Forbidden Games

Truth or Dare ?

Saturday started out so well. A flea market with Betty Sue where I laughed so hard at the off-the-wall stands my sides hurt. A swim in the ocean on a deserted little corner of the beach, all alone in the turquoise water. A late lunch with Fergus whose hands are covered in nettle rash – the poor thing is literally allergic to his job. A relaxing afternoon with Bonnie, poolside at the Lombardi without any Italian hurricanes on the horizon. And the idea of returning to the quiet serenity of my big, empty house after a busy day. My sole roommate has been going out every night since our last clash so I am the only one in charge at the family abode.

My weight in popcorn and an old spy movie on demand: my definition of a good night.

If it weren't for the questions running through my mind . . . Where is Tristan? Who's he with? And in what position?

I hit the shower when I get home, pull my hair up into a bun and snuggle into my oversized organic cotton PJs – my only purchase from the market this morning. I had to appease my hippie grandma. I go back down to the living room. Besides the beeping of the microwave, nothing breaks the perfect silence. Well, that and the hysterical meowing of the neighbor's adventurous cat who they really need to get fixed.

I hate cats.

The popcorn bowl is empty in front of me. The music for the final credits of Hitchcock's North by Northwest starts to play on the TV and I'm already falling asleep on the soft living room couch. A giant tortoise named Thor visits me in my dreams and tries to teach me the art of krav maga.

Finally, around midnight, the sky falls on my head. Or rather a keg of beer comes dangerously close to my temple. I open my eyes and see two tattooed idiots throwing the 20-pound object back and forth like a basketball, unconcerned with the fact that they might crush the skull of the poor girl lying there. Me. I jump up without even asking what they're doing here, because I think I already know. My mind is still fuzzy and I see them look at my shapeless pajamas and laugh. I could strangle them, but I leave them standing there and walk by three trashy girls in shorts and bikini tops standing in the entry. They look at me askance and then continue on their way, clicking their high heels. I seriously want to kill someone.

Thirty seconds later, finally awake, I become fully aware that my assumption is correct. I realize that loud music is shaking the walls of the house. There are fifty complete strangers dancing, flirting, kissing and fighting under my roof. Alcohol is flowing freely despite the average age of the squatters – 18 to 20 – thank you, fake IDs. I finally spot the angelic face that's staring at me from the steps where he's admiring the spectacle in a state of glee. Those damn blue eyes, so gorgeous and hypnotizing, inspiring both thoughts of hate and desire within me.

Tristan Quinn, did you seriously plan a damn pool party at my house without telling me?

Loud laughter fills the hall as the "guests" spot me in the entry wearing my monk-like costume, a messy bun on top of my head, my eyes tired and my jaw clenched tight. There's no doubt, I'm going to win the prize for the biggest loser of the night.

The only possible solution is escape. I go for the stairs, push two or three bimbos aside, ignoring the ridiculous pick-up lines coming from a drunk dude. I pause to tell Drake and Elijah off as they try to offer me a beer, and then race up the stairs as quickly as possible. Of course when I'm just about at the top, I trip over and fall. A muscular arm catches me at the last second, saving me from total disaster. I look up to see who has his arm around my waist. Tristan. I shove him back, muttering so only he'll hear:

"Don't touch me! How many times do I have to say it?"

"What? Would you rather have broken your face?" he replies in his deep voice, not intimidated by my bad mood.

"What the hell is all this, Tristan? All these people? You know you don't live alone here, right?"

My voice cracks in disgust at his selfishness. He takes a step back, ruffles his hair and suddenly seems uncomfortable. I think I'm dreaming when I realize he actually feels bad. At least a little.

"I guess I could have sent you a text," he admits, staring at my mouth.

Stop, Quinn . . .

Our eyes meet, locked together like never before. Despite the crowd around us, the noise and the activity, I get the feeling we're all alone in the world. And I wonder what this invisible force is that seems to torture us. How can you explain the fact that we hate each other one minute, then intensely desire each other the next?

"Tristan, come jump in the pool with me!" yells a tempting voice from downstairs.

