Wicked Games: A Forbidden Romance

by T. K. Leigh

  “It was a beautiful wedding,” Denise comments.

  “Just perfect,” Theresa adds. “And her husband will be able to provide such a wonderful life for her. She’s so lucky to have found a man so successful. She’ll be able to quit her job and focus on raising their children.”

  I snort-laugh as I bring my drink back to my mouth, taking a long sip to cover my reaction.

  “Something funny?” Tiffany asks in a pleasant voice, a smile plastered on her face as she exudes all the manners she was taught during the years of etiquette lessons her upper-class family insisted she attend.

  “The idea of Hannah staying home and raising children.”

  While she did marry a very successful man and the wedding a few weeks ago was gorgeous, Hannah’s not the kind of woman who would be happy adhering to such a societal role. Whenever she comes to one of Tiffany’s parties, mostly as moral support for me, she rolls her eyes at the ridiculousness of these women. How they have no drive to have a life of their own. To have an identity of their own. Plus, for as long as I can remember, Hannah has wanted to be a teacher. I don’t see her giving up that career anytime soon. Or ever.

  “Who else will raise her children when she has them?” Carrie asks.

  “She gets summers off.”

  “Yes. But what about the rest of the year?”

  “Gosh, that is a problem, isn’t it?” I scrunch up my brow, pretending to be deep in thought, as if this predicament is one no one has considered before. Then my expression brightens. “Actually, I read about this new concept that’s been around for…oh, probably only forty or fifty years. What is it called?”

  I glance at the ceiling, pinching my lips together. Izzy stifles a laugh, the only one amused, since I can feel the daggers the rest of the women are shooting at me. “That’s right.” I snap my fingers and return my gaze to them. “Daycare. Hannah can put her spawn in daycare. That’s assuming she even wants to have children.”

  “Why would you get married if you didn’t want to have children?” Stephani-with-an-i asks.

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you’re in love and want to commit your life to each other.” I take a sip of my drink, many of them still looking at me like I’m crazy, so I go in for the kill. “Plus, Hannah mentioned wanting to adopt. She works with a lot of kids in the foster care system. Some of them get moved around so much that their education suffers. It’s a noble thing.”

  “That is true,” Tiffany says, always trying to be diplomatic. “But aren’t a lot of kids in foster care…” She trails off, wanting us to fill in the blank so she doesn’t have to say it. But I’m not going to let her off so easily. She’s always been prejudiced against anyone who isn’t white and what she considers perfect.

  “What?” I press.

  “They’re… You know.”

  “I don’t think I do.” I smirk. “Perhaps you should embellish so there’s no misunderstanding.”

  “Just say it,” Izzy interjects harshly, her dark eyes growing even darker.

  She has very strong opinions on this subject. After all, she is Hispanic. And adopted. But it seems they all forget that because, as Tiffany puts it, she doesn’t “act” Hispanic, whatever that means.

  “They’re something other than white,” Izzy states firmly when she remains silent.

  Tiffany’s eyelids flutter as she holds her head high, placing her hands in her lap. She steals a glance at the children. I wonder if any of these sheltered kids have ever seen a person of color.

  “Well, yes. Wouldn’t she want her child to look like her? What will people think when they see their mismatched family?”

  I’ve always found it odd that as staunch of a defender of the First Amendment as my father is, often filing suits against our own government when they try to suppress the media, he married someone as closed-minded as Tiffany. Then again, I’m not sure my father’s ever loved her. I’m not sure he’s capable of loving anything other than his career. And I doubt Tiffany’s capable of loving anything except a large bank account.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Izzy mocks. “Maybe that Hannah has a heart of gold. So much so that she’d jump through hoops to take in a child who isn’t her own and love him or her like they were. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to adopt?”

  All the women stare at her in silence.

