, half naked in his bathing suit, his muscles glistening before my eyes.

Just so he could watch me blush.

Who decided to give him that body, seriously?

That same afternoon, Tristan had the brilliant idea to set the washing machine to hot, max speed, shrinking my jeans two sizes. And then he had the nerve to say, without even a hint of modesty, his blue eyes looking straight into mine:

"They're called skinny jeans, Sawyer. But you're wound too tight to wear them. You could always stay in your PJs!"

After calling him every name in the book, I set my ego aside and asked for a truce, so as to make our living together a little more bearable. With a dimple in his cheek, my sworn enemy pretended to accept my arrangement. That was 48 hours ago.

I should have known it was too good to be true.

This morning, Tristan Quinn is at it again. I've been negotiating with him to give me back my towel for ten minutes now. He must have stolen it just before I went into the bathroom. Furious, soaking wet with my arms crossed over my naked body, I yell at him through the locked door. I refuse to open it despite his scheme.

"If you want the towel, open up. I swear, my eyes are closed!" he jokes from the hall.

"Tristan, set the towel down by the door and get out of here," I order him for the twelfth time. "I'm going to be late, stop it!"

"Negatory," he replies in that deep voice of his. "I've got the goods. I'm in a position to negotiate."

"Tristan, please . . . "

"No."

"What about our truce? Remember?"

"I didn't think you were that naive," he sighs and I can almost see the arrogant smirk spread across his lips.

Suddenly frustration gets the best of me. I lose my cool and start to bang on the door with my fists.

"Do what I say or I'm calling my dad!" I scream, getting desperate.

"I was waiting for that one. Papa Sawyer to the rescue! Hurry up, your little darling is in danger, come quick! God knows what would happen if she had to solve one of her problems on her own," he says, still trying to wind me up.

"What's your problem with me, Quinn?" I seethe.

"My problem, is that you're daddy's little girl, Sawyer, and I don't like that."

His last blow hits me hard and does more damage than the others. While Tristan may be an expert at getting me riled up, he doesn't usually say hurtful things. This time he went straight for the weak spot. And it hurts. For a few long seconds I don't know what to say, and then I finally reply in all sincerity, tears in my eyes:

"My dad is all I've got," I murmur, not knowing if he can hear me through the door

He's silent.

"And all I've got is mom," he says in a softer tone. "And Harrison. But I'm not sure if a 3-year old counts."

"It counts."

"Yeah, sure it does. Here, you can get your towel whenever you want, I'm outta here."

When I open the door a few seconds later, I see he's kept his word. I pray that he's finally run out of pranks to pull. Or maybe that he's just sick of torturing some naive, uptight girl.

I'd be dumb to believe either was true . . .

Tristan, you need to leave me alone now. Or I'm going to murder you in your sleep. Your choice.

I check the clock and realize I only have five minutes to get ready. Which brings us to what my two best friends have in common: if you're one minute late, you'll hear about it for the next hundred years. Not to mention that our mission is of utmost importance. Find a summer job. All three at the same place, if possible. I need to get out of this house that is now haunted by an evil spirit. When I get to my room, I open the closet and grab a bunch of hangers randomly. I throw on the first long dress I find and check the window to look out on the paved drive.

Bonnie's dented convertible is not on the horizon yet, but there's Tristan, standing next to his bike, strapping Harry into the little child's seat on the back. The nanny, dressed in an uptight suit, is barely watching them, and then she heads off to enjoy her unexpected moment of freedom. While Harry kicks his feet and taps his hands on his helmet, probably excited about their ride, his older brother is patient as he struggles with the straps. The Tristan I see now is different somehow. Attentive, kind and protective. I believe he'd do anything for Harry.

His big, strong body straddles the seat and the two brothers head down the drive on the bike. They're already out of sight, but I can still hear Harry's joyous laughter.

Two minutes. I have two minutes left. The mirror does not seem to like my outfit, if I'm to believe the shapeless image it spits back at me. I look like I'm wearing a costume. A little girl who wants to play grownup. I let the pale pink dress slide to the floor and look at myself in my underwear. My extremely pale skin is marked here and there by my attempts to tan. My straight, dirty blond hair is almost halfway down my back now. Maybe if I got a haircut, a bob perhaps? Maybe I'd look more mature. More like a woman.

Or not.

I look over my long legs, my flat stomach and slightly rounded butt – a bit too slight really: I inherited my dad's slim figure. And I definitely did not get any of my mother's generous bosom. Though I must say, that's the only generous thing about her.

