Forbidden Games

Plain Old Coward

"I know what they did. And it's called incest."

The metallic voice on the other end of the line was cold and calculating. Shivers run down my spine, despite the August heat. My throat feels tight and then nausea begins to take over.

Who is hiding behind that robotic voice?

Who could have seen us?

And who could hate us so much they'd want to ruin us?

I've been obsessing over these questions for three days now. It's been keeping me awake at night, keeping me from eating and making me break out in a cold sweat each time the phone rings.

No one saw me enter the Key Whys' dressing room at the concert. I'm sure of it. If Drake had known I was behind the door, he would never have joked with Tristan like he had. What if the anonymous caller was just talking about the kiss on the beach? Everyone was there that time. My two best friends – but they would never do something like this. Tristan's buddies may be capable of bad jokes, but they would never try to take down the leader of their little gang. What about Lana, his ex? Or the cat-eyed waitress? Jake, the medical student at Dirty Club? The gardener? The mailman? And why not Harrison, while we're at it? This phone call has made me so paranoid that I'm seriously beginning to suspect a three-year-old. A cute kid who shoves Alfred into my arms each time he thinks I look sad about something. Despite the slobber and dust, I hug the stuffed animal close before Harry "takes him for a walk" or "teaches him to tell stories for when mommy isn't here."

Sienna should spend a little more time with her son and a little less time with her stacks of money.

My heart skips a beat. The telephone rings off in the distance but stops after three rings. A wrong number? A warning? Next time I won't stop until someone picks up . . . ? Who could possibly be enjoying my suffering so much? Who is such a coward, pathetic and evil enough to pull such a thing? All I know is that if I find him, he won't know what hit him.

Anger rather than fear: my new mantra.

I've also been carefully avoiding the other person who is the target of these threats for three days now. Or at least I've avoided being alone with him. It's not so complicated really. I get up early and Tristan sleeps in. I go to work while he practices in some rich kid's garage with his band of chick magnets. I go to "family" dinners while he hangs out in hip bars with his groupies. When he gets home, I've already been in bed for hours, locked up in my room.

In bed for hours, maybe, but not always asleep.

He can sleep soundly on the other side of the wall. Sometimes I think I can hear his steady breathing through the separation, contrasting to my ragged, uneven rhythm. Every night, I feel like I'm drowning whereas he's unaware of the danger, floating lightly along the surface.

I decided not to tell him about any of this. First of all, he would get some sick pleasure out of joking about it and pretending it's no big deal – smiling and calling me a scared, paranoid little girl. And most of all because he might get it in his head that he needs to track down the person behind the threats, even if it means revealing our secret.

He has nothing to lose. Everyone knows the singer of the Key Whys is a rebel, a loud mouth and a free electron, obeying no set path. On the contrary, our little "accident" (that's what I call it since I swore I'd NEVER let it happen again) could do wonders for his reputation.

"Tristan Quinn, the bad boy who managed to lure his stepsister into his lair"

I could feel him looking at me when, for one reason or another, we weren't able to avoid each other over the past few days. Sometimes secretly, other times his looks were more insistent. His blue eyes would rest on my face, shy and distant, or curious and distracted. His hands in his pockets, his hair mussed, he would walk by noisily, weary when he didn't manage to get my attention.

Weary . . . or disappointed?

***

It's been five days since the threat now. Nothing has happened since. Nothing to upset my life, Tristan's life or the life of our blended family in any case.

It's almost 6pm when I get home from work after showing seven apartments in a row. My feet are tired, my legs stiff and my back hurts. I kick off my high heel sandals in the entryway, cursing them angrily.

"Tomorrow I'm wearing Converse!" I grumble, annoyed at myself for trying to look ladylike.

"Yeah, because everyone knows that sneakers look real professional at work," jokes the idiot from a few feet off, standing there with his muscles glistening.

Me, cursed, you say? Tristan has just gotten back from the gym, and apparently he's decided to complicate things. He looks gorgeous. The ultimate temptation. When he tosses his gym bag up onto the top of the hall cupboard his tee-shirt lifts up, showing off his abs and revealing the delicate line of dark hair that descends from his navel. I swallow with difficulty and look up at his biceps – stop! Then at his face . . . He bites his lip and looks me over from head to toe. My cheeks redden as if I had just spent hours in the sun.

