Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  Hesitantly, I climb up the stairs and pull back the screen door, the hinges groaning. I consider knocking. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation my mother missed her meetings and didn’t answer her cell when I called. Experience tells me otherwise.

  Pulling my keys out of my bag, I find the one I’m searching for and insert it into the lock. The instant I step inside, my suspicions are confirmed. The scene is the perfect example of what it’s like to have a high-functioning alcoholic in your life. The house is decorated with expensive furnishings, artwork hanging on the walls, high-end appliances in the kitchen. A demonstration of success.

  But the wine bottles littering the island, kitchen counter, and living room coffee table tell a different story.

  I curse under my breath. I should have known something like this was bound to happen. I’ve been so consumed with work, school, and all the drama going on with Lincoln, not to mention helping Nora with the final stages of planning her wedding. Most nights, I’m barely able to sleep more than a few hours. I thought my mom was doing good. She had been doing good. Better than good. So good that I made the mistake of moving her down my list of priorities. Now I’ll have to suffer the consequences of that.

  “Mom?” I call out timidly, stepping farther into the house. I walk to one of the windows and crack it open, allowing some fresh air to fill the place.

  A crash sounds from the basement, the sound ominous against the quiet. I whirl around, darting down the stairs. When I round the corner, I expect to see her lying on the floor, having fallen in a drunken stupor.

  Instead, I come face-to-face with a do-it-yourself nightmare. The walls have been repainted from the previous drab eggshell color to a deep gray, droplets splashed on the laminate wood flooring, since my mother didn’t think to lay down any plastic first. Bubbles and streaks abound on the walls from the shoddy paint job. Various fabrics and cuts of wood are strewn all over the place, along with power tools I wouldn’t trust this woman with sober, let alone in her current state.

  My mother’s personality when she drinks can range from happy to angry and everything in between. Over the years, I’ve learned to prepare myself for a wide variety of personalities, thanks to the alcohol. If she was drinking because she had a good day at work, she’d shower me with love and praise. But if something happened in her personal life, she’d curse and demean me in a way that made my father seem like an amateur.

  But I’d take an irate drunk over a home-renovating drunk any day. I can handle her mood swings. I can’t handle her with power tools.

  “Mom?”

  She spins around, her mouth falling open, eyes widening. She blinks, remaining still, trying to figure out her next move. Her gaze briefly floats to a corner of the room where several cans of paint sit. Beside them is a glass of red wine, the bottle next to it nearly empty. At three o’clock on a Wednesday. I’m not saying I’m perfect and never occasionally have a few drinks during lunch. But I’m also not a recovering alcoholic who shouldn’t be drinking at all.

  At. Fucking. All.

  My glare narrows, lips forming a tight line, nostrils flaring. I don’t even know what to say. As always, I want to blame myself. How much longer can I do that?

  I’m about to ask her what she thinks she’s doing, but when she sees the outrage in my expression, she attempts to distract me.

  “Chloe!” Her movements are overly dramatic as she takes the cigarette out of her mouth, opening her arms to me, a lazy smile on her face. Her silver hair is pulled back, paint dotting her tanned complexion as well as the jeans and t-shirt she wears. “There’s my baby girl!” She steps toward me, wrapping her arms around me. I can smell the liquor coming off her.

  “What are you doing?” I push out of her hug before she burns me.

  Taking the cigarette from her, I extinguish it in a nearby ashtray. I’ve never been a fan of her smoking. She picked it up when she finally got serious about getting sober, trading one vice for another, but I’d rather have her smoke than be drunk.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” She waves her hand around.

  “Making a mess out of the basement?” I shoot back.

  She jabs me playfully. “Oh, stop. No. I’m surprising Aaron with a man cave.”

  “A man cave?” I lower my voice. “Has he moved in with you?”

  “Not yet, but he does spend a lot of time here, so I thought I’d do something to surprise him when he gets back from his business trip later today.”