She doesn't seem too upset to only see me once a year.

That's fine by me.

Wait a minute!

Black shorts that hit at mid-thigh, a white V-neck tee-shirt and flat sandals should do the trick. I brush my hair and slather on some lip balm as i race down the steps, my two accomplices honking the horn happily from out front

"Did you request a luxury limo, Miss Fanning?" Bonnie says from behind her oversized sunglasses.

"Very funny," I say, climbing in the back seat. "Fergus, tell her I don't look like a thing like Elle Fanning . . . "

"I swear!" he jokes, lifting his right hand as if he were taking an oath. "to tell the whole truth, nothing but the truth. You look exactly like her, Liv."

"Well, I suppose I'm supposed to take that as a compliment," I mutter as the car stalls rather than starts.

"Shit!" says the driver. "Stupid wedge heels. My legs look amazing, but it's like walking on stilts!"

"Uh, Bonnie?" I ask, a bit unsure it's safe for her to drive. "Do you want to borrow my sandals for the road?"

"Nah, you gotta live dangerously!" she says, shrugging her shoulders and revving the motor.

No, I'm not daddy's little girl. But I do value my life!

After a chaotic ride – to say the least – Bonnie parks her clunker across the street from a convenience store near the main beach on Key West.

"There are so many tourists in the summer, all the supermarkets are looking for people!" she announces as she gets out of the car.

"The supermarkets, maybe, but not this little hole in the wall," I say, unconvinced.

"You can be such a pessimist!" Fergus says as he walks ahead. "Let's go check it out!"

Five minutes later, we leave, none of us with a job. Not only is the manager not looking to hire, but he thought we were an organized gang of kleptomaniacs because Bonnie refused to take off her sunglasses.

"It's hot, my mascara is smudged! I wasn't going to stoop to that level!" she complains as we walk back to the car.

"How about we try an actual supermarket," I murmur, suddenly aware that our mission is likely to fail.

Three hours, three grocery stores, two clothing shops, a fast food restaurant, a hardware store and a garden center later – nada. Bonnie has finally taken off her sunglasses, but it hasn't helped. Apparently waiting until July to look for a job is heresy.

"You should have come in two months ago!" everyone says, some with more tact than others.

The ice-cold soda freezes my teeth and I set my can on the round table of the café where I'm trying to remobilize the troops.

"We just got started, we'll find something!" I say to my two companions, forcing a smile.

"Yeah right, I'm sure they don't like redheads," Fergus sights as he swirls the foam on his alcohol-free beer.

"Or black people," Bonnie adds, taking a bite of her muffin. "Especially voluptuous ones."

"That's right, and they called in the FBI and they're on their way to arrest you," I laugh, looking at their defeated faces.

"It's not funny," my favorite ginger retorts. "I give up for today!"

"No! Don't say that! We're a team!" I plead, shaking them.

My two best friends clink glasses to their defeat before my eyes, taking a philosophical approach.

"Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow," the traitor says, smiling, her mouth full of muffin.

"I need a job! Right now!"

"You know where to go asking," she says, putting her sunglasses back on. "How about we go for a swim?"

"It'll have to be without me, I have to . . ."

"Find a job, we know!" Fergus interrupts, standing up. "Liv, your dad is just waiting for you to ask if you can work with him!"

Here we go again, daddy's little girl . . ."

"Independence is nice, but it has its limits!" Bonnie consoles me, finishing the rest of my pop. "You'll be paid well, treated well, and you'll learn on the job!"

"And I'll be the good little girl who does everything everyone expects of her," I say angrily.

"Well, not quite," Bonnie jokes, shaking her afro. "There will be a few swear words and freak-outs thrown in . . ."

"Who me?" I say, trying to hold back a smile. "That's not true, I'm an angel!"

"It only takes two minutes with you to figure out you don't give in so easily, Liv. You always want the last word. You may be a loner, a bit of a daydreamer, but you're also passionate and stubborn," Fergus pipes up, the intellectual who loves to hear himself talk. "Behind that goodie two shoes exterior, you're hiding a strong, determined will. You're not afraid of much. It's who you are. You know, we had some trouble at first, but we learned to accept you for who you are," jokes the Irish boy as he kisses my cheek. "Am I wrong?"

"Yes, at least on one point. I'm shit-scared of Bonnie driving with those things on her feet . . ."

"Liv, it's Lana! Hide!" she cries out, pushing me unexpectedly behind a palm tree.

Lana. One of Tristan's latest conquests. Yet another story with an unhappy ending. The girl was head over heels in love and ended up being ignored from one day to the next by that jerk with a heart of stone.

