Forbidden Games

I've said too much

"You think we're going to be able to speak again someday?"

"You just did, Sawyer," he murmurs with a smirk.

The blanket is draped over us, hiding only the essentials. Lying on the floor on the orange rug, Tristan is still staring up at the ceiling. I lie on my side a few inches from him, my heart swelling. I watch him, restraining myself from asking the thousands of questions that rush through my mind.

Did we really just sleep together?

Is everything going to change between us?

For the better? For the worse?

Have we finally won our non-stop ticket to hell?

Did he get what he wanted and now he'll reject me like most guys would do?

Is this strange feeling between my thighs normal?

Does he know I was a . . . virgin?

I have to stop turning in circles. I stop my wandering thoughts and try to reclaim control. I let slip the first words that come to mind:

"You're . . . different."

"Different from what?" he asks, turning slowly toward me.

I can detect a hint of curiosity in his hoarse voice. The same intensity is still in those blue eyes. Tristan rests his head on his folded arm and I can't help but stare at his bare, muscular torso.

"Different than how I imagined you," I say, looking into his eyes.

"I believe that's what we call preconceived notions."

"Guilty," I whisper.

He's so close to me that my desire begins to rise again. I want to kiss him. Feel his hot, full lips on mine. His hands on my naked skin. His breath making me shiver again.

"I didn't think you'd be so gentle," I say, blushing.

"What did you think? That I was going to jump you like some savage?"

His eyes dart away. He bites his lower lip. I look down to see his fingers fiddling with the thread of the blanket, as if he were as overcome with emotion as I am.

"I don't know," I say. "I have limited experience with guys, and not necessarily the positive kind."

"Your first . . ." he hesitates, "was Kyle?"

We all make mistakes. Mine was named Kyle Evans. A guy from high school, a little older since he had been held back. I went out with him last year for a few weeks before I realized who he really was. He was cute and I was bored. Going out with him was an escape from my boring existence. The problem was that he treated me like the eighth wonder of the world in public but had nothing to talk about or give me when we were alone, except for his lewd and insistent propositions. A real cute, popular guy without a brain who thought he'd pressure me a little more every day to get me into his bed. Which of course sent me running for the hills.

"He was the first guy I fooled around with, yeah," I answer Tristan who is more concentrated than before. "How did you know about him and me? You were at boarding school."

"Drake," he explains. "Kyle was your first, first, right?"

"You mean the first guy I slept with?"

Am I dreaming or does this seem to be bothering him?

"Yeah," he groans, rubbing his neck.

"Well, no."

"No?" he repeats, confused.

"No."

"Liv, who was your first?"

I shrug my shoulders, as if it didn't matter. And yet it's just the opposite. He was my first. It's Tristan.

Just an hour ago, I was still a virgin. And I couldn't have hoped for a better first time.

Except for one problematic word, the metallic voice would say: "incest."

"Answer me, Liv," he gently insists, forcing me to meet his eyes.

"You know," I murmur.

His eyes search me, then widen. His eyelashes are so long they sweep his lower lids. I concentrate on this detail to fight back the tears that are rising. Emotions are mixing within me again, threatening to pull me under.

"Liv?"

How can a voice be so deep and so tender at the same time?

"Hmm?"

"Was I your first?"

"You couldn't tell? At all? You were so gentle," I sigh.

"Jesus, Liv," he whispers wrapping his arms around me.

Then he pulls back, embarrassed by his display of emotion.

"That fucker Evans!"

"What?"

I watch him stand up, his back to me, leaving the blanket over my naked body. His muscular buttocks disappear under his boxer briefs, then his tee-shirt steals his torso from my eyes. But I'm not paying attention to that anymore, I'm trying to figure out what disaster is building in front of me.

"Tristan, why are you so pissed off all of a sudden?"

"That asshole told a bunch of lies about you."

"What, that I slept with him on the first date and I'm a nympho? Is that it?" I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

"You think that's funny?" he says, furious. "You don't care that he dirtied your name like that?"

"Tristan . . ."

"I'm going to rearrange his face," he growls in a voice I've never heard before.

"What for? You and I both know it's not true!"

"He needs a good beating."

Tristan clenches his fists and I realize he's not joking.

"Don't do it! Not for me!" I cry out, hurrying to put on my dress from the night before.

"I'll do it for me, then," he says, not flinching.

His eyes are so intense, it's almost scary. Facing me, he seems huge, dangerous, and ready for anything.

"You're not leaving this house!"

I run into the entry toward the front door.

I grab the key from its hook and try to slide it into the lock, but it's too late. Tristan is so close behind me that he pulls it from my hands easily. I can't lock him in. He grabs his jeans from the stair railing and slips them on quickly. Then he puts on his shoes and comes back toward me.

"You won't stop me, Liv. Nothing will stop me. Not after what just happened," he says, pushing me against the wall. "You stay here, don't move."

"And what am I supposed to do?" I scream at him. "Wait until you end up in jail, just to save my honor?"

