Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  Maybe if I didn’t have the past I’ve had, I’d let him fight for me. But growing up with an alcoholic changes you. Just like growing up with a parent who is constantly disappointed in you. You go through life convinced you’ll keep disappointing people, that you’re not worth their time or effort. Life becomes a constant decision of “fish or cut bait”. And you always cut bait. It’s all you know.

  It’s all I know.

  “And before?” he asks, his body shaking, lips pinched tight, stare cold and detached, yet filled with so much hurt and betrayal it makes me want to tell him the truth.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Before you learned I was your professor, what did you hope to get out of me?”

  I place my hands on my hips. “I knew who you were in Vegas. I thought you looked familiar, then it hit me. Lincoln Moore, associate attorney for the Times. The same Lincoln Moore who would be my First Amendment professor, the last class I needed in order to graduate.”

  His head continues to shake, every muscle in his body taut.

  “So, if you’ll excuse me, it’s Friday and the gossip mills are turning.”

  I try to spin from him, but his hand grips my wrist, forcing me back to him. I wince, but he doesn’t let go. I watch as his nostrils flare like an untamed bull. I can tell it takes every ounce of self-control not to take his rage out on me further, not to hurt me like I’m destroying him.

  “Why don’t I believe you?” he growls.

  “Well, you should.”

  “But I don’t.” He tightens his hold on me, the intensity of his quivering muscles causing my arm to tremble, the pain excruciating. But it’s a welcome distraction from the ache in my heart.

  With an anguished cry, he releases me, his entire body seeming to deflate. He stares into the distance, searching for an answer he’ll never find. Then he floats his eyes back to me, the venom gone, replaced with a compassion I don’t deserve.

  “What we shared—”

  “Was. Not. Real,” I hiss through clenched teeth, refusing to soften my resolve. “So leave.”

  He studies me for what feels like an eternity, meticulously weighing my words against my actions. I wait as I stand judgment in front of him, praying he believes me. Finally, he blows out a breath and retreats down the stairs, defeated. Relief filling me, I turn back around, about to unlock my door when his voice stops me.

  “It was real, Chloe. I know it was. In here.”

  I can’t bear to turn around, to see the agony covering him as he points to his heart. I don’t have to look at him to know that’s what he’s doing. I know him better than I’ve ever known anybody else. Which is why this is the only way. He promised he’d fight for me, regardless of the battle. But this is a war we’ll never win.

  “I don’t know what happened to make you feel like you have to push me away—”

  I whirl around. “I’m not—”

  He holds up his hand, cutting me off. “But I’ll go, even though that’s not really what you want.”

  This time, I don’t try to convince him otherwise.

  “On the outside, you’re this strong, enigmatic woman who doesn’t take shit from anyone. But on the inside, you’re still the same broken girl who convinced herself she doesn’t deserve to be loved. Until you convince yourself you do, it won’t matter how many times I try to tell you I love you. It won’t matter how many times I tell you I’d risk it all for you. You’ll never think you deserve it. I can’t fight for someone who’s not ready to fight for herself.” His voice catches as he struggles to finish. “I can’t keep loving someone who doesn’t love herself.”

  I swallow hard, wanting to tell him we’re at risk of being exposed. That we’re no longer protected by that bubble we’ve survived in. But that would give him hope. And hope is a dangerous thing. These past few months have been proof of that.

  “I know how to love myself. It’s you I never loved. Now leave, before I report you to the dean.” I storm into my apartment, slamming the door behind me.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Scattered papers and half-full coffee mugs surround me as I work in the early hours of the morning, firing off story after story of the latest celebrity gossip. Like I’ve done every other weekend the past several years. I’m actually grateful for the busy news weekend. It helps keep my mind off Lincoln and how difficult the past week has been. How it feels like a huge part of me is missing.

  As I put the finishing touches on a column about whether the heiress to a hotel brand is pregnant, based on photos where she’s wearing something other than the usual skin-tight dresses, my buzzer sounds. I tear my eyes to my door, a flicker of hope building inside me that Lincoln’s here to berate me for being so stubborn. But I know he won’t be. I made sure of that.

  Lifting myself off the couch, I stretch my legs, then move toward the door, squinting through the peephole to see Izzy, dressed in scrubs, standing on the front stoop. It doesn’t surprise me. If my buzzer rings after midnight, it’s usually Izzy. She’s the only one who works stranger hours than me.

  When I open the door, she enters without so much as an invitation. “So you are alive.” She makes herself at home, plopping onto my couch.

  “Umm… Yeah. What would make you think otherwise?” I follow her, sitting beside her, tucking a leg underneath me.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Evie mentioned you’ve been distant at work, and Nora said you haven’t gone to a single yoga class to taunt her in over a week.” She narrows her eyes. “That doesn’t sound like the Chloe we all love.”

  “It’s nothing,” I lie with a shrug. “Between finishing up this semester, Nora’s wedding in just a few weeks, and work, not to mention keeping an eye on my mom, I’ve been busy.”