  She looks around the space, scrunching her nose at the utter chaos surrounding us. The basement looked infinitely better when it still had its dreary wall color that lacked personality.

  “I’m not sure it’ll be done in time, though.” She blows out a breath, then straightens, her voice brightening. “I’ll tell you something. All those home improvement shows that make this kind of thing seem easy are full of it. This shit is hard. But look…”

  She grabs my wrist, pulling me toward the far wall where it appears she attempted to install a custom entertainment center. I shudder at the idea of my mother using a circular saw and nail gun. She’s lucky she didn’t lose a finger. I steal a glimpse at her hands to make sure, counting ten.

  “Isn’t it incredible? I did that myself! Who would have thought?”

  “It certainly is incredible.” Feeling like I’ve stepped into an alternate universe, I wonder if my mother thought to use a level in her infinite wisdom. By the looks of the lopsided shelves lining the place where a TV would eventually sit, I assume the answer is no.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re here. I can use an extra set of hands if I’m to finish this before Aaron’s flight lands in…” When she brings her watch to her face, her eyes bulge. “Shit. Is that the time already? His flight’s supposed to land in a few hours and I haven’t had a chance to start the coffee table. Come on.” She clutches my arm again, dragging me toward several pallets, all in various stages of disrepair.

  “Do I even want to know what this is supposed to be?”

  “This is what we’re going to make the coffee table out of,” she answers proudly.

  “Pallets?”

  “Apparently, it’s a trend. I printed out some instructions.” She glances around, wavering slightly from the sudden movement. “They’re around here somewhere.” She begins moving piles of wooden slats, paint cans, and brushes.

  “Mom…”

  “Not now, Chloe,” she barks, probably sensing what I’m about to say. “I don’t have time.”

  “And like I had time to come here today?”

  “Then leave,” she snips, growing defensive.

  “Mom, please,” I implore, my voice strained as I try to take the wheel when the world spins out of control around me. “Just tell me what the hell is going on!”

  “I told you. I’m renovating.” The vein in her forehead pulses as she shuffles things around with increased annoyance. “Doing something nice for Aaron. Something you wouldn’t know about since you can’t exactly keep a man for longer than a few weeks, can you?”

  My jaw tightens and I take a deep breath, counting to ten in an effort to stop myself from going off on her. I’d like to say this is the first time she’s spoken to me like that, but it’s not.

  I wish I could say it’ll be the last, but I know it won’t, although I wish it were.

  “This isn’t about me.” I keep my tone calm and even, despite the frustration bubbling inside me. She wants me to engage. Wants to shift the focus off the fact her house is littered with empty alcohol bottles. “It’s about you.”

  “I’m doing just fine. So if you’re not going to help me build this coffee table, you can help by finding your way out the door.”

  “Mom,” I warn.

  “What? It’s not hard. You found your way in, didn’t you?”

  “Mom,” I say again, this time louder.

  “Chloe,” she taunts, mimicking my tone.

  “You are not doing fine.”

  “Why?” She whirls
around. “Because I’m happy? You just can’t stand the fact I’m doing well, can you? You’re just like your father. You’re not happy unless I’m miserable.”

  Hearing her compare me to my father sends me past my breaking point. As it always does. I can handle a lot of verbal abuse, but I refuse to be compared to a man I’ve spent the past twenty-odd years of my life ensuring I’m nothing like.

  Heat flashes across my face and I ball my hands into fists, my body tensing. “Mom! Look at you!” I shriek before I have a chance to keep my temper in check. “When I walked into this house, it was worse than a fucking distillery. There are empty wine bottles everywhere.” I spin in a circle, quickly counting four bottles tossed aside. “What happened? You were doing so good! I honestly thought this wouldn’t happen again. That you cared enough about yourself and the people in your life who love you that you weren’t going to drink anymore!”

  “Don’t speak to me like I’m a child!” she shouts back, indignant. “You seem to have forgotten that I gave birth to you. I raised you. I nurtured you.”

