Forbidden Games

Kiss Me if You Dare

"Always the same thing," Betty Sue complains. "Damn fishing contest! I'm gonna booby trap their rods . . . Are you listening, Liv?"

"Hmm?"

"Men are such cowards . . . Picking on beings that are smaller than they are. It's disgusting. And for fun, no less! Entertainment! With fish! Have you ever seen a creature more innocent than a fish?"

She's about to pretend she's Nemo so I see what she's talking about. My grandma has been on the topic for an hour at least. Each year, in mid-April, the Key West Fishing Tournament brings together the city's amateur and professional fishermen. They show off their best catches and the luckiest one wins a completely useless prize. Multicolored fish in a sad state are sometimes thrown back into the water, sometimes not. And in both cases, Betty Sue doesn't try to hide her anger – a very polite word compared to all the ones that come flying out of her mouth.

Sitting at the old wooden table with its crackled yellow paint, I drink my third cup of coffee and try to remain focused on my notes on real estate law. It's not easy when the Green Peace brigade starts marching through the house. There are two cats huddled behind my computer on the table and Lulu, the big white dog with blue eyes is asleep at my feet.

I move on to the next chapter. Betty Sue is still pacing around in her bright orange dress, preparing her action plan:

"I'm going to go down there and make so much noise the fish will swim away!"

She pauses for a moment. A very short moment. Way too short.

"You remember your dad is coming to dinner tonight? I'm going to try to convince him to stay. Forever."

I smile at my grandma, entirely aware of her devious plan. Since I moved in with her, she decreed that her next mission would be to tear my dad out of Sienna Lombardi's talons. As if he were her victim.

"She's drugging him!" she starts in again. "I don't see any other explanation!"

"It's complicated. Right now they seem like they hate each other, but Dad really loved her before."

"When?"

"At the very beginning."

Her skeptical expression makes me laugh.

"He probably wants to do things gently, respect her . . ."

"Gently? Because you think she's gentle?!"

"No," I sigh, thinking back to their latest battle. "But Dad is not being held hostage, as far as I know!"

Then again . . .

"But really, there's no logic to it," she mutters, picking up her wicker hand bag.

"What do you mean?"

"That he's still over there, even though they don't love each other anymore. And that you're here, when . . ."

"I know . . ." I say, looking down.

. . . when I'm madly in love with Tristan.

The door closes behind her, leaving me to contemplate the silence around me. And the aching I feel, missing him. Devastated, I close my computer and pick up my phone. His last message came two days ago. When I got it, I thought I was going to die with happiness, excitement and relief. But when I read it . . .

[Harry says: he gives you big hugs, he misses you, and so does "Alfed".]

I didn't reply, not sure how to interpret it. Was it just an excuse to talk to me? Or was Harry really hoping for an answer? Was it proof that the big brother misses me too? Or that he's getting by just fine without me? All I know is that my heart pounds just a little too hard each time the name "Tristan" pops up on my phone. And it hurts way too much when his tone is cold and distant.

The plan I came up with three weeks ago – with Bonnie's help – was simple. Leave the house, our shared wall, get away so he would have to come get me. So he would realize how strong our bond is.

I still believe in us . . .

Fool (noun): a person who lacks good sense or judgment: a stupid or silly person.

***

"Dye my hair? You want my entire family to reject me?"

Fergus is running to the kitchen to get away from me, his hands covering his shock of red hair.

"Just a little spike in the middle!" I say, catching up to him in the pantry.

"Liv, if you want to keep me as a friend, you better put down the scissors!"

I do as he asks, laughing, grab a granola bar and break off half, handing it to him.

"Alright, so I guess dressing in leather from head to toe will be enough, then . . ."

"I'm invisible, Liv, no one will notice me.

"Stop saying that," I say, kissing his cheek. "I see you."

"I know, that's why I always agree to go along with your stupid plans!"

"People love dressing up!"

"I'm not people."

"No, that's true. You're way better than people."

"Keep that up and I might just let you shave my head," he laughs, coming out of the pantry.

A half hour later, two very strangely dressed creatures stare back at us in the mirror. A little guy in a tank top, baggy jeans and a backwards baseball cap. And an overly made-up girl with short brown hair – Betty Sue went through a wig phase – wearing a hippie dress that's way too big.

"Remind me why we're humiliating ourselves like this?"

