Forbidden Games

In the Deep End

"Tristan! Showered, dressed and hair combed in ten minutes, I need you! Hurry!" Sienna shouts early in the morning, clapping her hands military-style.

She dragged her oldest son out of bed about 5 minutes ago and he immediately flopped down on the couch, strumming his guitar lazily with his eyes closed.

"Could you make any more noise? It's 7:30 am," I mutter as I take my first sip of coffee, leaning on the kitchen counter.

"Tristan, drop that guitar and get moving!" my step mother continues as her son remains motionless on the couch. "Yeah, I know . . . bad timing . . . find a solution," she says into the cell phone wedged between her shoulder and cheek. "Tristan, did you hear me? Wake up!"

Then she snaps her fingers just inches away from the sleepy musician's face.

"The more you yell, the less I understand," he says slowly with that signature nonchalance, ignoring his mother's urgency and sending her into a rage.

She does deserve it sometimes.

At least I'm not the only one he's this annoying with.

I know these conflicts by heart and, despite the noise so early in the morning, it's kind of entertaining. I move to the other side of the kitchen to get a better view of the scene being played out in the living room. Tristan is wearing dark gray boxers and a white tee-shirt, his bare feet are on the coffee table, his guitar in his arms. Harry is wearing bright yellow pajamas, sitting next to his brother, a bottle of chocolate milk in one hand and Alfred the Alligator's foot in the other. Classic.

"Seven of my waiters have food poisoning," Sienna explains as she hangs up the phone and her hands move to that magnetized spot on her hips. "I'll be having a word with the idiot who decided to celebrate his birthday in some disgusting diner and had the genius idea of inviting everyone else! In the meantime, I need my son to do me a favor and go get ready. Is that too much to ask?"

"I can't help you, I have practice with the guys today."

"You can reschedule, the Earth will not stop spinning! It's just for a day. Or two. Until they send me some subs. And you'll be paid. It's not like it will be a wasted day for you . . . for once," she says, a note of cynicism in her voice.

How does she manage to be so annoying? Now I see where Tristan gets it from.

"I don't care about your money, mom," he sighs with a little indifferent smile before tilting his head back onto the couch. "I can't let the guys down."

"They can come work for me!" she replies, raising her eyebrows as if she just had an illumination. "Five strapping, handsome boys! Some of them have already waited tables, right?" she says, getting carried away.

"No," Tristan cuts her off. "And who's going to watch Harry?"

"I already called the nanny, she's on her way! And you should be on the phone with your friends. The tall one, Blake, and the gorgeous black guy, Jackson . . . and the one who plays the piano!"

"It's Drake, not Blake," Tristan sighs, correcting her. "And Jackson is white. Elijah's black. Mixed, actually. And Cory is on the keyboard, you don't have a 'piano' in a rock band."

"Oh right, Rory, that's it."

Why can't she listen?!

"If I have to be a flunky all day, why shouldn't Liv have to help out too?!" Tristan says, just now noticing I'm in the room.

Ruining my beloved role as the silent spectator. With his teasing eyes and that pride that oozes out of every pore, he knows he's already won.

"I can't. I have to be at the agency in a half hour!" I protest, going to pour the rest of my lukewarm coffee down the sink.

"Great idea!" Sienna says, ignoring me outright. "I'll call your dad right now to arrange it. And you probably have a couple friends who need work, Liv, right?"

"Of course," Tristan rejoices, "not everyone can be a daddy's girl with a perfect little summer job in a perfect little air conditioned office."

"Shut it, Quinn. Have you ever even worked a day in your life?"

"We'll see which one of us can take the heat today," he challenges me, playing one last chord on his guitar before standing up.

Hold on to your mug . . .

Don't throw it at his head . . .

He brushes past me, his chin held high and walks up the steps backwards, slowly and proudly as if it were a great feat he was achieving.

Fall, fall, fall!