"Ah, your stepbrother . . ." my best friend laughs, getting a dreamy expression on her face.

"Bonnie, don't start . . ."

"No, I won't go there, don't worry. The line is way too long!"

That about sums up Tristan's love life . . .

Asshole.

My two accomplices head to the beach, and suddenly the road to my dad's real estate agency looks unbearably long. The sun is beating down on the pavement and I try to find some shade as the bus stop becomes crowded with people. I take a look at my neighbors - a man in a wheelchair, an old lady who's out of breath and a mother overwhelmed by her three annoying children – and I realize I should really not be complaining.

Yes, my mother may not have fought for me. Fine, my dad married a horrible bitch. OK, my step-brother is a real jerk, but none of that keeps me from living the life I want to live. And I still have the luxury of enjoying this little corner of paradise I live in.

Without another thought, I hand my bottle of water to the old woman, grab the twenty dollar bill that the oldest of the gremlins just stole from the man in the wheelchair and return it to him. Then I race across the road that runs along the beach, dodging the cars coming at me. Once I hit the sand, I head straight into the turquoise water. I stop at the tide line, strip off my shorts, tee-shirt and sandals and drop my purse, heading into the water, crying out with ecstasy.

For a few long minutes, I float on the surface, my eyes closed, enjoying this moment of calm fulfillment. I'm alone in the world, and I love it. The sun is low in the sky, it's the end of the afternoon and I finally drag myself out of the water. I let the warm sun dry my skin for a few minutes, and then I put my shirt back on. A few feet away, I hear laughter and a car horn.

"So that's your new job?" Tristan yells from the passenger seat of his friend Drake's car, his tan arm hanging out the window casually. "Swimming by the side of the road in your panties? I'll toss you a few coins!"

"Oh, I bet you say that to all the girls." I reply as I pull on my shorts and sandals. I can understand Lana's despair now.

"You want me to drive you somewhere?" Drake asks, getting out of the car to come meet me.

Tristan is out now too, but he stays behind. Despite the distance that separates us, I can feel his eyes on me.

"No thanks. I'm not going anywhere with him."

"I can leave him on the side of the road if you want," his best friend jokes.

"Watch it, Drake," Tristan threatens from afar, his arms folded across his chest.

"Come on, let's go, I'll take you wherever you need to go."

I'm about to refuse again when the bus drives by.

"The next one comes in thirty minutes," Tristan says exultantly, his hands propped behind his head as if he couldn't care less.

I thank Drake and flick off the smug little playboy, heading off on foot. It shouldn't take more than 40 minutes. Except I've barely walked twenty steps when the bright yellow SUV stops alongside me.

"Get in, Liv!" Drake insists. "You're going to die of heat stroke and it's really dangerous to walk in the middle of all this traffic."

"Get in," Tristan echoes in his deep voice, his eyes focused on the road.

That voice . . .

"No thanks."

"Sawyer, stop being a baby and get in the car," he repeats, his eyes still staring ahead. "If anything were to happen to you, your dad would blame it on me!"

"Oh stop, you're going to make me cry," I banter.

I hear a car door. A firm hand grabs my arm with surprising softness, pushing me into the back seat. I hear the door shut again.

"Lock the doors, Drake," says the idiot who just kidnapped me.

"Where to, Liv?"

"United Street," I tell him, almost ashamed to say it.

"Craig's agency?" Tristan asks, turning to look at me.

Those damn eyes that throw me for a loop every time . . .

"Yeah, I know. 'Daddy's little princess' and all that . . ."

"What?" Drake asks, not understanding what's going on.

"Forget it," Tristan replies. "We'll drop her off and then we'll go meet the twins."

Twins . . ." Two for the price of one, I'm guessing . . ."

I sit in silence for the rest of the ride. Once we're downtown, Drake drops me off at my father's agency. Tristan gives me a strange look as I get out, his eyes looking me over from head to toe, then defying me as he stares straight into my eyes. At first I decide to ignore him and walk away, but then, annoyed, I turn back.

"You can keep that kind of ogling for your twins," I say loud enough only for him to hear.

Drake is busy on his phone, talking with some girl who sounds like she didn't appreciate his behavior the night before.

"You really think that's how I'm looking at you?" Tristan glares at me, his tone arrogant. "Oh little Liv, you know nothing about men."

" 'Little' Liv is only 6 months younger than you," I seethe.

"Go find your daddy," he teases, bearing his perfect white teeth in a carnivorous smile.

"You'll have to explain it to me some day."

