Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  “So, what’s your story?” he asks as I turn my attention back to my notes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The usual. What do you do for a living? Why are you studying journalism? What’s your favorite sexual position?”

  I dart my wide eyes to his, unsure how to respond to this inquiry.

  “You know. Those usual ice-breaker questions people don’t give two shits about but ask each other in an attempt to make inane conversation.” He winks, his smile growing wide.

  I don’t know what it is, but something about his cavalier attitude is refreshing. He does have a point.

  “Well, since you’re not going to pay attention anyway,” I begin with a grin, “I work at a magazine as a celebrity news columnist. Started as a receptionist just trying to make a living wage and worked my way into the newsroom. So I guess that’s why I’m studying it. I’ve got a foot in the door of an industry that’s notoriously exclusive. I figure having a degree will only help me move on to something bigger and better.”

  “You mean you don’t enjoy reporting on what celebrities had for lunch or whether they’re good tippers?” He looks at me aghast, a playfulness about him.

  I chuckle, tension rolling off me. Maybe having a friend in this class is exactly what I need. If nothing else, Owen makes me laugh, something I haven’t done in days.

  “Shocking, I know. So, how about you?”

  “Oh, I’m not too complicated. I tend to follow my partner’s lead.”

  I furrow my brow.

  “Favorite sexual position,” he clarifies, his tone light. “Whatever my girl wants, my girl gets.”

  I stare at him, assessing. If some random guy at a bar said that to me within seconds of learning my name, I’d write him off. But something about Owen’s good-natured demeanor makes it more than clear he’s using humor to break the ice. So, instead of being turned off by his statement and doing everything to avoid him in the future, I laugh, the sound carrying through the room, echoing against the walls. I don’t even care that I’m drawing attention to myself.

  Until a loud, booming voice cuts through.

  “Miss Davenport!”

  I fling my gaze to the front, seeing Lincoln standing there, his arms crossed, stance wide, expression severe.

  “If you don’t mind, I’ve called class to order. Or is your conversation more important than the First Amendment?”

  I blink, my heart caught in my throat. I consider arguing that I was exercising my own First Amendment right, but decide against it. “Of course not. I apologize.”

  Several protracted moments pass as he stares at me, making me feel small and insignificant. Then he flits his glare to Owen, his jaw clenching as he does so. To anyone else, his actions wouldn’t be seen as anything other than a silent warning to him, as well. But I know Lincoln. There’s jealousy in those green eyes.

  Finally, he breaks his attention from us and turns toward the whiteboard.

  Owen leans close, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

  I nod, but remain silent, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself.

  “And for what it’s worth...,” Owen adds. I glance at him as he passes me an encouraging look. “You have a beautiful laugh.”

  I smile. It doesn’t reach my eyes, but it’s something. “Thanks.”

  “You bet.” He winks, and I feel the tiniest flutter in my chest.

  If nothing else, Owen could serve as a very welcome distraction. Maybe this class won’t be so bad after all.

  Chapter Twenty

  “God, I hate the suburbs,” I exhale as the Uber driver comes to a stop in front of a well-maintained three-story house in an upper middle-class neighborhood in Greenwich. A thick layer of snow covers the front lawn, making the property look even more picturesque. Even more perfect. Even more idealistic. The quintessential place to raise a family.

  I should know. It was once my home.

  Until my father realized he didn’t get it quite right the first time around and started over again from scratch. New wife. New kids. Kept the house. At least he got that right.

  Prick.

  You’d think Tiffany, my father’s new wife, would have wanted to move, start their lives in a new house where they could make memories of their own. That didn’t seem to matter to her. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she’d insisted he keep the house just to be able to gloat that she took my mother’s place.

  “You’re doing this for Midge,” Izzy reminds me.

  I float my eyes to her and nod.

