Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

Chapter Eighteen

  I barrel into our normal happy hour meeting spot and make a beeline for the bar, plopping into the empty barstool to the right of Evie, Nora and Izzy sitting on the other side of her. While I’m thrilled Izzy was able to find time in her schedule to come out with us, seeing her only reminds me of Lincoln, considering she was present during the blackout that started it all.

  Fuck Vegas.

  And fuck whoever’s responsible for that damn blackout.

  Why couldn’t Vegas have lost power and cell service one day later? Better yet, why couldn’t our flight not have been canceled? Why did Lincoln have to steal my panties? And why did I have to go get them back?

  I should know better. Hell, did I not learn anything from the story of Orpheus and Eurydice? He lost everything that was important to him because he looked back, a lesson to all to only look forward. Not only did I look back, but I made several return trips to the all-you-can-eat buffet. Now the hostess is telling me I’ve overstayed my welcome.

  “Is everything okay?” Evie’s brow wrinkles as her analytic eyes survey me.

  “Fucking marvelous.” I wave down Aiden, our handsome, yet very gay bartender. He begins pouring my usual martini. “Get me a shot of Jameson, too.”

  He peers at me quizzically, as do my three friends, particularly Izzy, who’s more than aware of my reasons for not drinking much. I need it today, though.

  “What’s going on?” Izzy asks once I slam back the shot.

  “Did something happen at class?” Nora chimes in.

  “Did you get kicked out for being late?” Evie presses.

  I draw in a deep breath, placing my palms against the cool wood of the bar. “No, I didn’t get kicked out for being late. This is undergrad, Evie. Not the fucking Marines.” I playfully roll my eyes, which elicits a laugh from Nora and Izzy. “But something did happen at school.”

  “What is it?” She leans toward me.

  “I—”

  She holds up her hand. “Wait. Are we talking ‘need to take the edge off’ kind of something? Or is it more like ‘line ‘em up and let’s get wasted’?”

  “It’s more along the lines of ‘I don’t think there’s enough bourbon in all of Kentucky to handle this’.”

  The girls look at each other, eyes widening, before zeroing in on me, sitting on the edge of their seats.

  “Okay. Spill.” Evie fishes the Maraschino cherry out of her manhattan and tugs it off the stem with her teeth.

  I bring my own drink to my mouth, taking a sip of the smooth vodka. And of course, being a martini, it only serves as another reminder of Lincoln. I’ve known this man less than two weeks, yet I find pieces of him in every part of my life. Is that how it will always be? God, I hope not.

  Exhaling, I place my glass back on the bar, squaring my shoulders to address my friends, their expressions akin to children meeting Santa for the first time.

  “When I got to campus today, I was only about ten minutes late. No biggie. At least for me,” I add when I see the absolute horror on Evie’s face at my admission. “So I snuck into the classroom and grabbed a seat in the middle of the lecture hall.” I bring my drink back to my mouth with a trembling hand, forcing a smile. But even a fake smile can’t mask the hurt in my voice. “And that’s when the professor turned around and I found out who would be teaching my First Amendment class.”

  “Oh god,” Nora exhales. “It’s your father, isn’t it? Did you not check the schedule to see who it would be?”

  I wave her off. “It wasn’t my father. Thank fuck for that.”

  “Then who?” Izzy asks.

  On a hard swallow, I allow his name to roll off my tongue. “None other than Lincoln Moore.”

  “Holy shit.” Nora takes a big gulp of her drink, as if she were the one who’d walked into class and learned the guy she’d been sleeping with was her professor.

  “Oh, my god,” Evie exhales.

  “Hold on a second,” Izzy says, her mouth agape as she stares at me, knowing I wouldn’t have told Evie and Nora about Lincoln if there weren’t still something there. “You’ve been seeing Lincoln Moore and never said anything?”