"Explain what?" he asks, squinting in the sun.

"What I did to make you hate me so much . . ."

For a brief moment, Mr. know-it-all seems caught off guard by my question. Then his smile appears again, but this time there's sincerity in his eyes. All the provocation and needling is gone.

"I don't hate you, Sawyer. That's not the word."

Without giving me time to reply, he waves his hand at Drake and the tires squeal on the pavement, carrying the SUV off toward the twins.

What? I'm not obsessing about the twins . . .

The blue and white sign of the Luxury Homes Company has just been washed and is spic and span as I walk into the agency. Ellen the secretary recognizes me immediately and calls my dad to tell him I'm here. After exchanging a few niceties, I go up to the 2nd floor and enter Craig Sawyer territory. His world.

"Green olive, what brings you here?" he asks in surprise as he kisses my cheek and heads to the fridge to get some juice. "Pineapple? Strawberry? Turnip?"

I giggle like I used to when I was four and he would make the same joke. His scent of white musk and menthol cigarettes calms me, like always.

"Cauliflower, please," I reply, sitting in his presidential desk chair.

"One day you'll enjoy this view yourself," he says, looking out his bay window onto the most beautiful street in the city.

I smile, a little distracted. He joins me, sitting on the edge of his desk and hands me a glass of strawberry juice.

"Is everything alright?" he asks softly.

"Cohabiting is a little rough . . ."

"You'll both get used to it. Two hotheads like you are bound to make sparks fly. But don't be afraid to dish it out."

Hearing my dad say this makes me laugh. I thought Craig would tell me to ignore the behavior of my so-called stepbrother, to wait for it to pass, but no, he tells me to get my claws out and defend myself. That in itself makes me love him even more.

"Hey, Liv, sweetie?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm here, you know. Tell me if you need anything."

"Just a job," I mutter, staring at a silver frame on the wall.

"Sorry?"

"I need a job. For the summer . . ."

"I thought you refused to 'work for your dad'," he says, imitating my voice which sounds like it is very abrasive.

"Please tell me that was a very poor imitation?"

"It was. Couldn't have been worse."

"OK," I laugh.

"So, a job?"

"Yeah. Anything. Something to keep me busy. To earn a little money. And that will teach me some things I could use later on."

"Halleluiah, my daughter has seen the light! To succeed in real estate, you have to get some experience in . . . real estate!"

"OK, sure," I mutter. "Do you have something for me?"

"I've been sitting on it for a month now," he says, hugging me. "Head intern!"

"What exactly does that entail?"

"Calm down, green olive! You'll find out Monday!"

And my big idiot father dances a tango solo to the other end of the office, so happy his daughter has decided to follow in his footsteps. It's a path he carved out for himself from scratch, without anyone's help. A path that makes me extremely proud to be his green olive each and every day.


***

"Hello? Hello? What is this piece of crap? I knew I should have said no that sad-eyed little salesman! But he wanted to sell it to me so badly . . . Stupid consumerist society . . ."

"Betty Sue?" I laugh, recognizing her voice and her "colorful" way of expressing herself.

"Hello? Liv?"

"Grandma?"

"Oh, no! I'm hanging up if you call me that!"

"Betty Sue, come on, you're not twenty anymore, you have to get used to it sooner or later!" I laugh harder.

"Age is only in your head! I'm twenty if I say so! Hello?"

"Yes, I'm here. Can you hear me?"

"Hello? Damn touch screen! An invention of the devil, I tell you!"

"Betty Sue, hit the speaker phone!"

"The what?"

"It's written on the screen of your iPhone!"

A few seconds later, after I hear some strange noises, my grandma finally manages to tame her cell phone.

"When do I get to see you, dear?"

"Whenever you want! Come to the house!"

"And have to put up with that witch? No thanks!"

"Sienna is almost never around during the day, she has to manage her hotel."

"She has spies!"

"No, those are Harrison's nannies," I laugh.

"Same difference. And I'm sure she's had cameras installed!"

"Alright, I'll come to you."

"Tomorrow? I need to see you before your birthday! Once you turn eighteen you'll never be the same again."

"Betty Sue, we'll only be two years apart then," I say, touched by her words.

"That's true," she says, sounding emotional. "You're growing up too fast, my little one."

"I'm just the same."

"I think you're going to experience a lot of new things this year . . ."

"Have you been using those tarot cards again?"

"Yes," she says, a smile in her voice. "And believe me, this year will be unlike any other!"

It's strange, but I'm not sure if that's a good thing or bad thing...