  Midge, my half-sister, is the youngest of the four children Tiffany pushed out after marrying my father fifteen years ago. The first one appeared less than nine months after my parents separated, so it didn’t take a genius to solve that little mystery. But one kid wasn’t enough. So they kept having them. I thought they were trying to form their own basketball team. It seemed like every time I saw them, Tiffany was pregnant. In the end, she simply wanted a girl.

  It must drive her crazy that the girl she so desperately wanted looks up to me. It’s a mystery how the little pipsqueak formed an attachment to me, but when I show up for holidays and parties, she shoves everyone aside, clinging to me as if I pushed her out of my hoo-ha. It’s probably the only reason I was invited today. Probably the only reason I’m ever invited.

  “But if it’ll help, we can make a pit stop at my parents’ house and sneak some of the liquor bottles my mother stole from the airline.” She waggles her brows.

  “Iz, didn’t she quit the airline, like, ten years ago?”

  “Fifteen, but last I checked, she still has those mini bottles.”

  A horrified expression crosses my face at the idea of drinking anything that’s been sitting in a plastic bottle that long. “Gross.” I try not to gag. “That stuff wasn’t good when it was fresh. Can you imagine how disgusting it would taste now? Not to mention…” I gesture toward the house. “My father has a very well-stocked bar.” I slide out of the back seat of the Uber and step onto the street, meeting Izzy as we walk up the driveway together, the March air crisp on my cheeks. “Sharing his DNA has its benefits, like being able to steal some of the thirty-year-old scotch he keeps hidden away for special occasions.”

  “And you just so happen to know his hiding spot?”

  I pass her a mischievous look as we approach the front porch, the sounds of children laughing and screaming filtering out, as I suspected it would. “His youngest daughter’s sixth birthday should be a reason to celebrate. Don’t you think?”

  “I suppose you’re right.” About to open the door, she pauses, looking to me, silently asking if I’m ready.

  I nod, steeling myself. At least Izzy agreed to come with me, since she knows how uneasy being in this house makes me. She was there when I learned my parents were separating. When I packed up my room. When I got into my mother’s car and left this neighborhood behind. Regardless of the months that would sometimes pass without speaking to each other, our connection has remained strong. She’ll always put her life on hold to help me out, especially when it involves my father.

  We walk into the house, my eyes immediately going to a series of framed photos on the entryway table showcasing my father and his new family. I can’t remember ever seeing a photo of my parents and me. Sure, there are photos of my mother and me, as well as some of my father and me. But I don’t think there’s anything in existence of the three of us, like we never were a family.

  “Chloe!” an excited voice calls out, followed by two small arms flinging around my mid-section, squeezing me tightly. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it!”

  I briefly close my eyes, relishing in Midge’s unbiased love. Regardless of her mother’s feelings toward me, it hasn’t rubbed off on her. I wish she could stay this innocent the rest of her life. It’s only a matter of time until she picks up on her mother’s animosity. After all, we’re not born programmed to hate. We’re taught that. And I know her mother will eventually teach her to despise me, even if s
he doesn’t do it deliberately. All I can do is savor the fact that Midge hasn’t learned to hate me yet.

  “I wouldn’t miss this party for anything. It’s not every day my favorite sister turns six.” I tousle her perfect blonde curls as she releases her hold, looking up at me.

  “I’m your only sister.”

  “But you’d still be my favorite,” I sing.

  “Midge, sweetie,” a high-pitched voice calls out, the sound of heels clicking against the hardwood growing closer. “Where did you—”

  Tiffany stops in her tracks when she sees Izzy and me in the foyer. Her dyed blonde hair doesn’t have a single strand out of place. I imagine she went to the salon early this morning to have it styled and her makeup applied so she’d look impeccable in the presence of all the other house vultures she invited.

  “Oh… Chloe. You made it.”

  She leans in, pretending to kiss both my cheeks before pulling back. It must kill her to have to be nice to me because of Midge.

  “Unfortunately, you missed all the cake and presents. Perhaps we should start telling you to be here an hour earlier so you’ll show up on time.”