  “Yeah, you did. Until getting drunk became more important. I was the one who covered for you so Dad didn’t know how bad it was. If it weren’t for my constant lies to him, do you honestly think he would have allowed you to keep custody of me? Then what would you have done without his child support payments financing your addiction?

  “Maybe that’s where I fucked up. Maybe I shouldn’t have kept this a secret. Maybe you would have gotten the help you needed earlier and we wouldn’t be going through this cycle that doesn’t seem to ever fucking end! But no matter the price everyone who loves you has to pay, you don’t seem to care!” I bellow, tears streaming down my face.

  “I care!” she snips. “I care so much that I’m renovating this entire basement for Aaron! So if you don’t mind, I need to finish!” She storms toward the pile of pallets.

  I briefly close my eyes to calm myself and inhale a deep breath. On a long exhale, I approach her.

  “Mom.” I soften my tone, hoping she’ll relax enough so we can have a rational conversation.

  “What, Chloe?” She spins around, her motions quick. Too quick.

  Everything seems to happen in slow motion as the sound of an air compressor firing a nail echoes, followed by a sharp pain in my thigh just above my knee.

  Darting my eyes up, I see the nail gun in her hand and collapse to the floor, clutching my leg as blood blooms on my jeans.

  The sight is all it takes to push my mother over the edge. She loosens her grip on the nail gun and it falls with a clatter just as she passes out, her body slumping to the floor.

  “Of course,” I grit out through the pain. “It’s not like she could have driven me to the hospital anyway.”

  Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I unlock the screen and call the only person I can in this situation.

  “Izzy, I need your help.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “How’s she doing?” I ask several hours later when Izzy reappears around the privacy curtain in the emergency room where I’m lying on a bed, my leg propped up.

  “She’s fine. Had to get a few stitches over her eyebrow and suffered a mild concussion from the fall, but she’ll survive. How are you doing?” She heads toward me, pulling off the thin blanket, revealing my heavily bandaged knee and thigh. “Is the local wearing off?”

  “Yup. But they gave me some painkillers.” I shoot up in bed. “You didn’t let them prescribe any for my mom, did you?”

  “No. I apprised the attending of her history, but it was in her chart already. Her injury is minor anyway. She’ll just have to suck it up with regular ol’ ibuprofen.”

  “Good.” I relax back into the mattress, checking the time to see it’s after seven. “I can’t believe I wasted my entire fucking day on this. And for what? For my mother to shoot my knee with a nail gun?”

  Izzy assumes the chair beside the bed. “Not quite your knee. She’s lucky her aim was off. A few centimeters down and you could have faced some major reconstructive surgery. At least it didn’t nick any bones and the doctor was able to yank the sucker out.” She grins a devilish smile. “Did the doc let you keep it?”

  “Why would I want to keep a bloody nail?”

  “As a souvenir,” she says, as if it’s obvious.

  I playfully roll my eyes. “I’d rather not have a reminder.”

  She shrugs. “To each their own. How long will you be off your feet?”

  “Doctor Warren said I should be back to my old self in a week or so, but to take it easy and listen to my body, since the stitches need to stay in for about two weeks. Speaking of the handsome doc, is it a requirement for every doctor here to be ridiculously good looking?” I narrow my eyes at her. “Please tell me you’ve taken advantage of working here.”

  “I’m on the pediatric oncology floor.”

  “So? They have doctors there, too, don’t they?”

  “They do, and I’m sorry to disappoint you, but most of the hot doctors also have hot wives at home.”

  I sigh dramatically, leaning back against the pillows. “Yeah. Doctor Warren told me he was happily married during my attempts to flirt with him after I was given anesthesia.”

  Izzy straightens her spine, her brows furrowing. “Chloe, they only gave you a local to numb the area.”

  “So?” A mischievous smirk skates across my lips.

  She stares at me for a moment, remaining silent. Then she bursts out laughing. It’s a strange sound in a hospital, as out of place as a nun in a strip club, but maybe we all need to laugh more. After this afternoon, I need to laugh more.

