I loved the new attitude. “I agree. You can.”
“There was a time in my life when I could have dated any guy in school.”
“I know. I remember.”
“How did I get this way? How did I allow myself to turn into ... what I was before this?”
“You became who Damon wanted you to be, because you loved him, and you were trying to make him happy instead of making yourself happy. There’s nothing wrong with giving yourself to a person, but you shouldn’t have to give up who you are in the process. Real love isn’t about ownership.”
“Yeah,” she said, pointer finger wagging in the air, “You’ve been there yourself. Not anymore though. You’ve changed too. I’m guessing it’s Richard’s effect on you.”
“Not just Richard.”
“What do you mean?”
“I met a woman at the gym some months back. The best way to describe her would be to say she’s a life coach for women. She helped me get my mojo back.”
“I knew it was something. I feel so much better already, but even with new hair and the new clothes, I feel like I have a long way to go before I feel whole again.”
I leaned forward, placed my hand on her arm. “You’ll get there. It’s not a race. The fact that you’re trying is already a step in the right direction.”
“I don’t just want to try though. I want to get there. Will you help me?”
I thought about putting her in touch with Veronica, but Sasha didn’t always work well with other women she didn’t know, and she hadn’t asked for Veronica’s help; she’d asked for mine. “I’d be glad to help.”
I leaned back, lacing my hands behind my head and staring into the face of my new protégé, thinking about the life she could have once I showed her a thing or two.
I could hardly wait.
THE END
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And now, a sneak peek at the first chapter of book two in the series, Shattered Dreams, Sasha’s story, releasing May 2016.
CHAPTER 1
My name is Sasha. No nickname, in between last names. And this is my story.
My quest for true love began four months ago in the worst way possible—standing in line at the county clerk’s office holding a pile of self-printed divorce documents in my trembling hands. My options, the statutory grounds for divorce in Las Vegas, were threefold:
Option One: Incompatibility.
Option Two: Insanity, for two years prior to the action.
Option Three: Spouses living separate and apart for more than one year.
Option Four, the one I wanted, the one I deserved to tick with a big, fat, juicy checkmark, didn’t exist. If it had, it would have said:
OPTION FOUR: LYING, CHEATING SCUMBAG
And bingo, we would have had ourselves a winner.
Given my present predicament, my initial thought had been to choose “insanity,” because in my mind, Damon (my soon-to-be ex) was certifiable, having spent a generous portion of our marriage in every other marital bed but the one we’d shared together.
Too bad insanity didn’t work that way.
I couldn’t select Option Three because, at the time, we’d only been apart for several months. That left one choice—incompatibility, defined as:
Unable to exist together in harmony.
Contrary or opposed in character.
And the granddaddy of them all: Unable to belong to the object simultaneously.
Since Damon had the extraordinary talent of belonging to several objects simultaneously, this one didn’t seem to apply either. I had to choose something though, so I ticked the ever-popular “incompatibility” box and baby-stepped my way to the counter, silently affirming to myself that this was no big deal. I just needed to get past this small formality first.
I could do this.
I forced a smile at the fifty-something, gray-haired woman on the other side of the counter. She didn’t smile back. She didn’t even look back. Instead, she focused on the dusty, clock on the wall while pressing her thumb to the tips of her fingers like she was counting down how much time remained before she could take her long-awaited lunch break. I couldn’t blame her—it seemed like a simple, mundane job as far as jobs go.
“I ... umm ... want to file these,” I said, pushing the papers in her direction.
My throat was scratchy and hot, making it near impossible to get the words out.
“Separation or divorce?” she grumbled.
“Divorce.”
She snatched the paperwork from my hands, riffled through the pages. “Has your husband agreed to the divorce?”
“I wasn’t aware he needed to agree to it before I—”
She did a blatant eye roll, making sure I physically witnessed just how short-tempered she was with me.
“You filled out the wrong paperwork.” Her tone indicated it was something she repeated multiple times each day. It also indicated the paralyzing need she had to point out my stupidity.
“This is a Joint Petition. You need to fill out a Complaint for Divorce. If he’s going to fight you—on anything—honey, take my advice. Get a lawyer.”
“Can I fill out the right forms myself with a—”
She tossed the papers back to me and peered over my shoulder, indicating the free advice portion of her day was over, and shouted. “Next!”
And just like that, we were done, and I was screwed, just not in the way I deserved to be.
Damon was a lawyer. He worked for one of the best firms in town. He had connections,
and those connections meant if he wanted custody of our two girls, he’d find a way to get it. Not that he wanted custody. Even when we were together, he was never home. But he’d ask for it anyway, just to show me he could.
At first, I believed our divorce could be an amicable one. I pictured the two of us sitting down together like a couple of mature adults, or one mature adult and one adult version of a child. He’d sign, I’d sign. It would be over, and I could pretend my marriage to world-class womanizer Damon Chase never happened. Well, all except for our two kids, the family dog, and the lifetime of photos we’d taken together on the days he elected for family life instead of a night out on the town with one of his bimbos.
Ten years.
Ten long years of the lines becoming so blurred, I couldn’t differentiate a lie from the truth anymore.
Damon was nothing if not skilled in the art of deception. I never actually caught him engaged in sexual activity with one of the hordes of other women he pimped himself out to on a nightly basis. He was smart. He was sneaky. He had two cell phones. One I knew about, and the other to accommodate his I’m-staying-late-at-the-office-honey-but-I’m-really-not bootie calls.
Every electronic device Damon owned was password protected. His phone, his laptop, his tablet, all of it. His reasoning? It was imperative in order to protect the privacy of his clients, in case, perchance, something of his was ever stolen. And this little naďve housewife had believed it—every spoon-fed, sugar-coated fib.
Until one day.
Because ladies, no matter how hard a person tries to conceal a secret life, it’s impossible not to slip up from time to time. Secrets have a way of seeping out when you least expect them to. Karma wouldn’t be karma if they didn’t.
END OF PREVIEW
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Table of Contents
VEGAS DREAMS NOVELLA SERIES BY CHERYL BRADSHAW:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Excerpt from Shattered Dreams: Book Two
Sweet Dreams (Vegas Dreams Book 1) Page 7