Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  Officially out of options, I’m about to reach into my purse to call Izzy when I feel a warmth wrap around me. A weight lifts off me and I dart my eyes to my left, disoriented, watching as Lincoln hoists my mother off me and carries her down the block toward a yellow cab idling in front of an upscale French restaurant.

  Once she’s secure in the back seat, he returns to me. I want to scold him for not listening when I told him to leave me alone, but the comfort of his wool coat surrounding me is too inviting.

  Fishing a handkerchief out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, he hands it to me. I dab at my eyes and cheeks as he wraps his arms around me, helping me to my feet.

  When I limp, he glances down at my leg, but doesn’t ask what happened, as if he can tell I don’t want to talk about it. It only makes him hold me even tighter as we make our way to the cab and he helps me inside before sliding in next to me.

  “Where to?”

  “My place.” The last thing I want is to sit in a cab all the way out to Brooklyn when my apartment is mere minutes away.

  “Which is?” Lincoln arches a brow.

  I blink, caught off-guard that he doesn’t even know where I live. I guess we never got to that point.

  Turning my attention to the driver, I rattle off my address in the West Village. With a nod, he merges into traffic.

  I relax into the seat, closing my eyes as a shiver rolls through me. Lincoln pulls me against him, rubbing my arm, and I rest my head against his chest, the metronome of his heartbeat offering a brief escape from my reality.

  “I’ve been where you are,” he says after a beat.

  I raise my eyes to his, my brow wrinkled.

  “Exactly where you are,” he emphasizes, then looks forward, keeping me in his warm embrace.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “I got her,” Lincoln assures me, adjusting his grip on my mother’s inebriated body as I lead him toward my building. “Go unlock the door, but try not to kill yourself while you do it.”

  “Are you her boyfriend?” my mom slurs, her eyes mere slits. The alcohol coming off her breath is pungent. It’s a miracle she didn’t throw up in the cab. Then again, she passed out the second the driver pulled into traffic, not waking until Lincoln started to get her out.

  “No, I’m not.” His tone isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s not icy either. Just…indifferent.

  “Figured as much. Did he get tired of you like the rest of them?”

  “Mom,” I grit out in warning as I climb the front steps, searching my purse for my keys, grateful when my frozen fingers land on them. “We’ve never dated.” I insert the key into the lock, pushing the door open and stepping inside, Lincoln close behind. I head into the living room, kicking off my shoes.

  “Now that I do believe. All these years, you’ve claimed you weren’t interested in settling down. But I finally figured it out. It wasn’t you who wasn’t interested in settling down. It was everyone else.”

  I draw in a slow, steady breath, keeping my eyes forward, biting my lower lip to prevent myself from flying into a seething rage.

  “They saw you for what you really were,” she continues, relentless as always. “Someone who would spread her legs for a story, or a great pair of shoes, or the latest designer purse.”

  “That’s enough,” Lincoln barks, his voice echoing. I spin around to see his expression tight, his lips pinched together as he glares at her, not allowing her to escape his words. “Your daughter is the only reason you’re not sleeping on the street or sitting in a jail cell right now. She didn’t have to help you tonight. Or any other time you found yourself in a similar situation.”

  “It’s okay. I’m used to it.” I give him a small smile, then limp from the living room and into the den to make up the pull-out couch.

  “That’s right. She’s used to being nothing but a disappointment. All she does is ruin things. You’re smart you didn’t get involved with her. She would have found a way to ruin your life, too.”

  I peek at Lincoln, the vein in his neck throbbing, his nostrils flaring. The temperature in the apartment seems to rise several degrees. With determination in his stride, he brings my mother over to the reading chair, depositing her harshly onto it. Then he glowers, pointing a finger in her face.

  “Don’t. Move.”

  A chill runs down my spine. It has nothing to do with my damp clothes, but everything to do with the power and dominance in his voice. I swallow hard, my own heart thumping in my chest, observing my mother snap her mouth shut, nodding quickly.

