Shattered Dreams (Vegas Dreams Book 2)
Page 7
THE END
After the afterword below get an exclusive sneak peek of chapter one of Stolen Dreams, part three in the Vegas Dreams series.
AFTERWORD
It’s estimated twenty-five percent of women have been a victim of domestic violence in one form or another. The number of reported incidents is staggering, over nine hundred thousand in the last year alone. Women between the ages of twenty to twenty-four pose the highest risk. On average, three women are murdered by their partner each day, and over five hundred thousand women are stalked each year. These statistics are alarming, to say the least, but what I find even more alarming is that only twenty-five percent of women actually report their domestic abuse.
If you know someone, or if you are currently experiencing physical abuse, please consider getting help. Empower yourself, and stand up as the bright, capable woman I know you can be. Talk to a friend, a counselor, or the authorities. But talk to someone. Don’t suffer in silence. While you might be the victim today, another woman will be the victim tomorrow. By speaking out, you’re not just giving yourself a voice, you’re giving every woman who’s ever been abused a voice because you were brave enough to stand up, brave enough to fight.
There’s always someone willing to listen, willing to help like the confidential National Domestic Violence Hotline, which you can call at any time at 1-800-799-7233. Stay strong, ladies!
—Cheryl Bradshaw
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And now, a sneak peek at the first chapter of book three in the Vegas Dreams series, Stolen Dreams, Callie’s story, releasing July 1, 2016.
CHAPTER 1
My name is Callie Wilde and this is my story. Well, my sob story, I guess you could call it. Don’t let the last name fool you. The only “wild” things about me are the inner thoughts I share with no one but myself.
I’m an introvert.
A silent observer.
A woman of few words.
At least, that’s what my friends say. I suppose they’re right. In my humble opinion, people talk too much, prattling on and on as if they have nothing better to do than sit there and hear themselves utter every single random thought that comes to mind.
People like that bugged me.
They really, really bugged me.
My quest for love began with a bitter dose of verbal garbage that no committed wife ever wants to hear: I’m leaving. And just to be clear, my husband hadn’t said it in the “I’m leaving, but I’ll be back” kind of way. He’d said it in the “I’m leaving permanently” kind of way. I interpreted his statement like this: “Thanks for all the shit you’ve put up with over the years, but hey, I’m out.”
At first it came as a shock when he said it, one I hadn’t seen coming. I’d always been all-in, one hundred percent committed to him from day one. In that moment, I learned something: just because I was committed to him didn’t mean he was committed to me.
Josh had made his two-word declaration while standing in the doorway, with the door halfway open, I assumed so he could make a quick escape and avoid some kind of spastic, gut-wrenching freak-out on my end after he said it. But there was no confrontation. No opposition. No trying to force him to do anything other than what he’d planned. Instead, I glanced at the baskets of clean, perfectly folded, perfectly stacked laundry in front of me, and behaved as if he’d said nothing.
I plucked another hand towel from the stack, and watched the dryer sheet detach itself from the towel, fluttering aimlessly to the ground. It was worn and wasted, nothing more than a piece of irreparable trash, just like my marriage was turning out to be. I pondered that thought while Josh waited, remaining still, duffel bag in hand.
Fine. I’ll cave. I’ll say something, but you’re not going to like it.
“Okay,” I said. “Leave.”
Tears pooled around my eyes. I batted them open and closed a few times, pushing them back, doing anything I could to keep them from falling. I wasn’t doing this—not in front of a man who seemed determined to throw away our marriage for a reason I was unclear of yet.
“Okay?” he said. “Really? That’s it? After six years together, that’s all you want to say to me?”
In my mind, the word “shit” repeated over and over again like a recording stuck on repeat. The way I saw it, a single shit didn’t do the moment justice. Only a multiple shit captured what I was currently feeling in its entirety. I knew what Josh wanted because I knew him well. He was waiting for me to ask the one question he knew was on my mind:
Why are you leaving, babe?
I refused to look up, refused to stare into his smoky, blue eyes that once made me feel safe and whole, like I meant something, like I mattered. I resisted the urge to go to him, to run my hand through his blond, messy locks of hair, or to pull him close to me, begging him to stay.
I was no beggar.
“Just go,” I whispered.
I choked so hard on the words when I said them, I wasn’t sure he knew what I just said.
“No, Callie. I’m not leaving until you look at me. If you refuse to talk to me about this, I at least need to know you’re going to be okay.”
Okay? You’ve got to be kidding me.
The wound growing around my heart had been salted. I balled up an unfolded towel inside my hands, squeezing it wouldn’t have shocked me if moisture oozed out the middle. I had two options, explode or implode.
I sucked up a lungful of air, stabilized my voice, and said, “Get out.”
He shook his head, irritated. “Fine! I’ll be at Charles’s house.”
The front door slammed, vibrating the walls of the house like it was on the receiving end of an earthquake.
Josh revved the engine a few times and he backed out, tires squealing along the pavement as he sped down the road. I pulled the curtains to the side and looked out, staring at the back of his truck until he was out of sight.
Gone.
Possibly forever.
And I still didn’t know why.
Maybe I wouldn’t ever know why.
Part of me now wished I’d asked him when I had the chance, but I was much too proud for that.
I grabbed the brimming stack of perfectly folded, color-coded towels and heaved them all, showering the room in a rainbow of color. My legs caved and I sagged to my knees, my stomach churning from the storm brewing within. Tears rushed forward again, surging like an unruly tide. This time I didn’t hold back. And it didn’t matter. There wasn’t anyone here to see me. No one to scoop up the fragments of my ruptured heart.
I was alone.
I clasped a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to empty the contents of my stomach onto my perfectly shampooed, perfectly white carpeting.
I needed a toilet.
Now.
And that wasn’t all.
I needed my girls.
END OF PREVIEW
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Pre-order book three in the series HERE. It will be delivered to your Kindle on July 1, the day it’s released!
Table of Contents
VEGAS DREAMS NOVELLA SERIES BY CHERYL BRADSHAW:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chap
ter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
AFTERWORD
Excerpt from Stolen Dreams: Book Three