  She tilts her head, lips pursed, eyebrows raised. “And nothing else? There’s no other reason you’re out of it?”

  I meet her eyes, staying strong. “Nope.”

  She squints, her analytical gaze sweeping over me. I’ve known this woman since we were little. She’s the one who first asked if my mom had a drinking problem before I really understood what alcohol was. She’s always had an uncanny ability to pick up on things no one else could.

  Leaning toward me, her voice becomes a low whisper, despite the fact no one is around to hear. “Did something happen between you and Lincoln?”

  “What?” I exclaim, back straight, eyes wide. “I told you months ago. We cut all ties. Once I learned he was my professor—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. You kept things strictly professional,” she mocks playfully. “Apart from the time you almost fucked on the desk in his office. I haven’t forgotten about that. Evie and Nora may not be able to see through you, but I can. You’ve been secretly seeing him.”

  Her gaze traces over my face, then to the rest of my body, as if I’m wearing a giant scoreboard with a tally of the number of times we kissed, fucked, and did…other stuff.

  “I think you’ve been seeing him for a while now, despite your insistence that there was nothing going on. But something happened…” She stares into the distance, chewing on her fingernails as she bounces her legs. Then she looks back to me, her tone a mixture of agitation and excitement. “It was around the time you learned your mom never stopped drinking, wasn’t it? It makes sense. Traumatic events always seem to bring people back together, make people snap out of…whatever.”

  “Izzy, life isn’t a fucking fairy tale. I am not a damsel in distress. And Lincoln is certainly no Prince Charming.” Unless Prince Charming were into kinky role-play and spanking.

  “That may be true, but you’ve never been the Prince Charming type, either. You’re more interested in the bad boy who will break a few rules. You can sit here and claim nothing’s been going on, but you’ve been…happy.”

  “I’m always happy.”

  “Not like this. Hell, look at your hair! You changed it back to your natural color. Almost like you finally felt you could be yourself and not put on a front.”

  “I d
on’t know who else to be if I’m not myself.”

  “You haven’t been yourself since you were fourteen,” she quips without a moment’s hesitation, her words surprising me. And she’s right. I haven’t been.

  That was around the first time I walked into my mother’s bathroom and found her passed out, head on the toilet, a mixture of vomit and spilled wine staining the tile. I forget how many times I slipped in it as I attempted to clean the room, then move her to her bed. My mother’s no bigger than I am, but that night, she felt like she weighed a ton. It took hours, but I was finally able to get her into bed. The only thing that pushed me forward when I was ready to give up was my fear that my father would learn the truth and petition for custody of me.

  “But lately, I’ve seen a more…carefree Chloe,” she continues. She rests a hand on my bicep, and I shift my gaze toward hers, doing my best to keep it together when I’ve spent the past week on the brink of a complete breakdown. “I can’t help but think Lincoln had something to do with that. Am I right?”

  I look to the ceiling, chin quivering, eyes welling with tears. I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life and never cried, never showed emotion. But Izzy’s sympathy pushes me over the edge. After what I did, I don’t feel like I deserve it.

  “Maybe.” It’s all I can manage to say before the dam bursts.

  “Oh, Chloe…” Her arms are around me in an instant, all the tears I’ve kept at bay rushing forward.

  “But Dad saw us,” I choke out, soaking her shirt that’s covered with SpongeBob SquarePants. “He said I would destroy Lincoln’s career if I stayed with him.” I pull back, swiping at my cheeks. “And he’s right. If people found out about us, it would end his career. Any relationship, present or future, would forever be tainted by our past.”

  She holds me at arm’s length, her dark eyes brimming with hope. “I may not know Lincoln that well, or have a full picture of what was going on, but he must have known the risk going in. And he must have been willing to take that risk.”

  “He was.” I swallow hard, shaking my head. “But I couldn’t let him do that.”

  “I’m not sure you have any say in the matter. If he wants to take his chances, isn’t that his decision?”

  “Not if I made sure he wouldn’t make that decision.”

  Izzy leans back, giving me a sideways glance, almost not wanting to ask. “What did you do?”

  “What I had to.” I push down the bile rising in my throat at the memory of that night. The happiness, then the betrayal. The hope, then the despair. The absolute joy of having him declare his love, then the vice squeezing my heart when I used that love against him. “I made him think I was using him all along. That I knew in Vegas he was my professor and the only reason I slept with him was to make sure I passed.”

  She exhales, closing her eyes, shaking her head. “You didn’t.”

  “I did,” I squeak.

  “Chloe…”

  “It was the only way. Lincoln said himself that he would fight for me. He’d never give up, which would only continue to put his career at risk. Unless I made him hate me.”

  It’s silent for a moment as she processes everything. “And he believed you? That doesn’t sound like the Lincoln I know.”

  “Because I eviscerated that Lincoln. He said he wasn’t going to fight for someone who refused to fight for herself.” I look back to Izzy. “That he couldn’t love a woman who didn’t know how to love herself.” I grab the box of tissues off the side table and blow my nose, the harsh sound echoing through my tiny apartment. But it doesn’t faze Izzy. We’ve seen each other at our highest of highs and lowest of lows. Nothing is off-limits between us.

