Forbidden Games

Weirdo

I don't know much about music, but I do recognize that one. Creep, the famous song by Radiohead is filtering through the closed door of Tristan's room. My neighbor's rugged voice mixes with Thom Yorke's tenor and the result is deliciously harmonious. Better than that. It's hypnotizing, enchanting, and so sexy.

But I'm a creep,
I'm a weirdo,
What the hell am I doing here ?
I don't belong here . . .

As I continue toward the steps, I do my ponytail again, reciting the months of the year in reverse. I try to block the thoughts that are eating away at me. I keep myself from analyzing the meaning of the refrain.

"I don't belong here . . . "

What if Tristan really thought that?

Since the last time he spoke in my presence, nothing whatsoever has happened. I was hurt by his words – "disgusting", "twisted". It's obvious that he was talking about us. But gradually my shame and hurt have morphed into cold, mounting anger that I can only control by completely avoiding my enemy.

Last week I was making love with Tristan Quinn. This week, we're at war. Silent, unnoticeable and frigid.

"Tristan, your brother is waiting for you to go swimming!" Sienna screams from the bottom of the stairs as I stand at the top of them. "And don't forget to put sunscreen on him, I don't have time!"

'Yeah, because the hotel is way more important than your kid!" I hear him reply as he turns off his music.

"And get him to eat some vegetables at lunch. Fries don't count!"

"As if you had any idea what he ate, ever."

"Ah, and try not to let him keep Alfred during his nap. He needs to learn to live without that ridiculous stuffed animal."

"Yeah, great idea! I might even burn it right before his eyes and traumatize him for life!" he groans as he finally steps out into the hall.

His deep, manly voice sends a line of shivers down my spine. I don't turn around. I move forward, determined not to make eye contact, even if I'm dying to.

"Liv, can you get him moving a little faster?" his mom sighs when she sees me rushing down the stairs.
"No, Sienna," I say quietly as I walk by her. "I can't get him to do anything."

The snotty remarks from upstairs suddenly stop. I don't know if Tristan is staring daggers into my back or if he's embarrassed or hurt, if what I just said touched, annoyed or amused him. And I couldn't care less. All I want is to get the hell out of here so I don't have to feel my heart skip a beat every time he's near me.

It turns out the cold war I'm involved in is against myself.

Because after all, I'm the only one responsible for the feelings I have for him.

Forbidden feelings.

***

We're well into September and the beaches on the island are still crowded. So as not to attract too much attention, I park my little SUV a few hundred yards from my secret spot and walk the rest of the way there. The rocks dig into my feet and a few grassy plants scratch my calves, but that's not about to put me off. The turquoise ocean is waiting for me at the end of this overgrown path.

Once I hit the water, I forget almost everything. I spread out like a starfish and float weightlessly in the sea. Everything? Things are weird at home – Tristan and I are avoiding each other, Sienna and Craig are fighting more than usual, Harry is talking less and shutting himself off, despite his brother's presence and affection. I take care of the little guy as best I can, but since he confessed his "love" for me and got scolded by his anal retentive mother, he's not the same around me. Sienna's reaction was over the top, Harry is very sensitive, and the result has not been good. I thought three-year-olds forgot everything after a day or two. I was wrong. Harrison doesn't forget anything. Ever.

I hear laughter off in the distance, but I'm still alone in my ocean. I float on my back, my eyes closed, lazily battling the small waves that attempt to wash over me. The salt water covers my face a few times, but immediately disperses, exposing me to the sun again.

It's kind of like the feeling I get with him. With Tristan. He's the calm sea that pulls me in, cradles me and caresses me. And the choppy waves that torment me, making me feel like I'm drowning.

And I'm not sure I want it to end.

What's that called again? Masochist?

It must be over 100 degrees when I get back to the car, my skin barely dry. I pick up my phone to check it. There's a voicemail from Bonnie:

"Liv, come get me before I do something stupid! You should see the horror that is my dorm room . . . it's seriously making me suicidal! Same for Fergie, he didn't sleep a wink last night because he was afraid of what his roommate might do to him! I'm talking sexual stuff! Anyway, drop your online classes or your coworkers at the office and get your ass over here!