"Great, I love it when everyone's on board!" Sienna rejoices, over the top. "Your dad agrees, Liv. He's thrilled we're all going to work together like a real little family! I'll be expecting you all at 8am at the hotel! Bye Harry, sweetie, mommy's going to work!" she says blowing him a kiss. "Be good for Monica!"

Even I know the nanny's name is Erica!

And you can shove your dreams of a 'real little family' you know where!

"Titan, play guitaa 'gain?" asks the little boy in his sad voice.

"No, Tristan!" his mother says, exaggerating the consonants. She doesn't even think to answer his question.

"I'll play for you tonight!" he brother calls from upstairs. "You need to practice the chords with Alfred, first!"

"By mythelf?" Harry says with tears in his eyes, breaking my heart.

He lets his empty bottle fall onto the couch and the stuffed animal's foot takes its place in his mouth.

"We really need to teach him to drink from a cup," Sienna says to herself. "And to stop putting things in his mouth! That speech therapist is really incompetent. See you tonight, my baby! Mommy loves you!"

And she talks to him like he can't understand a thing.

The front door slams. I hear the door to the shower open and close upstairs. And images immediately begin to fill my mind. Forbidden images. I try to chase them away by shaking my head. I'm already late. And already in a tizzy.

It's crazy how hot it gets in this house, even before 8am. Who turned off the AC?

"Come on, Harry, you can come help me get dressed! You can pick out whatever you want . . . except shorts," I whisper in his ear as I walk up the stairs with the sad little munchkin in my arms.

Twenty minutes later, Erica has arrived and Harry is drawing. Tristan just left on his bike after criticizing the car my "daddy bought me." I had carefully decided not to offer him a ride, to avoid reminding him of the painful memory of his dad's death, as recommended by my own dad. We haven't even started the day yet and it's already a disaster.

I get to the lobby of the Lombardi at 8:05, hurrying in and proud of myself for parking so quickly in the employee lot without scratching a single car. But no one is here. It takes almost an hour for everyone to turn up. Sienna finally gathers everyone together and gets us to form a half-circle around her. I check out my seven colleagues for the day: Fergus and Bonnie who can't help but smile, excited by their new "prestigious" jobs. Tristan who is ignoring me and who waited like a coward for his friends to show up before coming into the hotel. Drake, the tall blond guitarist who has both ears pierced and who my best friend stares at unabashedly. Jackson, the drummer with long brown hair and the look of someone who enjoys picking a fight. Fergus is afraid of him and doesn't dare look his way. Elijah, the bassist who has pulled his dreads back into a pony tail as limp and lazy as he looks. And finally, Cory, the invisible man, who has no specific style and hardly ever speaks. The five members of the Key Whys have a casual, indifferent presence, as if nothing could impress them. My little trio, on the other hand, is doing its best to hide our stress and calm our nerves.

That's the difference between cool, popular kids who have it easy and . . . the rest of us.

"Now that everyone's here," my step mom says seriously, eying the latecomers, "Nicole is going to show you the ropes. She's my assistant. She'll give you your uniforms and assign your tasks for the day. Please listen to her like you would your own mother," (an insistent glare at Tristan) "and respect our clients as if they were your . . . idols," she finally says after failing to come up with the names of some current actors or singers. "Make me proud!" she says much too loudly, with a forced smile, revealing how nervous she really is.

"She's convinced we're going to fail," Tristan whispers with a malicious smile.

"Did she really just say 'uniform'? It's never going to fit me!" Bonnie worries in a whisper as she hides behind me.

"How old do you think Nicole is? Thirty, thirty-five?" Drake asks one of his friends quietly.

"Don't care, she's wearing clothes. Imagine how many girls in bathing suits we'll get to see if we work at the pool," Jackson replies, pretending to drool.

"You know, you're not even whispering anymore?" Fergus remarks, concerned about making a good impression.

"You know I might kick that redhead of yours in if you speak to me again?" replies the drummer, cracking his knuckles.

"Liv, can I go home?" my frightened friend mutters, stepping away from the long-haired brute.

"Keep your testosterone to yourself, Jackson!" I retort, unafraid.