  “It’s damn near impossible. Most people give up after so many years because they can’t take the constant roller-coaster ride anymore. I would never prejudge a family because they don’t fit into some mold. It’s the twenty-first century, for crying out loud. I see all walks of life come through the doors of the pediatric oncology wing at the hospital. And yes, some of those kids are adopted. It’s heartbreaking to watch those parents struggle to find their child’s birth parents to have any hope for a bone marrow transplant. But you know the one thing that’s universal. The only thing that matters in any family?”

  The room becomes eerily still, her voice seeming to reverberate against the walls. Izzy darts her eyes to the kids who’ve stopped playing and are focused on her. She briefly pulls her lips between her teeth as she regains her composure.

  “Love. Regardless of whether you’re related by blood, love is all that matters. Love makes a family.”

  I reach for Izzy’s hand, squeezing it, offering her a comforting smile.

  “Like how I love Chloe, even if she’s only my half-sister,” Midge’s voice breaks through the awkward silence.

  “Exactly.” Izzy smiles at her. “And you don’t only love her because you’re related, right?”

  “No. I love her because she wears cool clothes, has awesome shoes…” She grins, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. “And she swears a lot.”

  A few women snicker, but quickly cover their mouths when Tiffany shoots a glare their way. In my defense, I’ve made a conscious effort to curtail it when I’m around Midge. I’ve yet to drop an F-bomb. I think.

  “Just like Daddy,” she finishes. “So they probably are related. Where else would Chloe have learned to swear if she didn’t learn it from Daddy? That’s where I learned.”

  I glance at Tiffany over my martini glass to gauge her reaction, an odd sense of satisfaction filling me at the sight of her squirming. After the number of kids she’s had, she should know you can’t say anything in front of them. At least nothing you want kept private.

  “The apple certainly doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she says in a saccharine voice, neither confirming nor denying Midge’s statement. “Speaking of which, how’s school going?” She smirks at me, probably expecting to hear I’ve withdrawn from yet another class because outside obligations interfered with my coursework.

  “It’s been an…interesting semester.” I glance at Izzy and we share a knowing look. “But I’m happy to report it will be my last. I filed my graduation paperwork a few days ago.”

  I leave out the part about nearly dropping the class earlier in the semester. But as I’d hoped, Owen has made my situation increasingly tolerable. There’s still a bit of awkwardness anytime my eyes meet Lincoln’s, but it’s not as thick as it was in the beginning.

  “Is that right?” a deep, booming voice cuts through.

  I whip my head toward the foyer to see my father standing there, much to my surprise, considering I’d assumed he was working today, as he always is.

  But his presence here isn’t what has my heart ricocheting to my throat, all the air sucked from my lungs.

  It’s who stands beside him that makes me feel like the walls are closing in, suffocating me.

  Izzy nudges me, silently reminding me to pretend like it’s a normal occurrence for Lincoln Moore to be in my childhood home. Based on the familiar greetings from many of the house vultures, it might be. Many of them fawn over him, batting their lashes, sticking their chests out a little. But he doesn’t notice them.

  Just like that night at the club in Vegas, just like when he sent that martini over, just like when he nearly kissed me in the lobby of
the casino, he looks at me as if I’m the only person who matters. Or maybe he’s just as surprised to see me here as I am to see him.

  “Let me get you another drink,” Izzy murmurs, forcing my attention back to her.

  I nod, swallowing the rest of my martini in one gulp before handing her the glass. I meet my father’s expectant stare beckoning me toward him, probably so he can demean me in front of his employee in a show of superiority.

  On a long exhale, I raise myself from the chair and walk across the living room, skirting discarded shards of wrapping paper and boxes filled with clothes.

  “Hey, Dad.” I float my eyes from his, looking at Lincoln. “Professor Moore.”

  “Miss Davenport.”

  “So I take it you’re giving your First Amendment class yet another try?” My father lifts a single brow. He’s always had a distinguished look to him. Tall and lean. Salt-and-pepper hair. Clean-shaven, apart from the times he’s working on a big case and foregoes normal grooming to pull all-nighters. Smartly dressed, even when he keeps it casual with a blazer and jeans, like today.