When I park on the Florida Keys Community College campus, I realize my two best friends are total wimps – real drama queens. All I see around me are calm, smiling, helpful people. No one among the hundred or so students I see seems like they're about to play Russian roulette or jump off the roof of the campus building. And when Bonnie and Fergus come meet me, I realize it's all just an act. A little skit they put on to get me over here.

"What?" my redhead friend laughs as he kisses my cheek. "You've been turning down our invitations for about a week now!"

"If you're finding it hard, you can tell me," Bonnie whispers, embarrassed. "You know, that we're here and you're not . . . "

"Stop it," I sigh, stealing her bottle of pop. "May I? I'm dying of thirst."

"Am I dreaming, or do you have a bikini on under your clothes?" Fergus says, lifting my tank top.

Three guys walk by and whistle in my direction. I blush and push back my best friend, who is apparently my pimp as well!

"I have the perfect setup!" I say, laughing. "I cram in my online classes in the morning, go work at the office in the afternoon, and go swimming in my lunch break!"

"Yeah, when you put it that way, your life really is a nightmare," she smiles. "And since you were strategic when you played your pawns – meaning us – you can come to college parties on the weekend! I can't even tell you how many hot guys I've seen already. And the year is just beginning!"

"What about Drake?"

There's a long silence. I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping I haven't said something stupid.

"Drake and I have an open relationship," she says, shrugging her shoulders.

"Meaning . . . he hasn't committed to being exclusive?" I ask softly.

"Right," she admits. "But I've decided to look on the bright side. At least, I'm trying to . . ."

"You don't have to, you know. I bet there's a hundred guys around here somewhere who would want you and only you," I say, looking around.

"Yeah, but I want him, Liv. Just him."

"I know how it goes," I murmur, an image flashing before my eyes.

Those blue eyes. Those soft lips. That sexy voice.

"What?"

"Nothing," I mutter, blushing. "Wanna take me on a tour of the cafeteria?"

"Here they call it the dining hall," Fergus informs me as he rubs his tummy to let us know he's starving.

"And to thank you for coming to our rescue, I'll buy you a salad," Bonnie says, taking her student card out of her purse.

"Since when do you eat salad?"

"Since she's convinced Drake will love her more if she's skinny," Fergus whispers.

"Bonnie Robinson!" I splutter, pulling on her wrist. "Don't change for him! Or for anyone! Only for yourself, only if you want to!"

"Liv, you're not in love with anyone. You can't understand," she sighs, not meaning anything malicious by it.

OK. Let's change the subject.

The salad wasn't so bad after all. My best friend didn't hold back for long and the green leaves were soon piled high with cheese, chicken, walnuts and Caesar dressing.

1:54 PM. As I walk away from campus, I call my dad to let him know I'm running a bit late. My first showing is at three. He tells me not to worry, and to be careful on the road. Just before I hang up, I hear him add quickly:

"Wait, green olive! If you can find me a green slushie on your way in, I'll change my will so you'll get a hundred bucks more! An extra large, OK?"

"You and your nauseating slushies." I laugh, as he yelps excitedly, already salivating over the sugary concoction. "Why don't you drink coffee, tea or scotch, like any other self-respecting father?"

"Because I'm wonderful and unique. And because I love sugar, sugar, sugar!"

"What were you thinking then, when you married such a bitter woman?" I ask, trying to make a joke.

Bad idea. I immediately feel guilty for saying it. My dad is quiet on the other end of the line.

"Sorry, Dad, I didn't mean . . ."

"Don't apologize, honey. Go get me a slushie and I'll forgive you."

"Deal," I say, embarrassed. "And Craig?"

"Yes?"

"You were always enough, you know? I couldn't have asked for a better parent."

"Two would have been better," he sighs quietly.

