by T. K. Leigh
Mind Games
T.K. Leigh
MIND GAMES
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
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Published by Carpe Per Diem / Tracy Kellam, 25852 McBean Parkway # 806, Santa Clarita, CA 91355
Edited by: Kim Young, Kim’s Editing Services
Cover Design: Cat Head Biscuit, Inc., Santa Clarita, CA
Cover Image Copyright merla 2019
Used under license from Adobe Stock
Copyright © 2019 T.K. Leigh / Tracy Kellam
All rights reserved.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Dangerous Games
Connect with Me
Also by T.K. Leigh
Free Book!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Have you ever wondered what would have happened if Alice never saw the White Rabbit and followed him into Wonderland? If Cinderella never found the courage to walk into that ball all alone and dance with Prince Charming? If Ariel hadn’t gone to the surface and saved Prince Eric from drowning, even though everyone warned her about humans?
One moment. One decision. One life forever changed because they opted for one path over another. It’s remarkable to think our choices have this much power, this much ability to alter the course our lives had been on.
I’ve often imagined what my life would look like had I chosen differently. Different college. Different profession. Different love. It’s one of those things that keeps us up in the wee hours of the night, contemplating deep thoughts we have no control over, since the likelihood of getting a second chance is doubtful.
At least that’s what I’ve always thought… Until a trip to Las Vegas for a bachelorette party brought me back to that proverbial fork in the road. One I didn’t know existed.
“Are you girls seriously not coming to the club with us tonight?” Bernadette whines over the loud, jarring noise of the busy casino. Her bright red lips form into a pout as she looks at Chloe and me.
When she’d first proposed celebrating Hannah’s bachelorette party in Vegas, I looked forward to getting out of Manhattan for a weekend in Sin City, especially in January. But after only twenty-four hours, I longed for the sounds and smells of New York. Now that I’ve been here going on four nights, I’m all but counting down the minutes until I can board that plane. In a little more than twelve hours, I get to do just that.
“We have an early flight tomorrow,” Chloe responds.
Out of the entire bridal party, we’re the only two who seem to have commitments and obligations back home. Not only are we leaving a day earlier than everyone else, we’re using it as an excuse not to have to suffer through yet another night at yet another club. A darkened room reeking of sweat, alcohol, and perfume. Ridiculously loud music. Barely any space to move or dance. It isn’t my idea of a fun evening out.
“I thought your flight wasn’t until one or two,” Bernadette argues back.
“We still have to get to the airport on time. We don’t have the luxury of sleeping in all day like you do.”
Bernadette opens her mouth, presumably to continue stating her case, when Hannah steps forward, wrapping her arms around Chloe. “I’m so glad you took the time to come.” Pulling back, she gives her a sincere smile before hugging me. “Don’t worry. I get it,” she whispers. “If I could, I’d be right there with you.”
She drops her hold on me, and the three of us share a conspiratorial look, like we did as kids when we were up to something.
Growing up, we were three peas in a pod. We lived in the same neighborhood and were practically inseparable. Hell, I remember many summer days giggling about our dream weddings to our dream guys. Hannah always fantasized about marrying a successful doctor, one who loves kids as much as she does. Now, she’s mere weeks away from marrying that successful doctor.
“Come on.” She spins from us, looping her arm through Bernadette’s. “I’m a bit parched.”
Several of the other bridal party members whistle and cheer as they retreat from the lobby, on their way to one of the many clubs. As they’re about to get swallowed up by the hectic casino atmosphere, Hannah glances over her shoulder, blowing both of us a kiss. We return it, as we always do.
Chloe and I wait until they disappear from view, then exhale simultaneously.
“Well, thank god that’s over.” She starts toward the bank of elevators, her strides purposeful. “I swear, if one more guy approaches me thinking I’m a prostitute because my hair’s a different shade, I’m going to lose it. I’m not the first person to color my hair gray and lilac, for crying out loud.” She gestures to her wavy locks that fall to her mid-back.
I must admit, it took me a while to get used to the color, knowing I’d never be so bold as to change my hair to such a unique tone. But that’s Chloe. Daring and a bit reckless. Plus, her natural shade of blonde makes it easier to do something like that. There’s not much I can do with my nearly jet-black hair. As far as our appearance goes, Chloe and I are as opposite as can be. She’s short and petite, the picture of an all-American girl, aside from her choice in hair color. I’m on the taller side with curves and olive-toned skin, thanks to my Latina heritage.