  “Have you tried to talk to him?”

  I snort a laugh at the ridiculousness of her question. “I’m the last person he wants to talk to. The things I said… There’s no way he’ll ever trust me again. I made him believe I only slept with him so he’d pass me.” I shake my head. “There’s no fixing this. Our ship has most definitely sailed.”

  Izzy peers at me thoughtfully. “Maybe Lincoln’s right.”

  I whip my eyes to hers, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe you need to fix yourself first. Then worry about fixing everything else.”

  My lips part as I consider her words. “I don’t even know how to do that.”

  “Sometimes you need to go back to the beginning before you can get to the end.”

  “Will you stop talking in code and metaphors, Master Yoda? You’ve been spending too much time at Nora’s meditation studio,” I blurt out, exasperated. “We screwed during a blackout in Vegas. That’s our beginning.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “Not your beginning with Lincoln. Your beginning as Chloe, as the woman you are. The woman who was born the instant you saw your mother take that first sip of alcohol. You need to come to terms with all of that. Until you do, I don’t see you having a future with anyone.”

  “I’ve come to terms with it,” I try to argue.

  “Then why have you still not told Evie and Nora? I’ve kept my mouth shut because it’s not my story to tell. But until you’re honest with yourself, I don’t see how you can possibly grow and move past this.”

  She holds my gaze for a moment, then places a kiss on my forehead. “I love you, Chloe.” Her steely eyes lock with mine once more. “Think about what keeping this secret has done to you.” She offers me an encouraging smile as she makes her way out of my apartment, leaving me alone to consider her statement. I hate to admit it, but there’s a hint of truth to her words. But this is all I’ve known.

  I’ve spent my life covering for my mother, hiding the truth. And where has it gotten me? Maybe I do need to go back to the beginning. Maybe I need to make peace with the girl I was all those years ago. Then I’ll have a chance at finally moving forward. Finally realizing I deserve more than I’ve afforded myself.

  With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, I open a blank document on my laptop and do the only thing that’s brought me peace most of my life. The only thing that’s helped me make sense of everything.

  I write.

  You come from the perfect family and live an idealistic life in an upper middle-class suburb a quick train ride from Manhattan. Both your parents are successful.

  Both your parents are happy.

  Or so you thought.

  Then your father starts spending more time at the office, sometimes not coming home at all on the weekends. You’re not sure of the reason. Mom says it’s because he just got a huge promotion. You can hear the bitterness in her tone at the idea that his career is blossoming while hers withered up and died after she had you.

  Soon, you notice your mother has a glass of wine with dinner when she normally drank club soda. One glass turns into two. Which soon turns into an entire bottle, then two. You wonder if that’s normal. You want to ask your dad, but you’re worried how he’ll react. Because when your mother drinks that wine, she praises you, tells you how proud she is of you. Something your father never says.

  So you stay quiet.

  And the drinking continues.

  Your father works more and more.

  You wonder if he ever really wanted to have kids. Or maybe it’s you. No matter what you do, no matter how good your grades, no matter how many sports you excel at, it’s not enough for him to notice you.

  It’s not enough for him to take a day off work.

  Most nights, you lay awake listening to your parents fight.

  Then, seemingly overnight, boobs appear. And boys start to notice you.

  You welcome it, considering the people who are supposed to love you don’t have the time for you anymore.

  The fights at home get worse.

  You know the attention from boys at school isn’t the type you want, but it’s better than the lack of attention you get at home. So when you’re only thirteen, you agree to play Seven Minutes in Heaven with a bunch of high school boys.

  The fights at home get even wors
e.

  You wear makeup and revealing clothing to make yourself appear older than you are.

  The arguments continue.

  You lie about your age just for those few seconds of being noticed.

  You can’t remember what a quiet house feels like.

  You lose your virginity before you even understand what a condom is.

  Suddenly, the fights stop. You think things are getting better, that you’ll finally have a family. Then you walk into the house for dinner, surprised to see both your mom and dad at the table, something you haven’t seen in years, their expressions filled with sorrow. They don’t even have to say the words. You know.

  They’re getting a divorce.

  You say goodbye to the only friends and family you’ve ever known and move to a new town with your mother. You’re actually looking forward to it. A fresh start. A clean slate.

  Then one day, you help your mother take out the garbage and notice one bag is filled with glass bottles. A dozen. Two dozen. Three dozen. All consumed since the last garbage pickup a week earlier. You hoped this habit wouldn’t follow her here. But it has, and it’s worse, since she doesn’t have to hide it from your father.

  Sometimes she’s too drunk to drive you to your dad’s on your scheduled weekends with him. He could come get you, but then he’d learn your mother’s been drinking. You’re worried the court will order you to live with your father, something you can’t even stomach the thought of because of how inadequate he’s always made you feel.

  So you lie.

  You cover it up.

  You tell your dad you’re sick.

  You need to study.