"No. You and your slushies were all I needed to grow up right. And it's still enough today."

"You promise?"

"I swear."

"Pinky swear?"

"Yep. That's the only kind of swearing I do," I laugh as I hang up.

I take the main road through Key West until I get to White Street where I park. One of the biggest bakeries on the island is there and they also sell local specialties and touristy treats like slushies. I skip over, admiring the key lime pies and other sweets in the window, then go in for the infamous drink. The baker dispenses a liter of the fluorescent green minty mixture into a huge plastic cup and sticks a straw in it.

"It's funny you picked the green, not many people like that flavor," she says, taking the money I'm holding out. "We keep making it because the color is nice."
"I'm not surprised," I smile, thinking proudly about my dad's silly streak.

As I leave, I'm not looking where I'm going and I just about spill the entire cup of slushie onto a tall blond guy with a charming smile: Drake.

And Tristan's on his right. He's wearing his black tee-shirt that's just tight enough to show off his muscles.

"Thirsty, Liv?" Drake jokes, looking at the giant drink in my hand.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, staring down at my feet.

Tristan is giving off a strange tension that I can feel without even looking at him.

"We're starting the year at Key West Art School," explains the friendlier of the two, pointing to the guitar case hanging on his shoulder. "It's over there, at the end of the street and we're already ten minutes late."

"I guess you know all about the importance of first impressions then, huh?" I joke stupidly, trying to hide how nervous I'm feeling.

I smile on the surface, but whatever is happening in my stomach is another story completely. I look into Tristan's eyes for a second and then look away to catch my breath. His eyes are magnetic. Impossible to read.

"I have to go," I say. "And so do you! Bye!"

"Sawyer!" the titan yells, suddenly wrapping his arm around my waist.

A car honks its horn just a few feet away and I realize Tristan just saved me from about a month in the hospital. Or worse.

"Look where you're going, Jesus!" he growls in my ear, making me quake.

Then he lets me go and I watch in a fluster as he walks down the road. Drake waves at me and goes to join him. My heart is about to leap out of my chest.

The slushie, however, is intact.

Three minutes later, I'm on United Street. Still a little overwhelmed, I walk into the agency and go straight to my dad's office. I barely knock before I walk in, robotically setting his Martian-colored drink on his desk. It takes me a minute to realize he's not alone. The man who's staring at me with an amused expression on his face looks like a star from a Mexican telenovela. But more sophisticated.

He's tall, muscular and has dark skin. He's got brown hair and is dressed to the nines in a designer suit. A little bit of a cliché, but certainly easy on the eyes.

"Green olive, this is my new right-hand man: Romeo Rivera."

The man, who can't be over 25, stands and holds out a friendly hand.

"I'm Liv," I say, shaking his hand, embarrassed by my dad's casual demeanor.
"Welcome."

"Thanks, Liv," says the dark, handsome man with laughing eyes.

I look at him for just a second too long before he realizes it. I turn away, embarrassed.

"Liv has done a bit of everything since she started, but I'd like her to specialize in sales," my dad continues. "She works every afternoon, don't hesitate to call on her if you need something."

"Got it," Rivera says, heading for the door. "Liv, I'll see you at three, then."

I give him a questioning glance.

"The Kennedy Drive showing," my dad explains. "Romeo's going with you."

"Great," I say with an exaggerated smile before I turn and run into the wall. "Ouch!"

"Liv, are you OK?" my dad hurries to my side.

"Yeah. Just a broken nose and a dislocated jaw, ya know, nothing serious," I grumble as I rub my sore face.

Next to me, a certain Romeo Rivera is struggling to hold back his laughter. He gives me a wink and leaves the office.

And the Oscar for the clumsiest dipstick goes to . . . LIV SAWYER!

***

My dad thought it was a good idea to invite his new protégé to dinner . . . at home. I repeat: at . . . home. Sienna half pouts because she didn't get enough warning, and half bats her eyes at Romeo because she probably finds him more appetizing than the roast on her plate. Harry spends about thirty minutes sizing up our guest before declaring he's safe enough to be his new friend. And Tristan, his jaw tight, his eyes angry, tenses up and nervously runs his hand through his hair every time I speak to the man he considers an intruder.

