The Dating Games Series Volume One

by T. K. Leigh

  “Listen, Chloe…” Dad licks his lips, lowering his voice. There’s a hint of sympathy and compassion about him. “I’ll keep this quiet. For now. But it will get out. Hell, a few months ago, John Morrison brought up the two of you during a dinner meeting. Asked if I was aware of any other kind of relationship between you. I denied it, said it was ridiculous. At the time, I thought it was ridiculous. But it goes to show you that people are watching.

  “The semester may be ending soon, you may be a few days away from graduating, but that won’t matter. You will still be considered his student. And in a profession such as ours where we need to adhere to the highest standard of ethics, this can destroy any chance he has at teaching. Maybe even practicing law. Just…” He blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Think about whether it’s worth it.” He holds my gaze for another moment, then turns.

  I watch as he retreats toward the restaurant. He doesn’t need to come right out and say what he really means — whether I’m worth it.

  This is a man who’s always chosen his work over everything else. Over my mother. Over me. Hell, even over his new family. Work has always been his life. His career has always been his life, his one true love. When I was little, I often snuck down the hallway toward his office and would listen to him argue certain issues with whomever he was speaking to on the phone. I’d never seen such passion, such fervor, such intensity.

  Until I walked into that classroom and observed Lincoln.

  He had that same wild, untamed look in his eyes as my father did.

  I instantly know the answer, although I fear I’ve known it all along but didn’t want to admit it.

  I take a minute to pull myself together, trying to find comfort in the fact my father didn’t threaten to out us to the dean. Maybe it would have been better if he had. Then I wouldn’t have to be the bad guy. But I knew from the beginning this was how it would end.

  Fairy tales aren’t real.

  I’ve been fooling myself to think I could have my handsome prince and not suffer the dragon’s wrath.

  On timid steps, I walk through the lounge, the chairs where I’d sat with Lincoln now occupied by another couple who are free to share intimate moments. A brush of a hand. A stolen kiss. A heated stare. But not us. That would never have been us. And I can’t ask Lincoln to give up his passion so I can have that.

  Instead, I give up my passion in order for him to hold onto his. It’s not the first time I’ve had to sacrifice what I want for someone else. And it won’t be the last.

  Chapter Forty-One

  By the time I round the corner onto my street, my feet scream for relief. But I welcome the pain, need it to dull how much it hurt to walk away from Lincoln.

  I spent the past several hours roaming the streets of Manhattan, wondering if I did the right thing, if I made the right decision. I couldn’t even bring myself to read any of his texts or answer any of his calls, worried I’d crack and allow his assurances to convince me that we can have a future.

  When my building comes into view, I quicken my steps, wanting to curl up in bed and tune out the world for a minute. But the instant my gaze falls on my front stoop, my heart plummets to my stomach. Lincoln sits on the top step, shoulders slumped, hair disheveled, forearms resting dejectedly on his thighs. It’s nearly three in the morning. How long has he been here? I thought by now, it would be safe to come home. I guess I was wrong. What else have I been wrong about tonight?

  I consider retreating on the off chance he hasn’t noticed me. Then he lifts his weary, tired eyes, as if he has some sixth sense where I’m concerned. I’ve never seen him so distraught, so uncertain, so…lost.

  My lips part. I want nothing more than to apologize, offer him the comfort he deserves. Maybe if I hadn’t been so greedy, been more understanding of our predicament, he wouldn’t have felt the need to take me out somewhere we could be spotted.

  “Lincoln, I—”

  “Was it too soon?” he interrupts.

  I furrow my brow. “What do you—”

  “It was too soon, wasn’t it?” He bites his lower lip, a pained expression on his face as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I knew it was. That’s why I didn’t tell you weeks ago. I wanted to tell you the night I found you struggling with your mother. Because I knew back then how I felt. Probably before. I just… There never seemed to be a good time, so I figured fuck it. I’ll just tell her. But, apparently, you weren’t ready to hear those words.”

  I blink repeatedly, trying to piece everything together. He thinks I ran out on him because he told me he loved me?

  Of course… He has no idea my father saw us.

  All night, I’d toiled over what to say to convince him this is the way it needs to be. If he learned my father knew about us, that the dean was suspicious, he’d quit tomorrow. He said himself it’ll take a lot more than the risk to his career for him to walk away.

  I suppose that’s what I need to give him.

  Holding my head high, I cross my arms in front of my chest, rebuilding the wall around my heart, brick by brick. “This was never supposed to turn into…this.” I gesture between our bodies.

  His eyes narrow into slits, anger seeping into his expression. “What are you saying, Chloe?”

  I shrug nonchalantly, acting as if my heart isn’t bleeding on this very sidewalk, each word I speak another set of feet stomping all over it. “I’m not really a ‘fall-in-love’ kind of girl.” I sidestep him, walking up the stairs so he can’t see the truth in my eyes.

  “Says who?” He jumps to his feet, his fingers wrapping around my bicep, forcing me to face him. “Your father? Your mother?” The hurt in his words is all-consuming, but I can’t let that get to me.

  “Me! That’s who!” I answer with ice in my voice, giving the performance of a lifetime. “You’re a smart guy. You should have figured out by now that I’m incapable of loving anyone.”

  All I want to do is wrap my arms around him and tell him I don’t mean any of this, that I do love him. But love is never enough. I’ve had a lifetime reminder of that. Love wasn’t enough to keep my dad at home. Love wasn’t enough to prevent my mom from drinking. And love wasn’t enough to keep her clean.

  “No, you’re not. I see you’re not.” His voice turns pleading as he loosens his harsh grip on me. “You’re just scared. I get that. I’m scared of these feelings I have for you, too. But I’m not enough of a coward to lie about them, to say I don’t feel this way about you.”

  “I’m not a coward.” I push out of his hold. “And I’m not lying. I feel nothing for you.”

  “So you say, but your actions these past few months indicate otherwise.”

  I shrug. “I’ve just mastered the art of figuring out what men want and giving them that so I can get what I need in return.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down in a hard swallow, his lip twitching. “And what did you need from me?” he asks, although I can sense his reluctance.

  “What do you think?” I retort, passing him a demure look. “Do you know how many classes I’ve had to withdraw from because of my mother? I figured I could use a little insurance that, even if I missed too many classes, I’d still pass. That’s all you were. An insurance policy.”

  “You…” He shakes his head, struggling to form any words.

  “And now that you’ve turned in my final grade, I don’t need you anymore.” I jut out my chin, shoulders back, neck exposed, doing my best not to show a single hint of weakness, of vulnerability, of the lump growing in my throat, the words difficult to say. But this is the only way. I need him to hate me. Need him to forget about me.

  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 kn
ow.

  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 don’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 forg
et 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.”