"Yeah, good idea," I whisper, moving in to him so our lips are almost touching. "Tristan, go jump in the pool with meaningless hookup number 279 . . ."

I put my hand on the railing, ready to climb the last few steps separating me from my solitude. But Tristan beats me to it and reaches the second floor before I do. Out of view, he presses me against the cold wall and growls, just inches from my face:

"What are you playing at, Sawyer? Are you messing with me or are you jealous? You have to choose . . . "

"Let go of me and go find Lara Croft!"

A camouflage leather bikini? Seriously?

"I live my life, you live yours, remember?" he says as I feel his hot breath on my face.

"Like it was yesterday. But please go live your life elsewhere!"

"This is my house just as much as it's yours," he smiles suddenly, amused by my comment.

"Yours, yes, but it doesn't belong to the degenerates you hang around with!"

"Good point," he laughs. "And tell me, Sawyer?"

His eyes look me over, giving me the unpleasant sensation of being viewed with X-ray vision. Unpleasant? Alright, maybe not.

I gulp and grumble:

"What?"

"These pajamas . . . are they to keep me from secretly checking you out?"

"You bastard!" I say as I escape, his laughter roaring after me, even once I slam the door to my bedroom behind me.

I feel my heart pounding as I slide down to the floor. When is this nightmare going to end? Downstairs, a series of cries fills the house as Tristan is greeted by the crowd like a king. I imagine him chugging a cold beer, challenging his friends to a stupid bet and moving his athletic body to the bass rhythm as he runs his hand through that rebellious hair, looking for his next prey in the crowd.

Wearing a super sexy swimsuit rather than the pajamas of an eighty-year-old.

I hear shouts of joy from the pool. From my open window, I can hear everything, especially the group of girls who are discussing, a bit too enthusiastically, the best tactics for luring "Tri" into their beds.

Let's give him a ridiculous nickname while we're at it . . .

The invisible force comes over me again, making me react in a totally irrational way. I get up and go to my closet, take down my hair and slip into my tiny little black dress, throwing my pajamas across the room. No need for a bra: black tanga panties, high heels and I'm ready to go. After a quick inspection in the mirror, I go to the bathroom. Blush, mascara, lipstick: I go all out, just like Bonnie taught me.

This girl in the mirror is not really me, and yet, I can't help but smile at her.

Titanium resonates loudly through the house. As I walk down the steps one at a time – stilettos are the number one cause of death for girls like me – a few eyes turn up to catch a glimpse, curious and surprised.

The loser in pajamas has made some progress, right?

I go into the kitchen, grab a cup of cheap wine that someone hands me and go face the group of five guys. The Key Whys. Jackson and Cory whistle when they see how I'm dressed. Drake lingers over my breasts a bit too long, Elijah stares at my legs and Tristan, who has had his back to me until now, turns to face me. His eyes widen for a second, sweeping over every part of my body, then they squint unhappily. The rock star forces himself to look away, it's obvious, and then he sets his glass down on the counter with a thud.

"Guys, how about a game of water polo?" he says suddenly to exclude me from the group.

"I have a better idea," I say, stepping into the middle of the circle. "A game of truth or dare . . ."

I sip my drink slowly, provocatively. Tristan literally stares daggers at me, rubbing his hair in frustration. Four girls join us, they seem a little drunk.

"Did I hear that right? Truth or dare? When do we start?" one of them asks excitedly.

"Drake, you'll see, I've got nothing to hide," another one says in a porn star voice.

"You ladies can play, we've got better things to do!" Tristan says annoyed as he motions his friends to follow.

"Wait, I've got nothing against this game," Drake laughs, refusing to cooperate.

Shit! If Bonnie knew what I just started, she'd kill me!

That said, Drake does not need my help if he wants to sleep with anything in a skirt.

"Yeah, I'm in," Jackson adds, grabbing the ass of the little redhead who's sidling up to him.

"We're not twelve-year-olds, guys!" the leader complains.

He rolls his eyes and clasps and folds his arms behind his head, a sign of his annoyance. It's just enough to give me a glimpse of that damn elastic band on his boxer briefs. Which makes me lose my concentration.