Romeo, of course, has done absolutely nothing wrong. He was extremely nice and patient when we showed the Kennedy Drive mansion, and complimented my efforts to our coworkers. I barely know him, but he gives off a sweet, easy-going vibe. I'm comfortable around him. Sitting at our dining room table, he's polite, courteous and all smiles. He takes part in the conversation without showing off, talking about politics, sports, fashion and even music.

And he loves Radiohead!

And yet I clearly notice Tristan glaring at him about a dozen times throughout dinner. His bright blue eyes glower fiercely at the tan, smiling face. Especially when Romeo speaks to me directly or gives me a nudge with his elbow, accidentally touching me.

Tristan and I have not spoken to each other in ten days. Not said a word except for generic household things since the family fight in the kitchen. We haven't looked at each other forever. And now his eyes are constantly on me, with that intensity that makes it impossible for me to eat. I play with my food, unable to maintain eye contact with him for more than two seconds. I don't want to imagine he's thinking things if it's not true.

Imagine all those things I dream of hearing . . . .

I'm lost. Sad. Angry. Aroused. Full of doubt. Full of hope. The emotional wheel continues to turn, over and over.

Sienna asks Tristan to take the serving tray of meat back into the kitchen and I'm in charge of bringing the tropical fruit cheesecake to the table. I follow him into the hall, careful to keep at least six feet between us. He hums a tune in that deep voice of his as he places the roast on the counter and I walk around him to the fridge. I'm about to open it when his hand slams against the cold door, blocking me.

"Really?" I sigh, staring into the pompous jerk's shining eyes.

"Really," he says in reply.

I back up and cross my arms across my chest. It's a reflex.

"You want us to settle the score here and now, Tristan?" I seethe.

"Why is he here?"

"Romeo?"

"Who do you think?" he almost spits, his eyes narrowing as he steps toward me.

The space between us closes in. I feel like I'm not getting enough oxygen. I stare at the wall behind him so as not to reveal my weakness.

"My dad invited him, he's his new part–"

"I don't care about that," Tristan murmurs, coming even closer. "Who is he to you?"

This time I let myself make eye contact. He's so intense and imposing. Drop-dead gorgeous. Heat ignites in my loins when he bites his lower lip.

"What's gotten into you, Quinn? Jealous?" I whisper.

"Is that why you brought him here?" he says, placing his hands on either side of my head, trapping me.

"What?"

"Did you want to see if it would drive me insane?" he asks in his deep, hot, heady voice.

"My dad invited him!" I bark back, so he'll finally get it through his thick head.

"Admit you thought about it," he says in a low voice, leaning his face into mine.

"No!"

"Then at least admit that you missed me."

My heart skips a beat. My emotions are a jumble and I don't know if I want to slap him or pull him close, as tight as I can.

"You have to choose, Tristan," I say in a shaky voice. "You can't reject me like you did, hurt me, ignore me and then play the jealous boyfriend. You're going to seriously drive me crazy. You have to decide."

"Decide what, Liv?"

His voice is soft. His warm breath caresses my slightly open mouth and I'm dying for his lips to touch mine.

"Do you want me, Tristan?" I gulp. "Tell me. Yes or no?"

"I'm not allowed to want you," he whispers, staring at my lips, now so close to his.

The fever I can see in his eyes makes me lose it completely. Just as I'm about to lunge in for a kiss, I hear the shrew coming down the hall.

"What are you two doing in there?! Where's the cheesecake?" she says from just a few feet away.

Sienna is getting closer. Dangerously close. Tristan backs up a few steps and swears under his breath. I didn't even get a chance to touch his lips. I try to look normal and finally open the damn fridge.

Inside I see the fruit sauce on the cheesecake has run everywhere.

Just like my insides, a total mess.