He doesn't reply, and his buddies laugh, but Tristan gives me a strange, piercing look, somewhere between surprise and admiration. As if he's just realizing I can talk back to other dominant males.

"Mrs. Lombardi has already decided who will be doing what," announces Nicole over the noise as she reads her notes. "Tristan, Drake, Liv and Ebony, you'll be at the pool bar."

"Yes!" Drake rejoices, clenching his fist.

"I'd rather you call me Bonnie," my friend suggests shyly, making a face.

"Can I switch with Drake?" Jackson asks, his eyebrows furrowed.

"You can take my place if you want," Tristan suggests, shrugging his shoulders. "If it means I don't have to deal with Sawyer all day."

And he shoots another snarky smile in my direction. Another insolent wink. And a shiver runs down my neck.

Don't push me, Tristan Quinn . . .

"You cannot swap positions," the assistant contradicts him. "Elijah and Cory will be at the terrace snack bar. And Jackson ad Fergus, you'll be in charge of room service."

"Oh no, not him," my friend says, his face blushing bright red.

"It'll be fine," I say, quietly reassuring him. "If he touches you, pull the fire alarm, OK?"

"Here are your uniforms," Nicole announces, happy to distract us as she receives a rolling clothing rack from another woman. "The men's dressing rooms are already closed. I only have the key to the ladies'. Is it alright if you all change together? There are bathroom stalls if you need privacy. This way," she says, pointing to a door with the sign "Staff only."

Nicole unlocks the dressing room and hands us each a uniform along with a few last bits of advice, and then walks away, thrilled to be done babysitting so she can get back to her real work. Bonnie decides to keep her own tight black skirt on, afraid the Lombardi standard issue won't fit. She heads to the bathroom stall to change her top. The only bathroom stall, apparently. All the boys pull down their shorts and change into the black suit pants they've been handed, complaining the fit is too tight. The legs are too long for Fergus, the shortest of all of us, girls included. They rip off their tee-shirts too, replacing them with salmon-colored polos, which Tristan's mature friends refer to as "vomit." Tristan is quiet at the end of the room, his suit pants pulled up to his waist, but not yet buttoned, revealing the gray elastic of his boxer briefs which I force myself not too look at.

Why does a shirtless guy always look so sexy?

Or maybe it's just him? Him and his well-earned muscles. Him and that disarming self-assurance at an age when no one likes their body.

"What is it, Sawyer? Too shy to change in front of everyone?" he teases, staring at me from across the room.

"It's true that underwear is basically the same as a bathing suit," Fergus tries to reassure me as he rolls his pant leg up for the tenth time.

"When I need advice from you guys, I'll ask you for it!" I bark.

I ignore both of them and turn to the wall to quickly pull off my tank top and put on the polo.

What is Bonnie doing in there?

I gather my courage and sit on a ledge to pull my jeans off so I don't have to stand in front of everyone in my underwear. They don't seem to care anyway. I think I must be too flat or too much of a goodie two shoes to interest the four musicians. They're standing up, moving around, forming a living wall between me and Tristan, but I can still see him looking at my bare legs, following the line from my toes up to my thighs. He doesn't try to hide it and doesn't even look away when my eyes meet his. I try to force a dark, disapproving look onto my face, but he greets it with a little smirk that annoys me more than anything. And makes me feel wobbly. I pull on the black skirt with the Lombardi logo, praying it won't be as short on me as it looked on the hanger. No such luck. At least it isn't as tight as Bonnie's, but it's straight and stiff enough so it won't fly up with the wind.

"Damn, Liv Sawyer, you look about ten years older in your suit!" Drake comments, laughing in a friendly tone, not hitting on me. "Wow, Bonnie Robinson, not so bad either," he exclaims as he turns to my friend who has finally come out of the bathroom wearing the tight salmon polo shirt that she has unbuttoned at the collar to reveal her cleavage.

And this time there's nothing friendly about the look in the blond heartbreaker's eyes as he checks out my best friend's generous attributes. She is of course pleased with the effect she has on him.