  “You really have no shame, do you?” she asks, wiping at her eyes.

  “I figure he probably sees enough depressing shit working here, so I may as well do something to make him laugh. Consider it my civic duty.”

  “Civic duty,” she repeats, shaking her head, giggling even more.

  “Excuse me, Chloe.”

  At the sound of a serious voice, I whip my eyes from Izzy, my own laughter ceasing when I see my mother’s boyfriend, Aaron, standing in the opening of the privacy curtain. His graying hair is slightly disheveled, worry and guilt etched in the lines of his face. He’s on the tall side, around six feet, and in great shape, considering he’s in his sixties. But the energy and liveliness he usually exudes is lacking, his tie loosened, his suit wrinkled. Based on the suitcase beside him, I gather he took a cab straight here from the airport.

  “Aaron.” I sit up in the bed. “My mom is—”

  “Actually,” he interrupts, “I’d hoped to talk to you first.” He shifts his attention, noticing Izzy at my side. “Thanks for taking care of my girls, Iz.”

  “You bet.” She stands from the chair and walks to him. They hug briefly and he kisses her cheek. “I’ll give you two a few minutes.” She looks back at me. “You should have your discharge papers soon, but if you need anything in the meantime, shoot me a text.”

  “I will.” I watch as she leaves, grateful to have a friend like Izzy, who immediately left Nora and Evie to get me to the hospital. Then I turn my attention to Aaron, apprehensive about his reason for wanting to talk to me.

  “This is all my fault.” He slumps into the chair, burying his head in his hands.

  I exhale, knowing all too well what he’s going through. I’ve done this same thing myself more times than I can count. Hell, I did this same thing earlier today when I walked into Mom’s house and was met with the smell of alcohol.

  “No, it’s not,” I say with all the compassion I can. “I promise you, nothing you could have done—”

  “No.” He darts his eyes to mine, his gaze intense and remorseful. “It is. I could have stopped it. I could have prevented it from starting in the first place.”

  I open my mouth, about to reassure him once more, when he says, “I gave it to her.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t—”

  “Alcohol. I gave her the alcohol.”

  His admis
sion is a punch to the gut, the air knocked out of my lungs. “You…gave her alcohol?” I’m barely able to get the words out.

  With a deep sigh, he closes his eyes, his shoulders drooping.

  “How long has this been going on?”

  He runs a hand over his face. “For a little while now.”

  “How. Long?” I demand again through clenched teeth.

  Hesitant, he licks his lips. Then his unwavering gaze meets mine. “About three or four months.”

  His admission hits me hard, my jaw dropping, the world feeling like it’s giving out from beneath me. My mother’s been drinking for three or four months? I’d hoped maybe he’d brought over a bottle of wine a few weeks ago. But three or four months? So much could happen in that timeframe. So much could go wrong in that timeframe.

  “I didn’t expect it to get this out of control,” he offers in a misguided attempt to not seem like the villain in all of this. But even if he’d only given her a sip, it would be one sip too many.

  “Oh, you didn’t? What did you expect when you gave alcohol to…an…alcoholic?” I hiss, trying to keep my voice low.

  A part of me feels bad about speaking to him this way. It’s one thing to have a shouting match with my mother when she’s in one of her stupors. Sometimes it’s the only way to get through to her. But Aaron is basically a stranger to me.

  “It’s not like I showed up at her door one day and force-fed her a bottle of vodka. It started out relatively innocent. A sip out of a glass of wine I’d order at dinner.”

  “That’s the same thing as force-feeding her! And what were you thinking ordering wine when you were with her? You’ve been to meetings with her, haven’t you?”

  He nods, his eyes glassy from unshed tears.

  “Then you know being around other people drinking could trigger a relapse.”

  “I didn’t think it would be that bad. She’s around worse stuff with some of the clients she works with, helping them cover up their own alcohol or drug abuse issues. I thought she could handle it.” He blows out a long breath. “I guess I was wrong.”