Fergus sighs, pulling on his wannabe rapper tank top. He curses Bonnie who is curled up in her bed with the flu.

"I need to see him," I sigh. "But he can't recognize me."

"You really think we needed to disguise ourselves? There will be at least 500 people in the bar! And Tristan will be on stage, way too busy to look for you in the crowd."

"You never know."

"And can you remind me why you don't want him to see you, again? What's the point in hiding? I don't understand why you're not together . . ."

"I wanted him to come get me," I murmur, slipping into my Converse. "I thought he would, but he hasn't. And if I run after him, he'll run away."

"So?"

"So, I miss him like crazy and I'm using the methods I have available to me!"

Turns out that means dressing up like someone else, just to have the chance to admire him on stage for a few minutes.

Pathetic. Or desperate. Or a bit of both.

"It's going to hurt you more than help you, Liv . . ."

"I'll let you know."

The facade of the little beach front bar is lit up with multicolored lights and the pretty red tables are overflowing with couples in love, staring into each other's eyes. No one even glances at me, though Fergus' look attracts a few smiles. I take my best friend's hand and pull him inside. The atmosphere is completely different once you walk through the door. It's very dark and incredibly hot. The air is stagnant. Tristan's voice in the microphone shoots straight to my heart. I lean on the bar near the door and stare right at him.

I forgot just how overwhelming one human being could be.

Dressed all in black, the leader of the Key Whys is singing with his eyes closed, his body tense, full of emotion. When Tristan's deep voice sings, "I want you back," I start hoping he's talking about me. He repeats the refrain again and I'm finally convinced. I understand him better than anyone. I understand what haunts him and tortures him.

He misses me.

Without even thinking, I brace myself on Fergus' shoulders, almost falling, and climb onto the bar. I rip off the wig and my hair falls around my shoulders. The bartender who is pretty apathetic, lazily asks me to get down. I ignore him. Facing the stage, I stare at him insistently until his shining eyes meet mine. It's as if time stands still.

That smile . . . that face . . . I've missed them so much.

The rock star continues singing, but he's elsewhere. His groupies think he's there with them. But he's with me. Just me. His eyes stay fixed on me until the last notes, the last "I want you back." Everything means something again. I feel like myself. My body is awake, functioning again.

The song ends and Drake announces a 10 minute break as Tristan jumps down off the stage. A little crazed, not sure where he's going, I climb down from my lookout tower with the bartender's help.

"I'll be back, Fergie."

My best friend doesn't listen to me, enchanted by the petite redhead who just started talking to him. I push through the crowd looking for Tristan, but I can't find him. I ask around and people point me toward the side room. I didn't know such a small bar could have two rooms. It doesn't matter. I head in that direction. I came here for him. He saw me. He smiled at me.

I'm ready. For good!

I continue pushing my way through, not really sure where I'm going. Suddenly I see him, surrounded by musicians and strangers, a beer in hand.

"Tristan!"

I don't recognize my own voice. His name came out on its own, my voice violent and raw. The broad shoulders straighten up and his blue irises meet mine, but he doesn't move. Or barely. He interrupts his conversation and takes one step forward. Just one. He's not hostile, but he makes it clear that I have to come the rest of the way. So I go, letting my legs carry me toward him. Toward the forbidden. I'm dying to reunite with him, touch him, smell him. I quickly move towards him. The more I look at him, the more gorgeous he gets. And his body language screams, "kiss me if you dare . . ."

How could I not kiss you?

My lips crush into his and I kiss him like I've never kissed anyone before. Not even Tristan. I feel like I'm flying. I'm floating on a cloud, my lips welded to the lips of the man I love. I fight back my tears, moaning, groaning and laughing. I don't care about the whispers, yelling, teasing and whistling. I kiss Tristan Quinn like it's what I know how to do best. I slide my hands under his tee-shirt to feel his heat and sweat. He groans and kisses me harder. With such passion and force, a tear rises to my eye. Just one. A tear of joy.

"Ewww . . ." murmurs a girl as she pushes past us.

I keep my lips pinned to his, but I throw my arm back in an angry, random gesture. I make contact with the brat and push her so she'll disappear. She insults me, and I laugh. Amused by my boldness, Tristan pulls me harder against him. Still kissing me, he wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me to his height. I'm in heaven. I'm not scared anymore. I'm not ashamed.