"Alright, has everyone thoroughly checked each other out," Fergus groans, swimming in his uniform.

Everyone leaves the dressing room in single file as I bend over to put my sandals back on. Tristan is last in line and I could swear his hand brushes against my ass as he walks by. I stand up, ready to insult him – or better yet, throw a sandal at his head.

"You're the last one, yet again, Sawyer, hop to it!" he whispers behind my back, placing his fingers on my hips, softly pushing me ahead of him.

This touch, as light as it is, is even more overwhelming than his eyes on me just a few minutes ago. I think back to our night at the concert as images flash through my mind, memories of his hands on my skin. I quickly move away from him, trying to get rid of the dangerous flashbacks. Then Tristan catches up, steps in front of me, pushing me to join the others as he says in an annoyed voice:

"Too slow, Sawyer!"

"Too stupid, Quinn!" I reply without thinking, anger rising inside me.

"There they go, brother and sister at it again!" Drake sighs, amused.

"Are you guys going to bicker all day?" Bonnie asks, rolling her eyes, just to agree with the object of her desires.

I don't have a chance to reply before Nicole comes back to explain how things work at the pool bar: offer drinks to hotel clients before they even ask. Serve them without them having to get up. Add orders to their room account so they don't feel like they're paying, and memorize the room number so they don't have to repeat it. And finally, quietly change the towels on their lounge chairs every time they go in the pool so they can flop their wet bodies slathered in sunscreen onto a clean, dry towel.

The height of luxury, according to Sienna Lombardi.

The morning starts out calmly and I get to know the names of the cocktails and get used to the weight of the tray I'm not allowed to drop. After just a few hours, Tristan manages to carry it high, close to his head, balanced on the tips of his fingers as he slips nimbly between the clients. This ease annoys me and fascinates me at the same time. I carry the tray on my forearm, at waist-height, taking tiny steps and pulling down on my skirt with my free hand.

"Move, Sawyer, you're in my way!" Tristan says, annoyed when the orders start coming in faster, later in the morning.

"The boss's son wants to show off," I say under my breath, trying to hit him where it hurts.

"Say that again," he says, stopping short between the bar and the pool.

"And he seems to enjoy giving orders too," I continue, seeing that it's working. "Like his mother, after all."

"What's your problem?" he yells, moving closer to my face.

"It's you, Tristan Quinn. You and your attitude. You think everything is permitted. Touch my ass one more time and I'll drown you in that pool," I say threateningly.

He throws his hand back and nervously rubs his hair, trying to find something to say. His breathing hitches and I feel it on my cheek as the smell of his shampoo reaches my nose.

"You liked it when I touched you, Liv Sawyer," he says slowly, regaining his self-assurance. "You didn't even jump. You were waiting for it. Since the other night. And you're much too proud to admit it."

The other night . . . I thought we were never going to talk about that again.

I'm dying to slap his face, right here in front of everyone. But I want to bite that lower lip even more. He won't stop nibbling at it, just to provoke me. His mouth is so close to mine, trying to tempt me. My breathing accelerates and my chest heaves, faster than I'd like.

"Is that your way of admitting it?" I finally stutter. "That you want to touch me? Or rather, that you can't stop yourself from touching me?" I add, forcing myself to give him a playful smile.

"In your dreams," he replies in that deep voice, smiling back.

"Psst!" Sienna interrupts, thinking she's being quiet. "Back to work, you two!" she orders dryly, in a whisper that's more like a scream. "The customers are waiting!"

I take a step back, look around and hope I'm not blushing too badly despite the heat I feel in my cheeks. I could always chalk it up to the August temperatures in the middle of the day.

"Watch where you're going and stop cutting me off!" Tristan yells with a strange look, motioning toward his mom with his chin. "Get mad at me," he murmurs through his clenched teeth.

"You're a pain in the ass! Take care of your customers and let me take care of mine!"

I finally understand that we have to fight in front of my stepmom to keep her from suspecting anything.

"A caipirinha and two glasses of champagne!" he improvises, shouting to the bartender.