"No, we're not 12 anymore, but we're still just as stupid!" Elijah jokes, grabbing my hand. Let's go play outside.

"Let go of her!" Tristan seethes suddenly in such a threatening voice he surprises himself.

His eyes finally meet with mine, then look down to my hand, held in Elijah's. I pull it away, shocked by his violent reaction. I can't even tell if I'm pleased or annoyed that he's acting so possessive.

"Let me make this very clear: Liv is off limits," he says, turning to look at each of his friends, as if I wasn't even there. "No getting carried away."

"We won't touch your sister, dude," Drake reassures him, patting his shoulder.

"Do I have a say in any of this?" I interrupt, disturbed by the strange turn things have taken.

"No! Let's go play the stupid game," grumbles Tristan, grabbing my arm. "And pull your dress down a little!"

"What the fuck do you care? All your little girlfriends are wearing bikinis!" I say in rebellion, pulling away from his grasp.

"Yeah, but you're not like them," he murmurs with disconcerting sincerity.

Did I hear that right?

For the first fifteen minutes, sitting cross-legged on the ground, I have a good laugh. So far there are more dares than truths, but the girls are all having fun together, ignoring the boys.

After about a half hour, I begin to regret I ever started this game. I had to kiss a girl who had vanilla lip gloss all over her mouth, attempt to form a human pyramid with my four new best friends and drink two shots of some disgusting brown liquor. And during this time, Tristan sat out his turn three times. He hasn't taken his eyes off me. At one point his eyes drifted to the very top of my thighs and I had to squeeze my thighs together, realizing he could probably see my panties. My cheeks turned bright crimson and he smiled.

"If you're not playing, you don't have to stay," I say as he stretches, feigning boredom.

The eight other participants are oblivious to us, busy challenging each other to a silly dare. Who can scarf down a bag of potato chips in the least amount of time.

"I'm having a ball," Tristan replies in his hoarse, provocative voice. "Come on, Liv, I love spending my evenings sitting in the wet grass, watching drunk people do stupid shit."

"You love watching me in any case," I say, trying to egg him on.

"Don't get the wrong idea, Sawyer," he replies, amused as he twists open another bottle of beer. "I'm analyzing you, nothing more. You're a strange specimen."

"You're really good with the compliments. How did you get to be so nice, Quinn?" I sigh. "It must be exhausting to always feel so superior to everyone."

"Not really. Boring, more like."

"Which would explain why you have such a great need for entertainment. A new girl every night? Every week? How does that work?"

"Why are we always coming back to that?" he smiles, the mischievous boy look on his face. "Do you have a problem with the fact that I have a sex life, Sawyer?"

"Stop calling me Sawyer!" I bark, stomping my feet. And . . .

Suddenly, I realize that the noise around us has died down and eight pairs of eyes are watching us. My stomach tenses up in a knot and I fear more than anything that they've all figured it out. Or at least felt that something was up. My frustration. My desire to slap him. To kiss him. To pull off his clothes and roll around in the grass with him. Tristan must be thinking the same thing because he clears his throat before accepting the next Dare.

"Close your eyes," Drake instructs. "And guess which of the girls is kissing you."

I bite the inside of my cheeks, gripping the grass with my fingers and restraining myself from reacting. Motionless and angry, I see the little redhead move over to Tristan's lips and give him a wet, sloppy kiss. It lasts much too long for my taste.

This anger inside me . . . this jealousy . . . I've never felt anything like it before.

"Chick," he finally guesses, opening his eyes.

"You got it!" she laughs, lifting her arms, proud of fulfilling her task successfully.

"Why chick?" I ask suddenly, a little too much annoyance seeping into my voice.

"Because she has one tattooed on her body!" explains her friend.

"In a place only the bad boys get to go," the redhead simpers, not knowing I'm about five seconds away of punching her gapped front teeth straight through her skull.

Yet another one he's slept with. Great. Just great.

"Liv, your turn," Cory says. "Dare or?"

"Truth!"

Tristan gives me a strange look. As if he were particularly interested in what he was about to hear.

"Would you do one of the Key Whys?" Drake asks.