  My mother’s always been tenacious, tough as nails. You don’t get to be a political strategist, then work in crisis management unless you have thick skin. Seeing her obey Lincoln’s command is somewhat surprising.

  Although it shouldn’t be.

  I couldn’t resist obeying him, either.

  I watch as Lincoln stalks toward me, every muscle in his body taut. I return my attention to the task at hand, grabbing a cushion off the couch and tossing it into the corner. As I’m about to add another one to the pile, he stops me, grabbing my hands in his.

  “This is not okay, Chloe,” he says in a choked voice. “Nothing about this is okay.” He drops his hold on me, ripping the remaining cushions off the couch before yanking out the mattress, taking out his aggression on it. Pausing for a beat, he runs his hands through his hair before facing me. “Nothing about the way she spoke to you is right. Don’t you realize that?”

  I’m about to argue once more that it’s not a big deal, when he cuts me off.

  “I know. She’s your mother. If you don’t take care of her, who will?”

  I shrug. It’s the truth.

  His jaw twitches and he shakes his head, his distressed expression hitting me hard. Why does he seem so invested, so hurt by the things she said?

  “Go change into some warm clothes. I’ll get her comfortable. You’ve done more than you needed to.”

  “You’ve already done more than you needed to. I can handle this. This isn’t my first rodeo.” I start to turn from Lincoln when his fingers wrap around my arm. I lift my eyes to his, so much hurt and understanding within.

  “I haven’t done enough. And for that, I apologize. Let me do this for you.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in a hard swallow. “Please.”

  I part my lips, struggling to form a response. I should stand my ground, insist I’ll be fine on my own, that it’s not the first time I’ve been here. But the idea of having someone to lean on, even if for just a minute, lifts a weight off my shoulders.

  “Okay,” I murmur.

  “Okay.” He smiles a small smile, but doesn’t release me, lightly dragging a finger down the length of my arm. My gaze remains transfixed on his, the feel of his touch sending a bolt straight to my core. When he reaches my hand, he squeezes, his thumb brushing across my knuckles.

  “Okay,” I say again, hypnotized.

  “Okay,” he whispers, curving toward me, his lips lingering just above my forehead, grazing my skin. I don’t move. Hell, I don’t even want to breathe, blink, anything. “Okay,” he repeats, almost like an affirmation to himself. Then he releases me, heading to where he’d left my mother on a chair in the living room.

  At first, I remain still, the tingle of his small kiss still trickling through me.

  “I told you.” He glances over his shoulder as he’s about to hoist up my mother, who’s passed out once more. “I’ve got this. You need to warm up.”

  Snapping out of my stupor, I limp toward my bedroom, hyper-aware of the heat coming off Lincoln’s eyes as I pass him. Once I’m alone, I blow out a long breath.

  I’m still not sure what to make of tonight’s dramatic events, of Lincoln being in my apartment, but I’m not going to think about it. Right now, I just want to slip into something warm and allow someone else to shoulder the burden for a change.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Bottles clanging against each other rouses me from sleep. I bolt up, my eyes flinging wide. Di
soriented at first, I hurriedly scan the living room, trying to remember how I’d fallen asleep on the couch. Then the events of the night trickle back. Working. Getting a phone call. Having to drag my mother out of a bar yet again…

  Shit.

  I jump to my feet, wincing as I hobble into the kitchen, expecting to see her raiding all the booze I was too tired to get rid of just yet. But when I round the corner, I’m surprised to see Lincoln pouring bottles of alcohol down the drain, the sleeves of his crisp button-down shirt rolled up, his suit jacket lying neatly across the counter.

  Sensing my presence, he glances over his shoulder, offering me a sweet smile as he continues to drain the contents. When he’s finished, he wipes down the sink, then fully faces me.

  “I’m sorry. I hope you don’t mind. If I were in your shoes, this is what I’d want.”