Tristan and I go in opposite directions and my heart rate returns to normal as Sienna walks away to yell at other employees. The pool deck is now almost full. And it looks like Drake and Bonnie have decided to work part time. I haven't seen them for a while. I go and tend to a newly arrived customer, but I keep an eye on my "coworker." I can't help it. He's being hit on by a group of women with a strong foreign accent who could be any age, really. One of them touches his muscular arm, bulging from the tight sleeve of his polo shirt. Another one says the salmon color is very well-suited to his tan complexion. And finally one of them asks if it's part of his job to put sunscreen on her back. He politely declines, though he never loses that charming smile. And it's strange, but I suddenly want to throw my tray like a Frisbee toward the heads of the three women.

Meanwhile, my customer, old and pudgy in a white robe and slippers and a single lock of greasy hair combed back on his red scalp, orders a fresh-squeezed orange juice from me without even looking up.

How about I squeeze it right onto your big head, you idiot?

Why am I annoyed, again?

I take a deep breath and try to ignore Tristan, looking away as I carry the orange juice on my tray. I suddenly see a couple, barely hidden behind the trunk of a palm tree on the terrace: it's Drake and Bonnie. They're kissing, her hands on his flat little butt, and his on her voluptuous posterior. I barely have a chance to realize what they're doing when the glass crashes to the ground, spilling orange liquid into the turquoise water of the pool. My customer is annoyed, checking there are no stains on his robe, which doesn't even belong to him, and I hear Tristan's fan club laugh from across the pool as if a broken glass was something to laugh about. Tristan comes running over, bends down to pick up the glass and his contracted biceps send my overheated brain over the edge.

"Are you OK?" he asks in his deep voice, looking up into my eyes.

"Yeah, I can do it, you don't have to . . ."

"Are you going to bring me another glass or do I have to wait for you to do the cleaning?" the bald man asks, his face turning redder.

"You'll get what you want when you ask for it nicely," Tristan says, annoyed.

"Excuse me, young man?"

"It's fine, I'll go get you another drink," I say, to avoid a scene.

Tristan walks behind me and grabs my arm to stop me, turning me around to face him.

"Was it seeing Drake and Bonnie that upset you? Or just the fact that you can't do what they're doing?" he asks seriously.

"Tristan, not now!" I reply, trying to pull away as his fingers tighten on my arm.

"Didn't you say that if I tried to touch you again, you'd drown me in this pool?" he challenges me.

"No, I was talking about your hands on my ass," I say quietly, unable to get away.

"That can be arranged," he jokes, his voice insanely sexy.

His palms smack my ass and push as hard as they can until I'm thrown into the water. I have just enough time to let out a high-pitched scream before I'm under water. I can think of nothing to say but swear words as I rise to the surface and hear Tristan's booming laughter. Then Sienna comes running in, furious, yelling about ten times, "everything's fine!" to try and calm down the shocked customers.

"Tristan, what is going on?" she asks, her hands on her hips.

"Not much, mom. I quit!" he says, throwing his empty tray into the air and jumping into the pool to join me.

I can't help but crack up laughing as I see Sienna follow the tray with her eyes, watching as it lands on one of the bimbos' lounge chair, making her jump up to avoid being hit. And then I melt seeing Tristan shake his wet hair, pull himself up on the edge of the pool and reach out his hand to help me out, his wet polo shirt clinging to his torso.

Damn perfect body, adorable smile, sexy eyes!

Damn rules!

That night we are grounded for a week. Sienna tries to tell my dad about the disastrous day but she can't get a word in edgewise because we're laughing too loudly. Even little Harry spits out Alfred's foot to laugh uncontrollably with us. Then my step mother locks herself in her office to find waiters who will be available the next day. At the end of the evening, my dad pulls me in for a hug and whispers that I'd be better off sticking to the real estate biz. I go up to bed, exhausted by all these emotions, realizing that I had the best day I've had since I became a part of this cursed reconstructed family.

No, Tristan Quinn is not and will never be my brother.

As for what he is to me? It's a mystery.