  “His name is just Lincoln,” I respond, not wanting her to pick up on Nora’s and Evie’s habit of referring to Lincoln by his full name. “And you’d know about it if you stopped working long enough to meet me for coffee. I haven’t seen or talked to you since Vegas, so I didn’t exactly have a chance to tell you.”

  She waves me off. “Whatever. That’s not important right now. What is important is what’s been going on with you and Lincoln.”

  “Nothing now.”

  “Well, before.”

  I shrug. “We…reconnected.”

  “Reconnected how?”

  I chew on my lower lip. “He kind of took my panties. And I kind of went to get them back.”

  “And what? You kind of slipped and fell on his dick?”

  “It is an impressive dick.”

  It’s silent for a moment. Then the girls’ laughter carries through the bar, overpowering the chatter and music.

  “Guys,” I whine. “It’s not funny. This is serious!”

  “I know, I know,” Nora says, tears forming in the corner of her eyes. “We’re not laughing at the situation.”

  “Then—”

  “You tripped and fell on his dick?” Evie giggles.

  “Kind of. I mean, that guy has some serious game.”

  “What are you going to do?” Nora asks the question on everyone’s mind.

  I shrug. “Hope my advisor agrees to let me fulfill these credits with an independent study instead. This is the last class I need to graduate, but I don’t want to sit in that room every Thursday for fifteen weeks or however long the semester is.”

  “I’m sure she’ll agree,” Evie assures me. “After you disclose your relationship to Lincoln, there’s no way they’ll let you stay.”

  “Right.” I avert my eyes, taking another large gulp of my drink.

  “What is it?” Izzy tilts her head.

  I glance at her sideways, then blow out a breath. “We kind of agreed to keep it quiet.”

  “You what?” Evie shrieks, aghast.

  “That’s crazy,” Nora adds.

  “Not to mention a horrible idea,” Izzy offers. “No matter what you may think, these kinds of things never stay quiet forever.”

  Briefly closing my eyes, I clench my fists. “I understand that, but there’s no other option.”

  “Yes, there is,” Nora pushes. “My replacement roommate after you dropped out made the mistake of hooking up with her TA. It went on her record. On both their records. And it affected him for years, all because they got drunk one night, messed around, and someone eventually found out about it.”

  “It’s not optimal, but…” I release a heavy sigh. “It’s not just the fact he’s my professor. I knew he was a lawyer, but I assumed he worked at some high-power law firm.”

  “Is he some ambulance chaser instead?” Evie presses.

  I bury my face in my hands, shaking my head. “No. Worse.” When I finally lift my eyes and stare at my friends, the truth is plastered in my expression, at least enough for Izzy to put the pieces together. Who better to teach First Amendment Law than someone who practices it on a daily basis?

  “He works for your father, doesn’t he.” It’s more a statement than a question.

  I slowly nod.

  “And you’re worried if Lincoln reports this it’ll get back to your father.”

  “It’s not a question of if. It will happen. My father and the dean golf together. Plus, Lincoln teaches at the university because of his experience as a lawyer for the newspaper. Because my father recommended him for the job. He was adamant about telling his boss…until he found out my relationship to his boss.”

  “And your father cannot know,” Izzy says in understanding.

  “Precisely.”

  “I don’t follow.” Evie scrunches her nose. Out of the three of them,
she’s known me the least amount of time, coming in at a point in my life when I’d already distanced myself from my father.

  “We have a…difficult relationship.”

  “Difficult? How? He’s your father.”

  I can understand how she’d be confused. She comes from the stereotypical family. Two loving parents. An older brother who adores her and most likely put the fear of God into all the boys she’d dated in her past. Hell, they probably even have a cookie-cutter house with a picket fence, à la Leave it to Beaver.

  “He may be my father, but that always came second. Maybe even third or fourth on his list of priorities. His job always came first. Always. It still does.”

  While he did remarry soon after divorcing my mother, it’s a strange marriage. I don’t feel any love between him and Tiffany. No passion. No intense need to be with each other. I think my father simply wanted to have a woman on his arm during important functions. And Tiffany was more than happy to have a career as a housewife. It’s not like it was with my mother, a woman who had strong aspirations of her own.