  “I was planning on doing it. I just needed a minute to decompress. I guess I dozed off. Did my mother give you a hard time?”

  He shrugs. “She’s fine. Tomorrow will be a completely different story.”

  I playfully roll my eyes. “You’ve got that right.” The last thing I want to think about is the state she’ll be in when she wakes in the morning.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “It’s okay. I need to get some work done anyway. My voicemails and inbox are probably overflowing with messages.”

  “Ah, yes…” He leans against the counter, crossing his arms in front of his chest. I avoid staring at his biceps as I limp past him toward the one-cup brewer, trying to ignore the heat coming off him. It’s impossible to escape it in such close quarters, my kitchen no bigger than the galley of a boat. “The gossip mills must be running full force, correct?”

  “Celebrities seem to enjoy getting into trouble on the weekends.” I grab a mug and place it underneath the spout, popping a pod into the brewer. I glimpse at Lincoln. “Want one?”

  He worries his bottom lip, seeming to weigh the pros and cons of staying for a coffee, before finally answering. “Sure.”

  I refocus my attention on the coffee maker, neither of us saying anything while I prepare two cups. When I’m finished, Lincoln grabs them and heads into the living room, making himself comfortable on the couch.

  Once I lower myself onto the opposite end, he hands me my mug and I take a sip, the nutty flavor relaxing me. Shifting my body, I stretch my legs along the length of the couch, placing a pillow under my injured one to keep it elevated, per my discharge instructions.

  “So… What happened?” He keeps his voice low so as to not disturb my mother sleeping in the den.

  “Are you asking about tonight with my mother or my leg?”

  “As curious as I am to know everything, I’m more interested in your leg at the moment.” He inhales a sharp breath, his eyes widening, expression flushing. “I mean… I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant—”

  “It’s okay.” I smile, then take another sip of my coffee. “On Wednesday, I was trying on bridesmaid dresses for Nora’s wedding when I got a phone call. My mother’s sponsor. Said my mother hadn’t been to a meeting in a few weeks, which is unlike her. I called her work, only to learn she’d taken some time off. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, so I went to her house in Brooklyn…where she was drunk before three in the afternoon, working on remodeling her basement into a man cave for her boyfriend, Aaron.”

  I lift the leg of my yoga pants, revealing my heavily bandaged knee and thigh. “We got into an argument. When she tried to continue on her project of making a coffee table out of a bunch of pallets, she accidentally fired the nail gun. This is the result.”

  Lincoln’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. Are you okay? I mean, I see you are, but—”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” I lower my pant leg. “She missed hitting any bones, so they were able to remove the nail without surgery. I should be as good as new in a few days. Apart from the nice new scar I’ll now have the rest of my life.”

  “Battle wounds. We all have them. Some you see. Some you can’t.” His voice is tender and understanding. I lift my eyes to his, a dozen thoughts on the tip of my tongue. He quickly looks away, breaking the moment. “And tonight?”

  “I can’t be certain, but based on the slurs my mother slung my way, I imagine she found out I’d asked her boyfriend to stay away from her, considering he’d been giving her alcohol the past few months, even though he knew she was a recovering alcoholic.”

  He leans forward and rests his forearms on his thighs, contemplating. Then he looks back at me. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Since the divorce.” My response surprises me. I’ve always kept this private. But Lincoln’s already seen me at my lowest. I have nothing left to lose by sharing this piece of me. “She drank before, but I never thought anything of it until it was just us.”

  “And when was that?” He peers at me.

  “Fourteen.”

  Nodding, he looks forward again, filing this information away in whatever category it belongs. “Did your father know?”

  “I don’t think he cared, but I never came right out and told him.” I glance at him, hesitant as I open up even more. “He still doesn’t know. The only person in my life who knows is Izzy. And now you.”

  “Why haven’t you told him?” His brows furrow, that same pained expression from before returning. “Especially when you were so young?”