  For Midge’s sake, I bite my tongue at her passive-aggressive statement. “I’d figure it out, then show up two hours after you said it started.” I look down at Midge, handing her the gift bag. “Happy birthday, pipsqueak.”

  Tiffany huffs, crossing her arms in front of her chest. She’s made it more than clear she doesn’t believe in pet names for her children. But I do.

  “Is this for me?”

  “Of course it is, silly.”

  “Can I open it?”

  “Absolutely.”

  With pure joy in her eyes, Midge plops onto the floor and tears at all the tissue packed inside the bag. She shrieks as she pulls out her gift. I steal a glimpse at Tiffany, who feigns enthusiasm. I saw the wish list she put together for Midge’s birthday. Books about important figures in history. Educational toys. Computer programs to help her learn a foreign language. Nothing any young girl would be remotely excited about.

  At Christmas, Midge had asked me if her parents were actually Santa, since he seemed to get her the same kinds of toys they did, while other kids at school received fun things to play with. So, I asked what she really wanted, then knew exactly what I’d be getting her for her birthday.

  “You got me an American Girl doll?” She jumps to her feet and squeezes her arms around me as I crouch down to her level.

  “You deserve it, pipsqueak. One of these days, I’ll take you into the city so you can go to the American Girl store yourself. You can bring your doll, pick out some clothes for her. We can even take her to lunch there.”

  She squeals even more, hugging me again. This makes it all worth it, being able to give her something she really wants. Giving her one moment of happiness.

  “Yes, well, we’ll have to see about that,” Tiffany snips, head held high. “Chloe does have a very busy schedule.”

  “But I’m never too busy for you,” I tell Midge directly. “Okay?”

  “Okay.” She beams, looking from me to her doll. I sense she’s itching to show off her new toy to her friends.

  “Go play.”

  “There are a bunch of accessories and other things to use with your doll in here,” Izzy offers, handing Midge a second gift bag.

  Midge’s gray eyes light up again and she wraps her arms around Izzy. “Thanks, Auntie Izzy.”

  “You bet. Now go.”

  Grinning, she spins, hurrying into the living room, excited shrieks coming from all the girls.

  Able to feel the heat of Tiffany’s glare on me, I shift my eyes to hers. “I thought we were clear that only gifts on the pre-approved list were to be purchased for Midge.”

  “Oh, you were clear. But as I’m sure you’ve learned, I don’t exactly like rules.” I return Tiffany’s condescending smile, then spin from her.

  The instant I enter the living room, all conversation ceases among the house vultures, as I’ve affectionately referred to them for years. I’ve never quite understood this group of women. They’re all in their forties. All happy not to have a career, to be completely dependent on their husbands to provide for them. Granted, each is married to someone who does well for himself, all of them having married a man in their fifties or sixties, but I’d never want to be known as “Adam’s wife” or “Joe’s wife” or “Nathan’s wife”. No identity. So handmaid-ish.

  Perhaps that was why my father wasn’t happy with my mother. She was ambitious. Didn’t want to sit at home and raise children. She wanted to show me that women could be just as successful as men. And she did, as much as she could when forced to sacrifice her own career to take care of me as a child.

  “Chloe,” one of the house vultures says, smiling and pretending they hadn’t spent the past several minutes talking about me.

  If I remember correctly, her name’s Stephani-with-an-i, as she introduced herself to me when we met a few years ago. Not sure why it mattered, but apparently, that unique spelling was important enough that she was no longer Stephani, but Stephani-with-an-i.

  “So glad you could finally make it. We were beginning to worry.”

  I meet her fake smile and raise her a fabricated grin. “The trains out of the city were running behind schedule.”

  Izzy and I move toward a few vacant chairs, and I take a minute to absorb my surroundings, the place barely recognizable as the home I remember from my youth. The furniture and window treatments are so over-the-top, probably meant to be a display of wealth but missed the mark and are downright gaudy.

  “I don’t know how you can stand living there,” another one of the women offers, dressed almost identical to Tiffany and Stephani-with-an-i.