"In jail?" he repeats with a smile, leaning against the wall. "You underestimate my talents, Sawyer."

And the jokester is back!

"Don't leave me here. Not after what we just did!" I plead, fighting back tears. "What changed in the last ten minutes? It was so great, before . . ."

"Ten minutes ago, I didn't know I had taken your virginity," he breathes heavily, leaning his head forward.

"Tristan . . . " I whisper, my throat tight. "It was perfect."

Silence.

"Evan has to pay," he grumbles, pushing himself off the wall.

I just ignored my pride and revealed my most intimate thoughts to him, and that's all he has to say. The door slams so hard the walls shake. I'm shaken by a sob, followed by a cry of rage.

"You regret sleeping with me that much?"

Of course Tristan doesn't hear me. He's already too far gone, obsessed with his mission, indifferent to my tears. And yet I could have sworn something had changed in him. That he felt the same thing I did, everything.

I look around and inspect my surroundings. The house is a total bombsite. There are liquor bottles and spilled cups all over the floor, tables, even the windowsills. The pool party has left its mark.

And I'm not the only victim.

Suddenly I realize. I'm NOT a victim. What happened – I wanted it, desired it as much as he did, if not more. And I can stop what Tristan is about to do if I try hard enough. But how can I convince him to stay away from Kyle? I don't know. I step into my sneakers and decide to opt for improv.

"First, I need to find that little jerk," I say out loud, to myself.

I start the motor and head out on the only road that comes to the house. Tristan is probably pedaling furiously, but the horsepower under my hood will help me catch up to him. I see him a few miles out and I pass him, then pull over to stop on the side of the road. I hop out of the SUV and block the road, my arms stretched wide. I'm in my skimpy black dress, my hair a wreck and I'm guessing I look pretty scary.

"I love your look, Sawyer," Tristan jokes, braking about a yard before he gets to me.

He puts one foot on the ground and looks me over but I can't tell if I'm supposed to blush or not, then he adds:

"Let me past."

He could very easily get by me, his mountain bike could slip through a much smaller space.

"I want you to respect my choice. Please."

"It's for you that I'm . . ."

"That's just it," I say, cutting him off. "Do it for me. I'm asking you not to go see Kyle. To forget he ever existed. That's what I did a long time ago."

Tristan runs his hand through his hair, then puts his foot back on the pedal, making like he's going to continue his route, blatantly ignoring my request.

"You're driving me crazy!" I scream, grabbing his handlebars. "Just think what you're going to start if you go too far! You're going to have serious problems, but you're also going to attract a lot of attention! To us! Everyone knows you're not a protective brother with me. You've never played that role. Everyone will know that if you beat him up, it's because there's something going on between us!"

I stop yelling to catch my breath. He looks at me, suddenly calm and nonchalant, that damn smile in the corner of his mouth.

"I hadn't thought of that," he admits, scratching his neck.

"You're a real doofus. Like every other guy I know. Except my dad. And Harrison. And Fergus. Anyway, turn around and go home – you've got to help me clean up the house before your mom sends us both to boarding school!"

Before I can even jump back in the car, we're struck by a torrential downpour – they happen a lot in the summer. Behind the wheel, I watch Tristan, soaking wet as he rides back. His tight black tee-shirt clings to every muscle, tense with the effort.

And here I go fantasizing again . . .

Pinch me. I'm not a virgin anymore.

***

Tristan doesn't say another word to me, but he's impressively efficient as we clean. In less than two hours, the house is sparkling and any trace of the wild party is gone.

I'm about put the vacuum away in the laundry room when he says:

"I put your sheets in the wash. Mine too. Apparently our rooms were put to good use last night."

I notice the dark circles under his eyes and the fact that he's massaging his neck incessantly.

"Does your back hurt?"

"It's nothing."

"If you want, I can . . ."

"I don't need anything, Sawyer," he says, walking away from me. "I'm going to sleep for a few hours, the band is rehearsing tonight."

I watch him walk up the first steps.

"Tristan?" I ask suddenly, unable to let things lie.

"Hmm?"

He doesn't even turn around.

"Did it mean anything to you?" I say in a shaky voice.

This time he turns around quickly and looks deep into my eyes. There is no malice. Or provocation. He's not playing games.

"More than it should have," he murmurs.

I bite my lip to keep myself from saying more. To stop myself from saying too much. To simply savor this last sentence, that last look that was so telling in itself. Tristan slowly climbs up the last steps. The door to his room opens, then closes. I jump for joy for a good two minutes before I realize he's spying on me from the top of the stairs.

"I knew it," he laughs. "Sawyer, you're a hopeless little romantic!"

"Asshole!" I yell before racing out of the house, mortified.

Well, OK, it was kind of funny.

I walk around the garden, picking up beer cans, a bikini top and a designer thong, shoving everything into a trash bag. If someone wants them back, they can go to the city dump. I sit down on a lounge chair, stretch out my legs and try to enjoy the sun which has come out. Impossible. I'm dying to go take a shower or jump in the pool, but I'm both too lethargic and too excited to do either. So I let my brain wander to places it shouldn't go.