Stop!

I close my eyes for a few seconds, trying to regain control, and squeeze my thighs together to stop the tingling.

I open my eyes to see he's turned his back on me. Those shoulders, that frame . . . I have no other choice, so I head in the same direction he's going – toward the kitchen. We don't say a word. The exchange that follows is completely silent. Tristan opens the fridge and takes out two cans of pop. He tosses one to me. I sit at a stool on one side of the counter, he sits on the other side. I take a few gulps of the sugary drink, forcing myself to stare at the wall behind him. He takes out a pack of cookies and hands me one. I accept it without thinking. I take a bite and realize it has cinnamon in it. I HATE cinnamon. And he knows it.

"Hilarious," I say, sliding the cookie toward him.

"You got your tongue back, Sawyer?" he replies before gulping down half of his pop.

And that Adam's apple taunts me . . .

"I never lost it."

"You did with me," he says staring more intensely into my eyes.

"You know it was wrong . . . that night after the concert. We went too far," I mutter.

"Let's just stop talking about it," he says in a casual voice, shrugging his shoulders, which annoys me.

He runs his hand through his hair and I can smell his shampoo. That damn scent that drove me insane just a few days ago. As if he could sense my discomfort, he leans over onto the counter and looks into my eyes again. As if he were trying to read my deepest secrets.

"Not talking about it will not erase what we did," I insist, defying him.

"Stop with the damn morals, Sawyer," he sighs.

"You felt as bad as I did, let me remind you!"

"Where are you getting that from?" he grumbles, squinting his eyes.

"It was obvious when I looked at your face."

"Oh, so you think you know me well enough to know exactly what I'm thinking?" he laughs bitterly.

"No, but . . . "

"Stop! Liv, you and me, we're not talking about it anymore. Ever. It's over. We go back to living our lives, just how they were. Separately. And everything will be fine."

"Fine," I reply coolly.

Then Tristan stands up and slowly makes his way around the end of the counter to head to the living room. When he runs his hand off the end of the white marble countertop, he accidentally knocks off a plastic cup. It's one of Harrison's sippy cups with big ear-like handles. I lean down automatically to pick it up, but Tristan does the same and our skin touches for just a split second.

Damn electricity!

"Oh, and I also wanted to say, stop avoiding me like you've been doing, Sawyer, it's going to start looking suspicious," he adds as he leaves.

"And stop calling me Sawyer!" I yell to his back.

"OK, Sawyer!"

Ha, ha, ha! Hilarious. Really. Dumbass.

My phone vibrates. It's a message from Sienna - Tristan must have gotten the same one. She's texting to let us know she and Craig won't be back before 10 tonight. We need to take care of Harrison who will be dropped off by the nanny soon. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes and open them again to look at the latest GIF Bonnie sent – a kitten tap-dancing. I lock my screen and jump down from the stool. Off to the bathroom to take a very long shower. That's the bare minimum if I want to somehow get in a better mood.

The shower has nothing to do with it, but 40 minutes later I'm laughing like an idiot as I chase Harry around the yard. I don't know why his mother doesn't spend more time with him. He's an anti-depressant and anti-anxiety pill all in one. He's shy, sweet, affectionate and way too intelligent for a three year old. He's been telling me about his second best friend's escapades for the last ten minutes – Elton the Elephant.

"His tunk is for hugs!" he says, wrapping the stuffed animal around his neck.

When I'm about to try and convince him it's bath time, he jumps for joy and points up with his tiny finger.

"Titan! Titan!"

Shirtless at the open window, his big brother is waving until he looks at me with a half-smile. He stares at me for a few long seconds. A few long seconds where I can barely breathe. I don't know how long he's been watching us from upstairs. Harry begs him to come down, more and more insistently, and Tristan finally looks away from me to his little brother. He explains that he'll be down in a few minutes, he just needs to get dressed, and then closes the window with his arms, the arms of a . . . Titan. He gives me a very ambiguous look. I don't know if it's the window pane that deforms his expression or if he is actually feeling more kind and attentive than he was earlier. He certainly doesn't seem indifferent.

How many personalities are hiding behind that angelic face, Tristan Quinn?