“You know how this place can be,” I respond when I catch up to her. “It’s bachelorette party central. You saw how the girls behaved. They’re away from home and responsibility so they decided to throw common sense out the window and flirt with anything with a pulse. Same goes for the men here for bachelor parties. And, as we all know, men aren’t nearly as intelligent as women, so they say and do even dumber things.”
Her laughter fills the elevator vestibule, overpowering the abrasive noise of the casino. “You’ve got that right.” When a car arrives, she slings her arm over my shoulders, which proves slightly difficult due to our height difference, her five-two to my five-seven, but we manage. Like always.
“Lobby tomorrow at eleven?” I arch a brow at Chloe when the elevator stops on my floor.
Another reason I get along so well with her. While the rest of the bridal party insisted on cramming eight people into two rooms, we refused to take any part in that. The only thing that made this trip bearable was that I had my own space.
“Or maybe I should tell you 10:30 so you’ll be on time.”
She playfully jabs me in the side. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there. There’s no way
in hell I’m missing my flight out of this godforsaken town.”
“Good. Or I’m leaving without you. Because there’s no way in hell I’m missing my flight out of this godforsaken town.”
“Goodnight, Izzy,” she sings, pushing me out of the car before the doors close on me.
“Night, Chloe,” I call back as I make my way toward my room.
Once inside, I take a minute to relish in the tranquility. My ears still ring from the constant barrage of noise in the casino, but other than a faint conversation I can make out from the room next door as the occupants get ready for a night out, it’s peaceful, the whirring of the air conditioner the only sound.
An urgent need to wash off the remnants of tonight’s festivities, namely the showgirl lessons that came complete with full makeup, overtakes me and I head for the bathroom, starting the shower.
A few minutes later, after scrubbing my face rigorously, I feel like myself again. Not this dress-wearing, club-going girl I’ve been the past few days so Hannah could have the bachelorette party she deserved. Though I suspect this was more the type of bachelorette party Bernadette, her older sister, would want. Hannah would have preferred a quiet weekend in Wine Country. Hell, knowing Hannah, she would have preferred a weekend where we all volunteered at the inner-city schools.
Emerging from the bathroom, I glance at the clock to see it’s just after eleven. I should pack and get some sleep, but I’m not even close to being tired. As a nurse, I typically work the night shift. After staying out until the early hours of the morning all weekend, my body has remained on that schedule. So, instead of throwing on some pajamas, I slide on a pair of jeans and a black top, then leave my room to explore the Vegas nightlife on my own. And hopefully find a low-key bar. After a weekend of nothing but overpriced, pretentious clubs, I need a simple bar and a good beer.
Most other women my age probably wouldn’t want to venture off on their own at night in Vegas, but I’m not most women. I like being alone. Like being able to do what I want when I want. Like not having to depend on anyone else for my own happiness. That’s the benefit of being an only child. An adopted only child. I became fiercely independent at an early age.
I meander along the casino floor, the tables overflowing with people trying their hand at blackjack, poker, or roulette, probably gambling away their life savings in the hopes of winning big. Cocktail waitresses in skintight dresses that barely cover their ass carry trays holding drinks. Despite having one of the top air filtration systems available, a thin layer of smoke seems to fill the space, the stench of nicotine permanently ingrained in my nostrils. It’s going to take days to get the stink out of my hair once I get home.
As I wander in search of a place where I can grab a decent beer, the sound of live music cuts through, a nice change from the typical thump of club music they blare all hours of the day. I look in its direction, spying what appears to be an Irish pub. I grin at the familiarity. My mother would admonish me for going to an Irish pub while in Vegas, considering I live in New York and we can’t trip without falling on yet another pub just like this one. That’s probably what calls me to this place. It reminds me of home.
I step inside, everything about my surroundings seeming to go against what Vegas stands for. Yes, it’s still a bar and the music is loud, but it’s not ostentatious. Not filled with women wearing as little clothing as they can get away with on the prowl for some poor schmuck to buy them overpriced drinks for the night. Not crawling with men dressed in suits who bathed in far too much cologne.
I walk toward a long bar that sits along the wall and find a vacant stool. My eyes are drawn to the ceiling, hundreds of bills of every currency pinned to it. A bartender approaches and takes my order for a beer, returning with a pint within seconds. I take a sip of the hoppy ale, exhaling at the flavor that seems so foreign after the past few nights of only consuming mixed, saccharine drinks. This is exactly what I need to feel normal again.
I survey the darkened space, nothing flashy or unique about it. Just like every other bar I’ve been to in my adult life, the lounge is filled with heavy wood tables, patrons enjoying a variety of beers and bar food while they listen to live music. A large crowd fills the empty area in front of the stage, dancing to the band as they cover a Coldplay song. They’re pretty good, much better than some of the artists I hear on the radio these days. I’ll take rock music any day over the latest auto-tuned boy band who wouldn’t know how to hold a guitar if their life depended on it.