I have him. Tristan. And that's all that matters.

My feet touch the ground and my fingers get lost in his rebellious locks. He bites his lip, then backs up to catch his breath:

"Jesus, did you really just do that? Tell everyone to fuck off, for me?"

His husky voice makes me tremble. I smile, losing myself in his clear eyes.

"If you only knew how much I love you, Liv Sawyer . . ."

My heart explodes into a million pieces. I lunge at him again, kissing him passionately, trembling and too emotional to reply. I want my I love you to be perfect – I need to get rid of this lump in my throat before I say it. Our lips brush against each other, our tongues dancing, and then suddenly everything stops, way too quickly.

"We're starting the next set!" Elijah yells, pulling Tristan's arm.

"We've gotta be on another stage in one hour, man!" Drake adds, motioning for him to hurry. "Tonight's not the night to do a remake of The Young and the Restless!"

Tristan turns back to me. His smirk is back. He's more insolent and irresistible than ever.

"To be continued, Sawyer?"

I nod, almost stupid I'm so happy, and he's already back on stage, his voice igniting a fire in the sweaty, dancing crowd. This time he starts in on a cover of I Put a Spell on You.

Hmmm. Is it just me or is it hot in here?

I barely notice the sideways glances and cruel smiles when I go to find Fergus. I don't hear the insults and while some of them may be itching to say it, no one utters the word "incest" tonight. Or maybe I'm just too happy to notice. I stop my best buddy from downing his third drink, confiscate his fake ID and pull him out of the bar. I listen to Tristan's warm, deep voice gradually fade as I walk away to prepare my next strike.

He loves me. I'm not dreaming. HE LOVES ME!

It takes me hours to get the stupid smile off my face. I can't sleep. I can't concentrate during the showings or answer clients' questions the next day. It's torture waiting for the hands on the clock to reach 8pm, finally.

My spy has kept me well-informed. Betty Sue and all the people living in her head are sure of it: Dad and Sienna are out for the evening, both off doing their own thing. With my big bag resting at my feet, I ring the doorbell at the family house at 8:30 exactly, hoping they won't answer. And they don't. It's him.

Blue eyes. Mischievous smile. Quarterback's build. Mussed hair. That Adam's apple. Did I mention his eyes?

The perfect combination of intensity and malice: the Tristan Quinn secret.

"What are you doing here, Sawyer?"

He keeps smiling, looking me up and down. I hold my index finger up to my lips, letting him know he should be quiet. I take two steps back and pull out the sign I had hiding behind my back. I give him time to read what it says: "I'M READY!"

As if he were embarrassed or surprised, he leans forward and runs his hand nervously through his hair. Then he straightens up and stares at me, crossing his arms across his chest. I turn the sign over to show him the other side: "I LOVE YOU, QUINN!"

And in smaller letters underneath: "Would you agree to love a daddy's girl who's crazy about you?"

He cracks up laughing and I drop the sign, walking towards him. I jump into his arms and giggle as he turns me around, groaning into my neck.

"Damn it . . ." he says, hugging me. "Do you ever stop driving me crazy?"

"Don't you think that may be why you love me?"

He sighs and whispers sweet nothings in my ear. I let his burning body carry me. It couldn't be more perfect. I laugh loudly as he suddenly turns around and grabs my bag, tossing it into the house. The door slams behind us.

"You're not going anywhere, Sawyer!"

He holds out his hand and I escape, running toward the steps. In my haste, I almost run over Harry, who is sitting on the first step with Alfred's leg in his mouth.

"Liv, you're back. Not going 'gain?"

"No, sweetie, I'm staying here with you," I smile tenderly.

Tristan joins us and the little brother lands in the big brother's arms, carried up to his room. On the way, I kiss Harry over and over, forcing Tristan to lean down toward me. The little boy cries out with laughter and asks for more. Tristan pretends to be jealous:

"I've only had her back for a minute and another man, younger and handsomer, is already stealing her away!"

"That will never happen," I whisper in his ear.

His eyes meet mine for just an instant, making me blush. Mental images of us rush through my brain – naked, burning with desire, insatiable.

"It's time to go to bed, Don Juan!"

Tristan puts Harrison to bed, kisses his forehead and turns on the night light.

"You goin' to sleep too?"

"Mmm . . . nighty night little bro."

And he gives me a determined, hungry look. My whole body is already begging for him.