Forbidden Games

Welcome to the Wild Motel

"Liv Sawyer with Luxury Homes, how may I help you?"

My voice sounds fake, but I'm doing my best to sound older. About ten seconds ago, Ellen, the receptionist, was in a total panic as she transferred me this "very important" call. Apparently an extremely rich client is looking for a pied-à-terre in the Keys. His budget? Eight million.

Yes, in dollars.

Craig and Romeo are out, Janice and her team are in a meeting with the bank, the realtors are all on vacation or out showing houses. I'm currently the only person in the office. Of course no one was expecting a client of this caliber to call the agency directly. Usually the big fish are represented by assistants or other people who manage their property, and who are a lot easier to talk to.

"I'm looking for something special, Miss Sawyer," announces the male voice with a strong Texan accent, skipping any introduction. "And I'm in quite a hurry."

"I'm listening, Mr. . . . ?"

"Byron. Austin Byron. Of Byron Pharmaceuticals. Haven't you heard of us? You must have . . . "

"Of course I know who you are, Mr. Byron," I lie. "What are your criteria for your search?"

My notepad is quickly filled with Mr. Byron's demands. He's not difficult . . . he's impossible to satisfy. A big budget doesn't solve all your problems, especially when you want a putting green, a pool with a waterfall and enough land to build stables. Not to mention the double spiral staircase, the kitchen that leads out onto the panoramic terrace overlooking the ocean, ten spacious bedrooms all with ensuite bathrooms – of course – art deco style from the sixties and a nuclear bunker.

"We'll do our best!" I say cheerfully, hiding my complete lack of conviction.

"You, Miss Sawyer. You will do your best. You'll be my only contact on this transaction, I insist upon it."

"May I ask why?" I almost whine, feeling a drop of sweat form on my forehead. "I'm just getting started and . . . "

"Because destiny made it so. If you're the one who answered my call today, there's a reason," laughs the man with the accent so strong I have to concentrate to understand what he's saying.

I inhale deeply, exhale, then resume in my "professional" voice:

"When will you be available to start visiting properties?"

"Tomorrow only. "

My astounded silence echoes down the phone line.

"I'm a man in a hurry, Miss Sawyer. If you don't think you're up to the task, I can always go spend my millions elsewhere . . . "

"No!" I exclaim a bit too loudly. "Luxury Homes is the place for you, Mr. Byron."

"I hope so."

"Is there a number where I can reach you?"

"You take care of finding houses to show me. I'll call you."

"Are you sure? Usually we–"

"I don't go giving my number out to just anyone, Miss Sawyer," he interrupts again. "First you need to prove yourself. Have a nice day."

"Have a nice–"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Texan gentleman, my ass . . .

I get home around 11 pm and I'm aching all over. Literally. My hands are sore from scribbling and typing on my phone all day. My back is a wreck after being confined to a desk chair. My head feels like electrical charges are shooting through it, bringing tears to my eyes. And my feet have been imprisoned in these torture devices for much too long. In other words, heels.

When Craig got back to the office and I told him about the challenge that Crazy Byron had entrusted me with, he just smiled. Romeo seemed more concerned, but he was kind enough to keep it to himself. It was obvious neither of them thought I was up to snuff, but given the buyer's profile, they were lucid enough to face the facts: Byron's mansion doesn't exist, except, maybe in a parallel universe. The sale is already a lost cause.

So we might as well let the little beginner run around for no reason – better her than us!

Grrreat.

As I collapse into bed, I think back over the only two houses I'm planning on showing him. They are both on the water with magnificent views, superbly equipped with a large plot of land at the back. But they're far from meeting all the requirements it would take to get the King of Texas to sign over a 7-figure check. I set my alarm for 5am nonetheless, hoping I'll find some new properties before our first appointment late morning.

If he shows up in cowboy boots, chaps and a cowboy hat, I can't be held responsible for my actions!

I hear a noise from the other side of the wall. Tristan just got home. I didn't see him today, and yet amidst all the chaos, I never stopped thinking about him. It doesn't take me long to fall asleep, my brain focusing on his blue eyes, his soft lips and his wet denim shirt.