The big brother gives the little one his bath and I set off to make homemade mashed potatoes. I'm peeling the 7th potato when the phone rings, upsetting my newfound sense of serenity. Holding my breath, I hurry to the entry and pick up, praying I never have to hear that metallic robot voice again.

"Lombardi-Quinn-Sawyer residence," I say fearfully.

"Is Tristan there?" asks a high-pitched voice, lacking politeness but not sex-appeal.

"Who is it?

"It doesn't matter," complains the stranger, chomping her gum. "Is he there or not?"

"No, he moved. Wrong number!" I say, slamming the phone down.

Are please and thank you too much to ask?

Twelve minutes later, there's another call. Same ringing, same panic attack. My heart races and I break into a cold sweat, but this time the voice on the other end of the line is deeper, more sensual:

"Good evening, I'd like to speak to Tristan please?" says the second caller.

"May I ask who's calling?"

"The love of his life, I hope," jokes the woman, sure of herself.

"That's what the last 15 callers said too."

"Excuse me?"

"He's busy. He'll call you back. Bye!"

"Wait, you didn't ask for my name!"

"I have it. You're love of his life number 16!" I smile before hanging up.

Tristan and Harry come down when the phone rings for the third time. This time I lose my sense of humor. I can't take it. The stress from each phone call is starting to drive me crazy. I pick up and hang back up without answering, then head back to the kitchen to scold the heartbreaker:

"I'm sick of all your admirers calling! Can't you give them your cell number so we don't all have to deal with them?"

Tristan is surprised and gently asks his brother to go into the living room.

"If they call here it's because I'm not picking up when they call my cell," he says, giving me a strange look. "What's up with you, Sawyer?"

His tone is serious, not teasing or manipulative. This is a first! And yet, his answer makes me angry.

"Why, because there must be something wrong with me? Is that it?" I say, moving over to face him to show him he won't get the last word this time.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"You take care of the potatoes, you, your muscles and your bimbos! I've had enough!" I complain. "I'm out of here!"

"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere you'll leave me alone!"

"Liv!" he says suddenly, running after me.

He grabs my arm before I reach the door.

"Tell me where you're going."

"No!"

"Then you're not leaving," he says calmly, pressing his back against the door.

"Let me go!"

I try to move him out of the way, but my fists are useless against his quarterback frame.

"You are not leaving when you're in such a state," he says, completely unaffected by my punches.

"You're not my father! You're nothing!"

"I remember," he says, smiling strangely.

"Tristan," I say more diplomatically, taking a step back. "I'm fine. Let me out."

"To go where?"

"To Bonnie's!" I say suddenly, frustrated that I have to answer his questions.

"There you go," he concludes, proud of himself and smiling. "That wasn't so bad."

He lifts his arms in a sign of surrender and moves just far enough away from the door so that I can get through, but I have to brush against him. As I go out, I ignore the slight pinch in my heart and mutter, "have a good night, jerk . . . " I hear a deep, manly laugh behind me as the door closes.

I am not going to Bonnie's. When I hop into my little SUV, I take the road toward Betty Sue's eccentric house. I have a desperate need to get things off my chest. Everything. Twenty minutes later, my grandma opens the door to me, dressed in her rainbow-colored nightgown. She looks worried.

"Little one? What's wrong?" she asks, pushing back all the little fur balls that are blocking my way.

"The other day you said I could talk to you," I say, a lump in my throat.

A tear rolls down my cheek. Betty Sue doesn't waste a minute, shoving her happy menagerie outside quickly, then pulling me into the living room.

"Sit down, I'll be back with a pick-me-up herbal tea!"

A few minutes later, I'm curled up comfortably on her couch with all the mismatched cushions and she comes back with a steaming cup in hand.

"Drink this, sweetie. I can't tell you what's in it, but I swear it will do you good."

"Just one question," I smile. "Is it legal?"

"Next question!" she laughs softly, coming to sit as close to me as she can.

In this house, all cobbled together, calmed by the presence of this woman who loves me unconditionally and who never judges, by the positive vibes and the smell of my tea, I open the floodgates. First I cry. Then I tell all. Even the details.

Well, except for the details of a certain scene backstage at a concert in a crowded bar.