The metallic voice has already hit twice. Who will the next phone call be for?

I have to tell him. Tristan should know. He's in as much danger as I am, even if I wish he wasn't. But two loud alarms ring through my head each time I come to this conclusion. Number one: He's so impulsive that he might expose our secret without meaning to. And number two is even more frightening: He could decide to stop everything. To never kiss me again, never touch me.

Never again tell me it meant something.

***

My freedom has flown away. The calm has been replaced by chaos. They set their suitcases down in the hall just 30 minutes ago and yet the wind has already changed.

Harrison has been playing airplane in the kitchen for 15 minutes when the smoke alarm goes off.

"Liv, take over from your dad on the pancakes! It's obvious he can't cook anything without setting the house on fire! Harrison, go sit down or I'm taking Alfred away for two days! Tristan, come down from your room, breakfast is ready!"

"He can't hear you from here," Craig says.

"TRISTAN!" she screams loudly.

The smoke detector finally stops but Sienna is still in top form. Vacation was restful for her, no doubt about it. As for my dad, he just told me that he worked non-stop under the palm trees – probably so he wouldn't have to put up with his wife. When he asked what the numb smile on my lips was about, I had to fight hard not to blush. I claimed it was having him back, rather than admitting to my forbidden night with Tristan . . . and the hope it won't be the last.

"Why does he never come when we call him?" Sienna mumbles, frowning at her husband's pancakes. "Liv, go make some toast, please."

"Can't, busy," I say, devouring my pancakes.

"Don't talk with your mouth full and make yourself useful right now!" she says impatiently.

"Sienna, we just got home," my dad says, smiling at her. "Can't we just enjoy being together again for five minutes?"

"Someone's missing in case you hadn't noticed!" she seethes.

Craig looks at her for a second and I recognize the glare: Remind me why I love you again?

"Hey, everyone," Tristan says as he finally comes down wearing a bright red tee and raw denim jeans.

Sexy . . .

Without even a glance at his mom who just got off the plane, or me, he runs to his little brother and hugs him. The child cries out as he is covered in kisses and the queen mother sighs loud enough for us all to hear.

"I can see you missed me," she says in her drama queen voice.

"Terribly so," he smiles with as much attitude as he can muster.

Tristan finally takes a chair across from me, kicking me in the shin as he sits down. Involuntarily, I tell myself naively. Right. When I see a smile come over his face, I have to hold back from insulting him. The jerk just stares into his mug of coffee, all the while making fun of me.

And strangely, I love it.

Sienna criticizes every bite of pancake she swallows down. Harrison trips up on every "r" he speaks, making us all laugh, except his mom. Craig and Tristan start in on an endless debate about whether brown sugar is more rock n' roll than white sugar. And I just smile stupidly, my heart light despite the secret in my chest that weighs a ton.

We are clearing the table happily and noisily when Harry tugs on my shorts, asking me to turn around.

"Alfred wants a kiss!" he says in his little voice.

I lean down and kiss the stuffed animal, then kiss the little boy's cheek loudly. He smells nice, like soap. His mom just cleaned him up.

"Alf-ed wants to mawee you!" he says from beneath his bowl cut. "But I told him no!"

"Why?" I ask, laughing.

"Yeah, why?" Tristan smiles, making his eyes squint.

"I'm going to mawee you cause I wove you!" he says, proud of his declaration.

Nobody says a word. I don't know what to say either, so I decide to go for laughter. But Sienna obviously doesn't see the funny side:

"Harrison Quinn, you can't say a thing like that! You can't be in love with your sister! It's not allowed, it's immoral, it's disgusting!"

"He's 3, Sienna," I protest, trying to defend the child who is now crying.

"It doesn't matter! Do you realize what you just let him say? And you don't even do anything?! It's disgusting!" she says, aggressively. "Craig, say something!"

I turn to look at Tristan. I don't know why, but I need his support. I need him to defend me, but most of all, I need him to understand. To understand that what Harry just said was totally innocent. And in a way, what Tristan and I did was innocent too. We're not blood relatives.

Why do I feel the need to repeat this to myself over and over again?

As if I were trying to convince myself . . .

"Liv, you shouldn't let Harry say such things," my dad says, his soft voice making me jump. "Correct him next time."

Misunderstood. Betrayed. Wrongly accused. These are the words that come to mind as everyone in the room gives me a dirty look. Harry goes to his room to cry and I'm left alone, with no escape. An unbreakable, impassable wall made of Sienna, Craig and . . . Tristan.

"Yeah, it's disgusting to even think about," he mutters coolly before leaving the room. "You'd have to be twisted."

His voice is full of regret. And suddenly I fall from a skyscraper. I realize what just happened between Tristan and me. I fully come to terms with it, and the guilt is crushing. I've never been so ashamed in my life.

I slept with my stepbrother.