***

I've been waiting for Mr. Byron for twenty minutes in front of a sort of baroque castle at the very end of the island. It's an exclusive property I just got my hands on. And then I see him walk up. Tristan. That spoiled brat smile plastered on his face. I don't understand what's going on.

"Miss Sawyer!" he laughs, imitating a Texan accent, tipping his imaginary hat with his hand.

That voice . . . I should have recognized it.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I grumble, shaking with anger. "Are you fucking kidding me?" I repeat, about an octave higher.

"I did it for your own good, Liv," he says, laughing. "You have to be ready for everything in this line of work . . . "

I bury my face in my hands, too annoyed to get into some verbal war with him.

"I swear, you will pay for this," I whisper as I push him aside to walk down the front steps.

"Hey!" he says, grabbing my arm gently. "Where's your sense of humor, Sawyer?"

"It stayed in bed this morning, where I got only four hours of sleep . . . for NO GOOD REASON!" I scream.

"OK," he says more seriously. "It was a bad joke."

"Way worse than that!" I reply.

"Stupid? Lame? Moronic?"

"Cruel," I murmur.

His eyes change suddenly. He's not joking now. The intensity is apparent in every feature, and my stomach tightens. Tristan steps forward and forces me to look into his eyes. I back up. He moves forward. I continue until my back is against the wall. I try to escape to the side, but he stops me. His irises are locked with mine, trying to read my most secret thoughts. When I realize how close his lips are to mine and how imminent the danger is, I press my hands against his chest and push him gently away, but he leans forward and whispers in my ear:

"I'll never hurt you, Liv. Not intentionally. Do you believe me?"

Heat rises to my cheeks. My heart races and my legs tingle. It takes everything I've got to keep from looking at his mouth. I won't last more than two seconds without kissing him if I do.

"Let me . . . go," I stutter, gathering all my force.

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to be here, with you," I mutter, lying outright.

"The road is clear, Liv, if that's really what you want. It always is."

Moving to the side to give me room to pass, Tristan slowly rubs his hand over his neck, sighing. The smell of coconut mixed with his manly scent reaches me as his biceps contract. I'm dying to touch him. To ask him what he's feeling. To know if he was pretending to be Crazy Bryon just so he could spend some time with me. If he prefers my anger and reprimanding to my silence and absence.

He eventually leaves ahead of me, giving me one last look, one last shy smile before he walks down the front steps of the baroque castle. It takes me a few minutes to return to a normal temperature, then I head back to the office. I don't tell anyone about the incident. Craig and Romeo have surely figured that Mr. Byron was a lost cause, and I'm just a beginner after all.

***

Two days have passed. It's finally the weekend and that means Bonnie and Fergus. They arrive triumphantly in the kitchen as I'm closing the cooler.

"Saturday, 9am, right on schedule!" Fergus says dancing and yawning at the same time.

"Ready, Elle Fanning?" asks Bonnie, kissing my cheek.

"In two minutes. You can put your stuff in the trunk!" I smile, excited about what lies ahead.

A last-minute weekend at Miami Beach, by way of the Everglades. My best friend's spontaneous idea that I couldn't turn down, given the shitty week I've just had. The two troublemakers leave the house and cross the yard to my SUV. I finish preparing lunch. I'm adding a bottle of water and some pop to the cooler when I hear a stool scrape the floor behind me.

Tristan just showed up, looking exhausted in his clothes from last night.

"You have a good time? All night?" I ask in an acidic voice, turning to close the fridge.

Imagining him with someone else makes me sick.

"How is that your business, Sawyer?" he grumbles just before he gulps down my mug of coffee.

He sets it down and stares at me without shame. He's trying to get to me, that's for sure. I close my eyes for a moment, summoning all the patience I have inside me, then open them again, fill up the mug and hand it to him.

"I crashed on Jackson's couch," he finally says.

"You should go to bed," I reply, hiding how relieved I am.

"I don't want to sleep alone . . . "

His voice is lower than usual and his shining eyes tell me something I didn't dare continue to hope for. Shivers run down my spine and I try to take control of my emotions and my body. I was planning on getting some fresh air this weekend, not filling my head with more doubts, desire and guilt. So I answer as calmly and indifferently as possible:

"Ask Harry, maybe he'll let you borrow Alfred."