  “He’s always had impossibly high standards.”

  “So did my parents,” Evie offers, still trying to understand this.

  “Nothing I did was good enough. If I won the class spelling bee, he’d point out I failed to win the school-wide competition. If I won a fencing match, he’d comment how my opponents weren’t well-trained. If I were cast as the lead in the school play, he’d mention all the flaws in my performance. All of this in the hopes of encouraging me to work harder.”

  “Did it?” Evie’s voice is hesitant.

  “At first, yes. I worked my tail off trying to make him happy. Then I discovered boys. And I mean really discovered boys. Do you know what I discovered about them?”

  Evie and Nora shake their heads, transfixed. Izzy listens with polite attention, fully aware of this part of my life.

  “That they were nothing like my father. That they didn’t put me down after we kissed by telling me my technique could use some work. And I liked that feeling. Of course, my father hated the fact I became more focused on boys than school. Why should I care, though? No matter what I did, it wouldn’t be good enough, so why try?” I take a sip of my drink, needing the liquid encouragement to share this piece of myself with my two friends. “Despite it all, there’s still this part of me that wants to make him proud, to prove to him that I am good enough.”

  “And if he learns you slept with your professor…,” Evie begins, putting the pieces together.

  “He’ll never think you earned this degree,” Nora finishes.

  “I know it sounds stupid, that it shouldn’t matter.”

  “We all want to make our parents happy.” With a smile, Evie places her hand over mine, squeezing. “Or we want to prove them wrong.”

  “And I’d love to prove my father wrong, make him see I’m not a failure.”

  “So if you’re keeping it a secret,” Nora begins after a brief pause, “will your advisor agree to an independent study?”

  “All I can do is hope she does.”

  “If she doesn’t? Do you think you’ll be able to handle him teaching the class?” she asks in all seriousness. “I mean without picturing him naked every time he talks about briefs, or penal violations, or getting a client off.”

  I lift my eyes, staring at her for a protracted moment, then burst out laughing, grateful for the break in the tension. It’s a relief, especially after the day I’ve had.

  I fidget with the stem of my martini glass, a pang squeezing my heart as I watch a couple walk into the bar holding hands, an obvious affection between them.

  “Actually, I don’t think I’ll be able to deal with it, so I’ll just pray my advisor is on my side and allows me to do an independent study.” I swallow thickly. “Then I can forget about Lincoln Moore.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  My stomach roils as I look up at the journalism building on campus, the structure feeling more like an unwelcome fortress than a place of higher learning. A chill washes over me, having nothing to do with the frigid January temperature and everything to do with what awaits me inside those doors. The last thing I want to do is walk into this building and sit through class with Lincoln — Professor Moore. But I no longer have an option. Not if I want to graduate this semester.

  Because I’d taken this class twice before with less than stellar results, thanks to problems with my mother, my advisor refused to sign off on an independent study. I’d considered withdrawing from the class altogether, but like Izzy reminded me, it’s my last one. There’s no guarantee someone different will teach it next semester, either, so I may as well get it over with.

  Spine straight, I summon the determination to walk into the lobby, my steps quickening when I see the elevator doors begin to shut. Thankfully, someone notices me and places their hand on the door.

  “Thank you,” I say breathlessly as I sneak inside, keeping my head lowered.

  “You’re welcome.”

  As the doors close, my breath catches, every muscle becoming rigid. I fling my eyes to my left to see Lincoln standing there, all poised and confident.

  It’s official. The universe is out to get me. I wrack my brain to think of what I could have done to piss it off this much. I consider finding the nearest Catholic church, despite not being religious, just to go to confession. Then again, I doubt any priest would be prepared to listen to the number of sins I’ve committed. He’ll probably say a plethora of Our Fathers and Hail Marys to cleanse my soul, too.