My attraction to my stepbrother, our battle of wits, our fights, our ambiguous eye contact, our first kiss, the second and the third. The fact that certain barriers have been crossed, despite myself, despite us. The shame I feel everywhere I go. The fear of being found out, judged, insulted, dragged through the mud. The fear of never again feeling what he made me feel. The fear of still wanting him. The fear of losing him.

And the infamous phone call that is still keeping me from sleeping, eating and functioning normally. "I know what they did. And it's called incest." At this, Betty Sue grits her teeth. She interrupts me for the first time and her eyes, full of love and compassion, turn red with anger.

"Incest? What incest?" she yells suddenly. "You're not blood relatives as far as I know! You and Tristan have done nothing wrong! You haven't made things easy for yourselves, I'll give you that, but you haven't broken any rules either! No laws! No moral or ethical codes or whatever the hell you want to call it!"

"He's my brother."

"You're wrong!" she tries to convince me, wrapping her soft, wrinkled hands around my face. "You and Tristan are free. You're eighteen years old and you have the right to fool around as you please. And you know, enemies always end up destroying each other . . . or loving each other. And personally, I prefer the second option."

"People won't understand if they find out."

"This damn society and its cowardice!" she seethes, standing up and putting on her ratty slippers. "People don't want to be courageous and they hide behind false ideas and prejudice to avoid thinking for themselves. But we'll find the blackmailer, sweetie. And we'll shove his threats where the sun don't shine!"

Well said . . .

"Am I dreaming or is this tea making me smile?" I say, a little bit too happy.

Betty Sue winks and brings the beasts back in. They rush over to me on the couch, crushing me and licking my hands. In other words, they cheer me up.

"The tea AND my little protégés!" she says proudly, hearing me laugh.

***

"In the end, 'every man for himself' turned out to be the most effective strategy," philosophizes Fergus as he looks over his future khaki green uniform.

"Yeah, well thank God you're the only one who has to wear that atrocious thing," Bonnie laughs as she studies the milkshake menu.

"Yeah, well don't laugh too hard," I say to my best friend. "You're planning on wearing nothing at all."

"What? Your summer job is at a strip joint?" the only male member of the trio giggles.

"Dream on, perv!" Bonnie retorts. "I'm the new backup singer for the Key Whys and I'm getting paid for every concert. And if I take my clothes off, it'll be for Drake's eyes only."

"It's definitely more exciting than my gardening gig," the redhead complains.

"I can get you some work at our place," I offer. "Sienna is looking for someone to trim the hedges, I think."

"Work for your witch of a stepmom? Never!" he cries, his eyes wide as if possessed.

"Well, we all have jobs, ain't life grand?" Bonnie says, setting down the menu. "And to celebrate, a round of Sex on the Milk!"

Anything sweeter and it would kill you!

"Oh hey, I finally got my letter. From the university," I sigh as they slurp greedily.

"What?" Fergus exclaims, now with a milk mustache in lieu of the real one he's been trying to grow.

"So? Spill it!" Bonnie says impatiently.

"Negative. Apparently I didn't cast the net wide enough. My three choices rejected me."

I try to act like I'm not devastated by the rejections, which I received all the same day this very morning, but I'm not the best actress.

"You can always try again next semester, at the local college!" Fergus suggests. "You'll definitely get in."

"Yeah, that way we'll all be at the same school," Bonnie consoles me, obviously disappointed on my behalf. "I know it's not what you wanted, Liv, but . . . "

"But nothing! I've got the answer. I'm going to take online courses part time and work at Luxury Homes Company the rest of the time. My dad has been dreaming of this for years and I'm starting to love my job. I think I'm really good."

"Alright, can I be honest?"

"Yes."

The crazy diva gets up and starts a strange, psychedelic dance right before our shocked eyes. After a few seconds I crack up laughing and get up to join her, not caring what anyone thinks as I sway my hips.

"I was so scared you were going to leave us and jet off to New York or even Paris!" Bonnie admits, wrapping her arms around me. "I know it's selfish, but you just gave me the best news of the year!"

Well, I guess I haven't lost everything.

I have my little world here, and they make my life wonderful and spontaneous.

Not to mention a certain Tristan Quinn . . .