His eyes darken. Leaning on the bar, he rests his chin in his hand and lightly taps his lower lip. He doesn't say a word. He prefers to watch my every move, not missing a thing. I close the cooler for the last time and tie the laces on my Converse. I grab my sunglasses on the counter and put them on.

My confused brain is hoping the tinted lenses will protect me from this young Brad Pitt's magnetic stare.

"Later," I say, gathering my things.

"Where are you going?"

"Away for the weekend," I reply, shrugging.

"Where?" he insists in a hoarse voice.

"How is that any of your business, Quinn?" I say nonchalantly, imitating his response just a few minutes ago.

His jaw tightens and I can tell he's not pleased with my answer. It doesn't matter. I quickly readjust my ponytail and head for the door without looking back. It takes all the willpower I can muster.

"What took you so long, Liv?" Bonnie whines from the back seat as I climb into the driver's seat next to Fergus. "We're burning up! And Fergie had time to get out his mix CDs . . . "

"Oh shit," I sigh, shifting into first gear.

A Mexican rock band resonates through the car as we drive through the gates. I glance in the rearview mirror and I think I see Tristan, standing at his bedroom window, shirtless.

A mirage, Liv. Just a fucking mirage.

The first hitch arises when we've been driving for just . . . 37 minutes. The GPS doesn't lie. With his mouth full of soda, Fergus turns green and taps my shoulder to tell me to pull over ASAP. I carefully pull off the road, being sure not to cause a major accident, and he throws himself out of the car to vomit.

"Well, that's taken care of," Bonnie says from behind me, disgust on her face.

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't tell you? Fergus gets carsick on long road trips. And not just a little queasy. Really sick."

"What the hell is he doing here, then?" I exclaim, realizing we have five hours of driving ahead of us.

"Well, he didn't want to stay home alone."

"And I brought medicine!" he tells us as he pulls a blister pack out of his back pocket.

"It's about time you took some!" Bonnie scolds him.

"Are you OK, though, Fergie?" I laugh, looking at his clammy skin. "Do you want us to go somewhere else?"

"No!" he insists after swallowing two pills at once. "I can do it!"

Big mistake. Fergus didn't last an hour before he had to puke again. And again in the middle of the trip as we were just about to reach the Everglades. Except this time I couldn't pull over as quickly and he puked on his shoes. In my car.

"Jesus, what did you eat yesterday?" Bonnie groans as she jumps out of the car at the gas station where we just stopped. "An entire cow?"

"I'm sorry, Liv. I couldn't hold it."

"Go sit down inside," I say, just wanting him out of my sight. "Get an herbal tea and find somewhere to rest while we clean this up."

"While we clean this up?" Bonnie mimics me, outraged. "You're crazy! I'm not going anywhere near that nastiness! Can't we hire someone to take care of it?"

"OK, Princess!" I say, lifting my hand to get her to be quiet. "I'll take care of it. Go hang out with Fergus, and try not to make him cry."

The diva in her flower-print playsuit doesn't have to be asked twice. She hurries into the shop, leaving me alone with the puddle of vomit.

That'll teach me how to choose my friends in the future!

Two minutes later, they're back with a bottle of cleaning solution, rags and air freshener. They help out and in under ten minutes, the job is done. I feel stupid for cursing them both.

That'll teach me to be such a sourpuss!

When I start the engine an hour later after the mandatory tea and hot dog break, Tristan's stare and his Don't want to sleep alone . . . come back to haunt me. Fergus changes the CD and Sting's heady voice replaces the last band's off-key rendition. Bonnie sings backup from behind me and I try to concentrate on the road. It takes a while, but I finally manage.

It's almost 4pm as we drive into the Everglades. The puke breaks are just as frequent and we are running very late. At the end of a little road that slinks between two swamps, I notice a thick cloud of smoke rising from the hood of the car. Bonnie is screaming because she just saw an alligator about 10 yards away.

"This trip is cursed," I sigh as I lean my forehead against the steering wheel. "We should have turned back a long time ago."