The song ends and applause breaks out, a few girls cheering and clapping enthusiastically. Déjà vu washes over me, like I’ve been here before. In a way, I have. I was once one of those exuberant fans cheering for the local band, hoping they’d someday make it big. But that was a lifetime ago.
Shaking off the memories, I turn my attention back to my beer, perusing the menu the bartender left for me.
“Thanks all,” the lead singer’s voice carries over the loud chatter and clanging of ice against glass. “We’re going to take a quick break, but before we do, we have a special guest who’s agreed to get up on stage with us tonight. Remember this name because in the next few months, you won’t be able to turn on your radios without hearing his music. Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Asher York.”
A gasp escapes, my eyes darting toward the stage. I freeze, my brain unable to tell my lungs to breathe, my heart to beat, my body to move. All I hear is that name. It can’t be him, can it? How? I’ve never been great at statistics, but the likelihood of the two of us being in the same bar in Las Vegas has to be… What? One in a million? A billion? It must be someone else with the same name. Someone else who’s also a musician. Someone else who’s six-two, with dark hair and a smile that can melt panties.
I tell myself I’m imagining it, that I’m still stuck in the memories of my college days when my friends and I would go to whatever club Asher’s band was playing and dance the night away. That must be it. The reality of being in the same room as him seems so far out of the realm of possibilities, especially considering the last I knew, he was a music teacher in the suburbs of Boston, playing the occasional gig on the weekends.
Then again, the last time I spoke to him was eight years ago.
A lot can change in that amount of time.
And when a figure jumps onto the stage and faces the crowd, I realize truer words have never been spoken, or thought. A lot can change in that amount of time. And Asher York has certainly changed.
I watch with a mixture of intrigue and surprise as he grabs an acoustic-electric guitar from a stand, plugging a cable into the end of the body. The man resembles the Asher York I once knew, but he’s a far cry from the lanky man I remember. His broad chest pulls at the simple gray t-shirt, his biceps filling the sleeves quite nicely. His dark hair is no longer perfectly groomed. It’s grown out and has a sexy, disheveled vibe, the perfect complement to the scruff along his jaw. But that’s not the biggest change. Oh no. As if he weren’t rock god personified with the longer hair and muscular physique, he has to add tattoos to the fantasy.
I’ve always found Asher York attractive. But now… He is all man. Manly man. And when his voice fills the bar, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine, it’s somehow deeper and more enthralling than I remember. And I definitely remember him. Asher York isn’t the kind of person anyone could forget.
I should leave. Pay for my beer. Head back to my room. The last thing I need is to reopen old wounds. And seeing Asher does just that. But like the first time my college roommate dragged me to a club to see a local band that was gaining in popularity, I’m drawn to the man’s rough, emotion-filled voice.
I stare at my beer, concentrating on the melody. It sounds familiar, like a cloudy memory trying to return to the surface of my subconscious. The longer I listen, the more clear it becomes. By the time he sings the first chorus, it hits me. It’s the same melody I’d heard him toil over endlessly during those late summer nights we stayed up together at his grandmother’s lake
house, while my boyfriend, then fiancé slept inside.
Who also happened to be Asher’s brother.
During the two years I dated Jessie, I was welcomed into his family with open arms. That included spending a few weeks of the summer at the lake house. It was actually one of the things I missed most when we broke up. The card games. The smell of burgers on the grill. Spending the early morning hours listening to Asher pluck away at his guitar as he attempted to piece together a song.
This song.
Allowing my hair to cascade in front of my face in the hopes that Asher doesn’t recognize me in the crowd, I risk a glance at him. He seems to have cast a spell on everyone here, just as he did all those years ago. People bob their heads in time with the song, one I’ve heard more times than I care to admit, the familiar chords akin to coming home after a long absence.
I’m transfixed as I listen to him sing about feeling like he was made for a particular woman, but she never saw him until it was too late. I don’t realize my eyes are glued to his every move until deafening applause thunders around me. The girls who preened before the lead singer of the other band mere minutes ago now fawn over Asher.
He smiles that breathtaking smile of his as he thanks the audience, still as enigmatic a presence as always. His gaze floats over the crowd, coming to an abrupt stop when he locks eyes with mine. I try to look away, but the simple act of our gazes meeting has turned me to stone, apart from the fluttering in my chest. It shouldn’t. I shouldn’t have any reaction to him.
Just like I shouldn’t have tried to kiss him mere hours after I ended things with his brother all those years ago.