  “I do need it to graduate.” I fold my arms in front of my chest, casually leaning against the wall, trying to appear unaffected when, in reality, my heart thunders against the walls of my chest, threatening to burst through.

  “I won’t pop the Champagne bottle just yet. It’s your fourth time taking this class, isn’t it?”

  “Third.” I grit a smile. “There were extenuating circumstances preventing me from completing the course the previous two times.”

  “There are always extenuating circumstances with you. It’s your tenth year, isn’t it? In my experience, people who’ve been going to college as long as you would be graduating with their doctorate, not merely a bachelors.” He laughs jovially, as if his humor rivals that of a comedian.

  That’s how it’s always been. He makes snide comments about everything I’ve done that fails to live up to his expectations, shrouding them in humor. But he means every biting comment, even if made in a light tone. If making passive-aggressive remarks were an Olympic sport, he’d be more decorated than Michael Phelps.

  I clench my teeth, my jaw tensing. Yet I still smile. It’s my last line of defense to act as if I don’t care what my father thinks. That his statements have no effect on me.

  “What can I say? I’ve never been one to stick to the rules.”

  “Rules are there for a reason, which I’m sure you’re learning from Lincoln… Professor Moore here,” he corrects quickly.

  I look at Lincoln, a hint of sympathy in his gaze as he witnesses this strange dynamic, observing the exact reason I begged him to keep our past a secret.

  “He’s only thirty-five, yet he’s accomplished so much. Graduated at the top of his class at Tufts, then went onto Yale Law. Worked for an advocacy group in the city before I stole him away. He’s one of the top constitutional scholars in the country, a remarkable feat for someone so young. And you know why he’s already achieved everything he has?”

  “Because he’s a white man?” I quip, partly joking, partly serious.

  He rolls his eyes. It’s something my protest-happy, political strategist mother would say.

  “Because he knows about dedication. About having a strong work ethic. About putting in the time and effort to achieve goals, even if the path might be hard.”

  I inhale a deep breath through my nose, my lips pinching together as I do everything to maintain my composure and not completely lose it.

  “Actually, Chloe is a wonderful student. The faculty speaks very highly of her, particularly her advisor, Lara Stone.”

  I whip my eyes to Lincoln.

  “Lara Stone isn’t exactly a pioneer of hard-hitting journalism,” my father scoffs. “But I suppose I can understand why she’d say that, considering she ended her career at a daytime talk show. That kind of thing is right up Chloe’s alley, not real journalism. Simply reporting on celebrity gossip. No wonder they get along so well.”

  “We all have to start somewhere.” Lincoln’s tone is polite, despite my father’s clear displeasure over the idea of anyone standing up for me. “At least she’s working in the industry and learning how a magazine runs.”

  He gives me a reassuring smile before looking back at my father. A part of me wants to stop this, to tell Lincoln I don’t need him to stand up for me. I stopped standing up for myself in this man’s presence ages ago. But that’s at odds with this small part that wants him to keep going. To hear the kindness and compassion in his tone.

  “Not everyone is fortunate enough to land a desk at the Times right out of undergrad,” he continues, referring to my father’s dumb luck. “But Chloe’s been in my class for six weeks now. In those six weeks, she’s demonstrated an incredible understanding of the First Amendment that would rival that of any law student. In fact…” He glimpses at me. “She’d make one hell of a lawyer.”

  My father peers at him with curiosity. Can he sense there’s a history between us? Don’t fathers have this kind of sixth sense about men who’ve been intimate with their daughters?

  “Chloe in law school?” He bursts out laughing, the gritting sound making the hair on my nape stand on end. “That’s rich. It took her ten years to finish her bachelors. Could you imagine how long it would take her to graduate law school?” He wipes at his eyes. “Come on. Let’s get to work.”

  Jovially slapping Lincoln on the back, he forces him away from me. He probably thinks the longer he stays in my presence, the greater the chance of my inferiority rubbing off on the man who’s obviously his star attorney. I remain frozen in place, summoning all my strength to pretend my father’s comments have no bearing on me.