"Why are we stopping?" my bestie asks, quaking as she stares at the animal.

"What's all that smoke?" Fergus finally notices from the passenger seat.

"I think my car is dead," I mutter.

I try to start the engine again. Impossible.

"What?!" Bonnie panics. "We're in the middle of the Everglades! We're going to die out here!"

"Calm down, let me think!"

I find the roadside assistance number and call. After putting me on hold forever, the person on the other end of the line explains that given our location and the number of calls ahead of me, we won't be rescued until the middle of the night. I hang up after letting a few swear words escape my mouth.

I am what I am.

Alright, so let's recap. My dad is finalizing a several million-dollar sale and I'm not going to annoy him. Sienna won't lift a finger to help me. My two best friends are already here, in this car, stuck in the middle of nowhere. Betty Sue would cause an accident as soon as she got past Key Largo and . . . Tristan hates to drive since his dad was killed in an accident. Even if he didn't, it's out of the question that I send him a SOS. The damsel in distress role is definitely not one I'm comfortable with.

"We could call Drake!" Bonnie yells suddenly, grabbing my shoulders from behind.

"You really think he's the knight in shining armor type?" Fergus jokes, trying to call his parents to no avail.

"Try, you never know," I sigh, feeling desperate.

Bonnie's right. The alligator is out there. And even if it's not moving, it looks hungry.

Drake is kind of weird on the phone. He whispers stuff as if he were talking to someone else, then he asks where we are. Bonnie gives him our exact GPS coordinates and the blond swears he'll be here in 3 hours, tops.

"Good news is we have three hours ahead of us to listen to my latest mixes," Fergus jokes.

I almost want to throw him out of the car for the alligator to take care of. Or maybe throw myself into the monster's jaws so I don't have to listen anymore.

No cars go by. We're on an isolated road surrounded by hostile swamps. The first hour goes by quickly. The second seems a little longer, even if Mr. Vomit's monologues do keep the laughs alive. And the third hour seems never-ending.

8:10 PM. Drake's tank pulls up behind us. Fergus had fallen asleep and he jerks awake, yelling ridiculously, "No, wasn't sleeping!" in a much too high-pitched voice. Bonnie has a smile plastered on her face, probably thrilled that her man came all this way for her. As for me, I'm dumbfounded when I see Tristan getting out of the passenger-side door.

"There's an alligator right there!" I yell, rolling down my window quickly.

The little jerk laughs and keeps walking toward us, followed by Drake. He doesn't even look around. When he gets to my window, he says, so sure of himself:

"They don't come up to cars, scaredy cat! And it's way over there; it's nothing to worry about."

"So what seems to be the problem?" grumbles Drake as he lifts the hood.

"Ever heard of anti-freeze, Liv?"

"Yeah," I whisper, feeling my cheeks flush red. "But I didn't dare get out," I say, pointing to the 6-foot long alligator.

I finally get out of the car and hop around, trying to get my legs that have fallen asleep, to wake up.

For the next hour, our two saviors do everything they can to get the car to start, but with no luck. Tristan rolls up his tee-shirt sleeves to his shoulders, his hands covered in grease as he wipes his brow with the back of his hand, leaning forward to check the parts of the engine . . . I can't help but stare. If he was sexy this morning . . . tonight he's irresistible.

Those muscles, the grease, the dark, the danger . . . And this damn tingling between my thighs.

Drake has to repeat himself several times to get me to answer a simple question. Tristan laughs under his breath. The little smiles he gives me secretly let me know he's fully aware of his power of seduction.

The tease!

"Alright, we can't do anything else tonight," he finally says. We'll leave the SUV here and go find a motel nearby, then come back with a mechanic in the morning.

"Good idea, I don't feel so great again," Fergus murmurs from the passenger seat.

He's turned green again.

"I think I ate too many M&Ms," he admits, showing us the empty XXL bag.

We all get into the guitarist's car – musicians in the front, losers in the back – and we come across a little, very basic hotel not too far down the road.

"Welcome to the Wild Motel!" Bonnie sings as she slides her hand over her man's neck.

Wild . . . hmmm!