  “Professor Moore.” I stare ahead, pretending this isn’t anything more than a teacher and student sharing an elevator. It’s not the first time I’ve shared one with a professor of mine. But they weren’t Lincoln.

  “Chloe.” When he says my name, it’s soft, compassionate, endearing.

  “Don’t,” I snap, refusing to so much as a glance at him.

  In the silence, I can sense his turmoil. Sense he wants to say something but doesn’t know what. I doubt they teach this kind of thing in whatever law school he attended. Probably Harvard, just like my father. Another reason this is for the best. Lincoln would turn out just like him — in love with his career and nothing else. Better to cut my losses now.

  “For the record,” he states as the elevator slows to a stop on our floor, “I’m sorry things had to end this way.”

  The sincerity in his voice forces my eyes to his, and I look at him. Actually look at him. I’m not sure what I expected to see. Maybe the same demeanor I’ve come to expect from him — self-assured, bold, a hint of arrogance. But that’s not what I see at all.

  The way his sad eyes trace over my face with longing is all the proof I need that this has been as difficult for him as it has for me. The green is lackluster, the circles under his eyes evidencing lack of sleep. It could be due to having to pull extra hours at work, but the wistful expression as he focuses on my lips makes me think he’s been tossing and turning at night, cursing fate, just like me.

  The doors open, breaking our moment, and he scurries off. I watch his long strides as he continues down the hall, turning into the faculty wing just as I whisper, “Me, too.”

  Pulling myself together, I shake off the interaction and head toward the classroom. It’s relatively empty when I arrive, a handful of ambitious students discussing the assigned reading.

  I assume the same seat in the middle of the lecture hall and pull out the few notes I jotted down as I attempted to absorb this week’s material. It turned out to be a lost cause. Whenever I tried, all I could think of was Lincoln. I fear I’ll be faced with the same problem every time I open the textbook. I pray Lincoln won’t be cruel enough to call on me to discuss the reading. I can only hope he’ll avoid bringing attention to me these first few weeks while we attempt to find a new normal in this strange dynamic.

  “Is all this legal talk as much a foreign language to you as it is to me?” a smooth voice asks after several minutes.

  I glance to my r
ight as a man I estimate to be in his thirties sits down in the empty chair beside me. I thought I was one of the oldest students in the department, considering most everyone else isn’t even able to legally drink yet. How did I not notice him last week? Oh, yeah. Because I was dealing with the fact that I’d been fucking my college professor. Another day in the life of Chloe Davenport.

  I meet my fellow classmate’s eyes. They’re a dull combination of brown and green, completely uninspiring. “You have no idea.”

  “That’s a relief.” He pretends to swipe sweat from his brow, his smile comforting. “After the last class, I thought I was the only one who felt lost.”

  “I barely retained anything.” It’s not a complete lie. I couldn’t tell him a single thing that was discussed last week.

  “Right? I get that all this First Amendment stuff is important as a journalist, but can’t they teach it to us in simpler terms?”

  I smile politely. While I find it difficult to concentrate on the material because of who is teaching it, it is fascinating. I can understand why my father chose the path he did. Spending your time ensuring people’s First Amendment rights aren’t infringed unnecessarily is certainly admirable. Why couldn’t he exhibit that kind of enthusiasm toward his family?

  “I’m Owen,” he says, extending his hand toward me.

  I eye it before placing mine in it. “Chloe.”

  “Nice to meet you, Chloe.” He keeps his grip firm on my hand, holding it a little longer than socially appropriate. When he finally lets go, my skin tingles with his phantom touch.

  Part of me wants to feel something — desire, craving, lust. Owen is an attractive guy. Sandy hair with hints of copper. Deep-set eyes. Full lips. Clean-shaven jawline. I estimate he’s about six feet tall, and based on the muscled forearms I see, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, I assume he has a nice physique.

  Regardless, my body has no reaction to him. Almost like my ten days with Lincoln have now ruined me for any man who’s to come after him.

  “You, too,” I say, although it’s more of a polite formality than a truthful statement.