  “I didn’t want him to know. Didn’t want him to have anything he could use against her to get custody of me.”

  “In your mind, an alcoholic mother was the lesser of two evils.” It’s not a question. More a statement of understanding.

  “You know how my father can be. My mother might be an angry drunk, but my father’s an angry person. At least my mother’s harsh words are limited to when she drinks.”

  He’s quiet for a beat, then admits, “My mother started drinking when I was in high school, too. After she found herself alone.”

  “Your parents are divorced?” I’m not sure why I find this more surprising than his mother being an alcoholic. I always pictured Lincoln having a flawless life and upbringing. From the beginning, everything about him was perfect. I guess no one’s perfect. Everyone has scars. Some just know how to hide them better.

  “No.” He smiles briefly before faltering. “My father… He was killed on assignment.”

  “Assignment?”

  “He was a bureau chief for the Times and living in Southeast Asia. He was kidnapped by some extremists and held for ransom.”

  I gasp, my hand covering my mouth. “My god. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” These days, it seems we’ve become desensitized to these things, since they happen so often. It doesn’t make them any less tragic.

  “This was maybe six months after 9/11 and the U.S. government had taken a hard stance against negotiating with terrorists, given the current state of affairs.”

  As I listen, his story sounds achingly familiar. It was one of the first gruesome acts I’d read about in this post-9/11 world. Yes, the attacks themselves were horrific, especially for someone who’s lived in the New York area most of her life. But I remember walking into the kitchen at my house one morning to see my father beside himself with an emotion I wasn’t used to seeing from him. He actually hugged me. And there were tears. Later, I learned it was because he’d just received word that one of his colleagues, who’d been reported missing, had been found decapitated, his body evidencing signs of extreme torture.

  “You’re Elijah Moore’s son,” I breathe, the puzzle pieces locking into place.

  He nods, his shoulders slumped slightly. “He died a few months before I graduated high school. My mom’s drinking probably started much like yours did. A glass of whatever here and there. So innocuous and common you barely notice. But within a few months, one glass turned into two. Which turned into an entire bottle. Which turned into two. Like most other alcoholics, she still held down a job, made it appear to everyone she was doing fine, or as fine as coul
d be expected when you lost a piece of yourself in such an inhumane way.

  “I guess a part of me felt compelled to fulfill my father’s legacy. I was originally a political science major, but added a double major in journalism. Graduated at the top of my class. Excelled in the field. Submitted articles to various papers and magazines during college. Got a job as a contributor for the Post, then attended Yale Law.”

  “That’s why you’re this crazy workaholic, isn’t it?” I shift my eyes to him, seeing him in a different light now that I know the truth. For the longest time, I questioned what someone as put together as Lincoln could see in me. But he’s as broken inside as I am. “It’s the one thing you can control.”

  Children of alcoholics tend to gravitate toward one thing they’re good at and put all their effort into that, since it gives us a sense of control we don’t have with our parents. Of course, I didn’t focus on school. Instead, my “relationships” with various men gave me that sense of control. I said when. I said how. I said where. Until Lincoln, it was the only thing I felt I had control over in my life. And I needed that control.

  “You think I’m obsessed with my work?” There’s a twinge of hurt in his voice.

  “Trust me,” I scoff playfully, trying to lighten the growing tension. “You are. I grew up with a man who always put his work before anything else. Still does.” I shrug dismissively, not wanting to dwell. “Which is probably why I’ll never measure up to his impossible standards.”

  Lincoln arches a single brow. “Yet it doesn’t stop you from trying, does it?”

  I blow out a breath, surprised at how forthcoming I am. Exhaustion can do that to a girl.

  “Just once, I want to feel like I’m good enough.”

  “Chloe…” His tone is filled with compassion. He reaches across the couch, grabbing my hand in his, his thumb brushing my knuckles. “You’re more than enough.” Such a simple statement, but it’s exactly what I need to hear. What I’ve needed to hear my entire life.