The guy at reception has a disgusting piece of liquorice in his mouth and he's about as welcoming as the sign out front. His face is dirty and decrepit, he doesn't smile but he won't stop staring at Bonnie's chest and my bare legs.

"The strip club is a few miles down the main road," Tristan grumbles as he hands him a large bill. "There you can stare all you want."

The man ignores his comment and hands us three keys.

"It's all I have," he mumbles. "And this one's a single. Just a twin bed."

"I'll take it!" Fergus interjects, still looking queasy. "I really need to go."

The redhead grabs the key and heads to his room, his backpack under his arm. Bonnie takes the second key and holds out her hand to Drake.

"I know exactly how I'm going to thank you for coming all this way," she smiles, putting on her femme fatale act.

"Bonnie! we're not bunking together?" I panic, trying to avoid Tristan's gaze.

"You really think I'm not going to spend the night with him after he came all this way?" she whispers, taking me to the side. "Plus, you and Tristan live together. You can share a room!"

"Bonnie . . . Please." I'm on the verge of begging.

"He just told me he wants us to try," she smiles, emotional. "Drake wants us to be together! Exclusively!"

What am I supposed to say to that? All I can do is hug her and tell her to go have the time of her life.

I'm left facing Tristan. His playful expression suddenly turns darker. His smile is stiff. He holds out the key and places it in my hand.

Like that time backstage . . .

" I'll sleep on the floor if you want," he says.

"Like I'm going to let you sleep on the disgusting carpet at a place like this!"

"Or I can sleep in Drake's car," he says, ruffling his hair with his hand in that way that sends the heat rushing through my core.

"Stop being stupid, Quinn. Let's go."

I head to room number 12 and open the door a little too quickly, as if trying to convince myself everything was OK. I throw my bag on the bed, pull the curtains wide and open the window to air out the place. I turn on the TV. The whole time, he's standing in the doorway watching me.

"Tristan!" I laugh quietly. "I don't bite."

"I know . . . But I don't know if the same can be said for me," he says in a deep voice, staring at me intensely.

My heart does a somersault in my chest. My whole body turns red. And I realize I want him more than ever. So I decide that in this old room, decorated in brown from floor to ceiling, the rules are different.

"Everything that happens at Wild Motel, stays at Wild Motel," I whisper as I walk toward him.

That rotten smile spreads across his face again and Tristan closes the door behind him, leaning back against it. In a few paces, I'm in his arms and I run my hands through his messy hair. Our breathing accelerates, our lips find each other, searching and opening to make way for our most secret desires. The most forbidden ones.

I moan into his mouth, his hands venture under my tee-shirt, grab my hips, caress my burning skin, and I let go completely.

A wild night, just one, that's all I ask for.

My moans are stifled by his mouth. We kiss as if we only had hours left on Earth.

My attraction to him is so strong that I need to possess his body, in one way or another. Tristan growls as I pull on his hair, then he deepens our kiss before pressing me against the wall. I let out a cry of surprise, his hands grip me under my ass and lift me suddenly. I wrap my legs around his hips as we devour each other.

Fire spreads inside of me.

"I'm not a novice anymore, you know," I say shyly in his ear. "You can take me like a savage this time."

As I use his own words, I realize that our first time – my first time – was a long time ago. Too long. An eternity.

Almost two months ago.

And the superhuman efforts we've made to stay apart are about to go up in smoke . . .

At this stage, it's a question of survival.

"Savage?" he murmurs in that hoarse voice, setting me down on the floor. "The setting seems appropriate . . ."

Those eyes . . . that intensity . . . A bubble of pleasure has just burst in my loins. My striped top lands on the carpet of room 12 at the Wild Motel, joined quickly by my shorts and tennis shoes. Tristan watches me with his bright, shining eyes, as if he was admiring a work of art. Only my lacy panties and my plum-colored bra protect me now.

And I want to scream at him to rip them off me . . .

But the rock star wants to play first. Biting his lower lip, he forces me to back up against the wardrobe and traps me against the cold surface. I tremble and he smiles. A smirk in the corner of his mouth in that way that makes me want to devour his lips. And everything else . . .