  I wonder if there’s an unspoken rule that every housewife in Greenwich must adhere to the same uniform. Hair just past their shoulders, preferably blonde, with perfect beach waves. Skin bronzed year-round, despite the fact it’s only March and not yet beach weather. Pastel-colored sheath dresses showing off the figures they pay personal trainers thousands of dollars to help them achieve. I must stand out with my skinny jeans, oversized cardigan, and knee-high boots, not to mention my gray and lilac ombre hair.

  “I know,” Denise, another one of the house vultures, adds. “It’s so big. And noisy. And chaotic. Not a place I’d ever be proud to live in.”

  “Well, I could never live in the suburbs,” Izzy states in my defense, as she’s prone to do whenever I leave Manhattan and come out to this place that often feels like a foreign country after living in the city so long. The fresh air, chirping birds, and large expanses of open space make me uneasy. I much prefer concrete, tall buildings, and a barrage of honking horns.

  Denise looks at her with a wavering smile, then shrugs, sipping on her Champagne, oblivious to the children running around the house.

  Izzy leans toward me. “Drink?”

  “The stronger, the better.” I’m usually not one to drink during the day, but there are exceptions to that rule. And today is an exception.

  “You got it.” She squeezes my side, then heads toward the kitchen.

  “So, Chloe,” Stephani-with-an-i says. I look in her direction. “The barista at the Starbucks by the elementary school recently colored her hair similar to yours. What’s her name?” She scrunches her brows, glancing at a few of the other women.

  “Lottie,” one offers.

  “No. I think it’s something like Lauren.”

  “No,” another woman says. “It’s something strange. Like a stripper name. Lola maybe?”

  “Possibly.” Stephani-with-an-i still doesn’t look convinced. “Or is it…” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “Not Lola. Poppy!” She tilts her head and looks at me as all the women nod in agreement. “Do you know her?”

  “I don’t live here,” I remind her. “So I haven’t had the pleasure of having suburban Starbucks.”

  “Oh, I know you don’t live here. I figured since your hair…”<
br />
  I blink repeatedly, trying to mask my utter shock at the stupidity spewing from Stephani-with-an-i’s mouth. This conversation further proves we need to put more money into our educational system and encourage women to have a career, instead of aspiring to be a trophy wife.

  “So, since our hair is similar, you figure we…know each other?”

  She peers at me like it’s not a ridiculous idea. “You don’t?”

  I have to bite back my laughter, desperate for Izzy to return with that drink. “Simply because we have similar attributes doesn’t mean we’re BFFs. I doubt you’re BFFs with every woman who’s had a shitty blonde dye job.” I pause, smiling as I glance around the room at the sea of blonde. “Actually, I stand corrected. It appears you are.”

  Her expression falls, her nose turning up in disgust. “Well, you don’t have to be nasty about it. I was only trying to make conversation. Apparently, your mother never taught you manners.”

  “She was too busy teaching me common sense.”

  “Here you are,” Izzy says breathlessly as she flies into the room, handing me a glass. She meets my eyes, her expression a look of warning to play nice for Midge’s sake.

  With a smile, I take it from her. “Saved by the martini,” I mumble under my breath.

  If nothing else, being here does have a certain entertainment value. Whenever I attend one of Tiffany’s parties, I often feel like a prostitute who just walked into church.

  And not one of those “we accept everyone regardless of your sexual orientation, past failings, and current drug habits” kind of churches. More like those judgmental, holier than thou churches that quote the Bible when it suits them but refuse to practice any kind of forgiveness, humility, or charity.

  Hypocrites.

  “As always,” Izzy sings.

  “Is Hannah coming?” Stephani-with-an-i inquires in an attempt to recover from her earlier blunder.

  “I believe she’s still on her honeymoon,” Tiffany pipes up. “And her parents are decompressing in Fiji now that the wedding’s over. A gift from Hannah and her husband.”

  All the women ooh and aah over their generosity.