  As they’re about to disappear into my father’s office, Lincoln glances over his shoulder, his eyes locking with mine. Then he mouths, I’m sorry.

  That could have so many meanings. Is he sorry for what my father said? For not standing up for me more? Or is he sorry for us?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I make a beeline for Izzy, ignoring the curious eyes from the house vultures, and snatch the martini from her. Shakily raising it to my lips, I gulp down a large swallow, the liquor burning my throat.

  “Come on.” She loops her arm through mine, pulling me out of the room. “Let’s see what kind of food’s left over. I saw a few of my mother’s famous tamales.” Her voice is bright, a stark contrast to the warring emotions filling me at not only seeing Lincoln unexpectedly but hearing him stand up for me.

  Izzy doesn’t release her hold on me until we’re out of earshot and in the large eat-in kitchen. At least she didn’t lie about her mother’s tamales. As expected, they were barely touched, most likely because it’s “ethnic food”, as I’m sure Tiffany referred to it. At this point, Izzy’s mother probably sends it to piss her off, considering my father loves her tamales.

  I grab a plate and pile on one pork and one chicken tamale, peeling back the corn husk before slicing into it. Once I’ve taken a bite, I look at Izzy, my muscles relaxing. We stare at each other for a few seconds before simultaneously breaking out in laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation.

  “The only thing that would make this even more awkward is if Asher shows up.” I shove another heaping forkful of “ethnic food” into my mouth, moaning at how delicious it is.

  “Considering I haven’t spoken to him since we left Vegas, there’s a greater chance of this house being struck by lightning.” She grabs a plate, assessing the options, settling on a few tamales, as well. “What are the chances Lincoln would be here?”

  “He does work for my father. I guarantee Dad tried to go into the office today, but Tiffany undoubtedly threw a fit of epic proportion. So work coming to him was probably the compromise.”

  “What did your father say?” She leans closer, her voice barely audible. “Did he pick up on anything?”

  “No. As usual, our conversation revolved around the fact I’m a complete failure who doesn’t follow through on anything.
All jokingly of course.”

  She rolls her eyes. “God, I hate that. I don’t know why you put up with it. If it were anyone else, you’d give them a piece of your mind, then knee them in the junk to make them think twice about speaking that way to anyone else again.”

  Shrugging dismissively, I glance at the refrigerator, the surface devoid of anything personal. No birth announcements. None of Midge’s artwork. Not even her latest spelling test because it wasn’t good enough, even though she’d received a high mark.

  “I’ve learned to pick and choose my battles. It’s like he wants to piss me off. Wants me to lose my temper with him. Why give him the satisfaction? It’s best to suck it up for the ten minutes a year we actually do speak to each other, then go back to my normal life he no longer has any say over.”

  It’s silent for a moment as she assesses my statement. “And what did Lincoln have to say?”

  My cheeks warm as his deep voice complimenting me echoes in my mind. I smooth a strand of hair behind my ear. “He told my father I was one of the smartest students he’s ever had. That my understanding of the material would rival that of a law student. Of course, my father nearly dropped dead from a heart attack at the suggestion of me going to law school.”

  “So Lincoln stood up for you.”

  “I suppose,” I answer nonchalantly.

  “That’s sweet.”

  I shoot my eyes to hers. “What? No, it’s not. It’s demeaning and chauvinistic. I don’t need Lincoln to protect me from my asshole father. I’ve done just fine handling him for the past almost twenty-nine years of my life. And I’ll do just fine the next twenty-nine years.” I shove more tamale into my mouth, barely chewing before swallowing and inhaling deeply, using the food as a distraction from the conversation.

  “He could have simply said you were doing well in class. He didn’t have to go the extra mile and say you’re exceptional, yet he did.” She narrows her eyes, pinching her lips together. “I think he’s struggling with this as much as you are.”

  “What?” I practically choke on my food. “I’m not struggling with this.”