"No, I've got a better one!" Jackson cuts in. "Would you do Tristan, if he wasn't your brother?"

Ummm . . . how do I deal with this? Just a tad uncomfortable . . .

The seconds tick by and I can't think of anything to say. The eyes on me seem more and more insistent. The drummer. The bassist. The pervert. Lara Croft. Chick. I don't know what to do. And when my eyes meet Tristan's blue irises, I completely lose my footing. My heart is racing and I can't control myself. Tears rise to my eyes and I'm angry at myself for being so weak, so impressionable, so lost.

And for wanting to cry out a huge, thundering YES.

"Of course she fucking wouldn't," Tristan answers for me, serene and arrogant as usual. "You offended her with your dumb-ass question, she can't even speak!"

He gets up and holds out his hand, as if he were the perfect gentleman. A valiant knight coming to the rescue of the damsel in distress in a dress that's too short and too tight, sitting in the grass surrounded by people she can't stand. His broad shoulders seem particularly protective and reassuring in this moment. His eyes are not teasing. He smiles sincerely, without malice. And yet I refuse his outstretched hand. I jump to my feet and take off my stupid shoes, heading inside without a word.

Tristan and his asshole buddies can finish the night without me. I've had enough for one night.

"Liv!" I hear Tristan run after me as I'm about to walk in the front door.

All the partiers are in the yard now. The house must be empty and I can't wait to lock myself up inside.

"Don't waste your time on me, Tristan, really. I don't want to play anymore. I'm tired."

"I didn't think they were stupid enough to ask you that question," he half-apologizes, giving me a compassionate glance. "Really."

"I'm the one who suggested the stupid game in the first place. I can only be mad at myself," I say shrugging my shoulders and avoiding his eyes. "It's past 4am, I'm going to bed."

He suddenly seems exhausted as well. His face is sagging and his eyes seem blurry.

"I'll be heading that way soon too. I just have to get rid of everyone. I think I'll tell them there's nothing left to drink."

"Or that the cops are on their way."

"Who would have called them?" he smiles.

"Your annoying stepsister," I say as I step inside, leaving him on the stoop.

***

Finding my room invaded with guests, I decided to take refuge on the big couch in the den with the fluffy throw blanket. I don't know what time it is when his body comes to lie down gently next to mine. I barely wake up and I don't fight it. His smell surrounds me, his skin touches mine and in a few seconds, I'm fast asleep.

The deepest and most peaceful sleep I've had in weeks.

It's past 11 when I wake up. I'm burning up under the blanket. The feeling of Tristan's hand on my thigh lights a fire in me as well, but for a completely different reason. I turn around as slowly as possible so I can look at him. Well, it's official, Brad Pitt and Chace Crawford have nothing on him. That soft skin that, just looking at it, is like a caress. The eyelashes that go on forever, giving his youthful beauty a sense of wisdom. The straight, thin nose that even a surgeon couldn't design. The full, inviting lips that I can't wait to taste again. Despite everything that's wrong about it.

"Are you done? Have you taken your mental photograph?" he smiles lazily before opening his eyes.

His breath smells like mint.

Jerk, he's been awake for ages already!

"I don't remember inviting you into my bed last night," I murmur, checking my dress is still on.

"It's not a bed, it's a couch."

"Clever boy."

"Brat."

We have a staring contest and I don't give in, despite the electricity I feel shooting across my skin, just thinking about his hand still sitting on my thigh.

"You love the fact that I stand up to you," I sigh.

"And you love the fact that I'm dying to rip this little dress right off you, you show off."

"So you like me better in jeans, after all?"

"No, I like you better in nothing at all."

This time I have no comeback. His deep, low voice has knocked me out, and when his hand moves up my thigh, brushes against my stomach, then up my throat, all the way to my hair, I decide not to ask myself any questions. I want to give in to my forbidden desires that have been tormenting me for so long.

"Kiss me," I say suddenly, almost touching his lips.

"I thought you'd never ask," he groans.

His mouth on mine. His hand tugging gently on my hair, as if he were saying, "I'm in charge." And me, completely out of character, asking for more.