by Kate Messick
Aurora’s words are like acid. I blink a few times. And then I finish the rest of my coffee in one swig. Some of it goes down the wrong pipe and I start coughing that turns into laughter. By the time I get it out of my lungs, I have to wipe a tear out of my eye and Aurora is looking at me like I have sprouted horns. I stand and start to put on my coat. I’m angry and upset that I misjudged Aurora’s character. She might have a sweet and innocent side, but there’s also a bitch under that demeanor.
“Amorino likes to fuck in as close to public places as he can get away with.” I see the older couple sitting at the table next to us cringe at my words. I’m not lowering my voice. I don’t need to soften the blow … though I might exaggerate a few things. She’s just as arrogant as he is.
“He loves the excitement of possibly getting caught,” I continue. “He wants to control every hole you have and call you dirty things while he slides in and out of them. And he likes toys, not like bondage, just seeing if he can fit items where they may or may not belong.”
Aurora’s face goes from white to pink to scarlet.
“Don’t contact me again,” I say as I turn to leave. “Fuck, if you two don’t deserve each other, then no one in this world does.”
My laughter is fueled by hurt as it bubbles again. My car door shuts, but the seal is so bad that the sounds of the world still drift into my little space as I drive back to work.
Parked, I pull out my phone and wipe a tear out of my eye, unsure if it’s from hysteria or hurt. Joe is staying in Aurora tonight, some work function he couldn’t get out of. I read my last two messages to Dillon, days ago.
Sandy: Can we pretend dinner didn’t happen? I don’t know the right thing to type.
I close my eyes. Once this job is through, I’m going to move. I’m going to get as far away from Amorino and all this bullshit as I can and start over somewhere. A do over, that’s what I need. A text from Devon shows up on my screen.
Devon: Why are you just sitting in your car? Concrete pour starts in five minutes. Get your ass over here.
I find the middle-finger emoji on my phone and pass it on. One thing at a time.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Reality, Joe’s House
Estes Park Colorado is a small tourist town right outside of the Rocky Mountains. The hotels are expensive, the food is mediocre, the wine is excellent, and you can get t-shirts with moose doing almost anything imaginable on them.
Joe Smartin
I gently herd my players through a few staged encounters to ready them for the next part of my campaign. They run into some familiar Kaatse demons and a group of tourists. The tourists were originally just flavor to give them an idea of the new setting in Estes Park. But they are convinced the tourists know something important and will not let it go, so now they are following around tourists for no reason. It’s hilarious, to me anyway.
Little do they know, they are deep in Giirdse family territory. Three families of demons control my campaign world, which I very loosely based on Colorado. They have been captured and blackmailed by the Kaatse family, tricked into awakening an evil witch for the Poogse family, and now they get to meet the final family, the Giirdses.
I have six separate encounters lined up in Estes Park for them; which one will they choose? Or am I going to need to wing a seventh?
“We only have thirty minutes before we need to leave,” Lynda points out. “And we seem to be at a good stopping point.”
“We can do that,” I respond. I absently brush the battle mats hidden behind my DM screen. I can feel their disappointment. “While we’re packing up, Sandy and I have been chatting, and she would like to run a one-shot.”
Sandy blushes a little but nods.
“I was thinking we could take a break next week and give it a try,” I recommend.
“Could we get together on a different day?” Zack asks.
“Lynda and I can’t do any other day. Two days in one week stretches us too much,” Steven says. “No offence Sandy, but I don’t want to cancel Joe’s game for whatever you are planning.”
“None taken,” she responds. “It was just something I wanted to try doing.”
“I could do Friday,” Zack offers.
“As long as it’s next Friday, I’m free,” I add. “My Saturday availability is going to be spotty in December.”
. Now partway through November, holiday parties and military dances are in season. I have been to so many that they are just a normal part of my life. Networking is essential for promotion. With the military’s strict fraternization rules it’s rare you get the chance to rub elbows with superior officers. One of the only ways to face-to-face impress the people that can give me promotions is at these formal dances.
My comment starts off a discussion about holiday plans and schedules. By the end, Dillon has messaged Blake and Sandy has five players for next Friday. I’m surprised to see how little Sandy and Dillon are interacting. In fact, now that I think about it, they have been rather distant the entire game. Though, for them, that looks like a normal friendship instead of the little looks and touches they usually exchange. I should be happy if something happened to pull them apart, but it bothers me a lot. I shy away from the odd feeling.
“So, it’s my house or Dillon’s house?” I ask.
“I hadn’t offered, but my house is fine,” Dillon confirms.
“Who do you want?” I ask Sandy.
Sandy has gathered all of her stuff and looks between us. “Do you mean who’s house?”
“Yes, what did I say?” I laugh.
She looks down at the table and shuffles. I can’t help but wonder if something is going on. She reaches into her bag and comes back out with her dice bag. “I’ll roll. One, two, or three and it’s Joe’s house. Four, five, or six and it’s Dillon’s.”
“Seems fair to me,” I answer and cross my arms over my chest.
Sandy pulls a bright green and yellow D6 out of the dice bag and spills it on the table. It bounces, wobbles, and then comes to rest next to an empty glass. The number stark against the dark-stained wood of my table.
“Dillon’s house it is.” Sandy picks up her dice.
“Thank you for hosting today, Joe, and thank you for future hosting next week, Dillon,” she adds. “Zack, you ready?”
Dillon echoes her thanks and the two of them exit my living room. I’m surprised that Dillon is still sitting at my table. And even more surprised when, instead of leaving to get up, he fishes two beers out of my fridge and returns to his seat. He sets one down in front of me.
“It’s world finals for League of Legends. You said you were a fan.”
“I’m a fan,” I confirm. I take the beer he opened and sip it. Dark malt, salt, and a hint of chili converge on my taste buds. I sigh. Why does Dillon have to have good taste buds?
“Planning on watching it?”
“I am,” I confirm.
“I think the EU region is going to take it all this year.”
“There is no way,” I respond. “Asia has dominated for the last eleven years.”
“Not rooting for North America?” he asks, taking a sip.
“No one is that dumb,” I reply. It’s well known that North America won’t make it far. “Are there any bars that broadcast it?”
“Not in Boulder. Up in Fort Collins, yes. I’m not willing to drive an hour. Do you have YouTube on your TV?”
“Do I have YouTube on my TV?” I scoff at the question and go to take a quick look in my fridge. “I’m low on beer. What time does the game start?”
“Seven. I’ll do a pizza and beer run. Get your surround sound working?”
“I’ll make it happen!”
We clink beers and Dillon grins.
“TSM, TSM, TSM,” he starts to chant. TSM is the most well-known chant in League of Legends history. The team, Team Solo Mid, literally helped make League of Legends an esport. After only a few repetitions, I join him.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Reality
, Dillon’s Apartment, Solar Row
Analysis paralysis is a common saying among board gamers. It’s the act of thinking about what you want to do so hard that you’re unable to make a choice. A board game waits for you; life, on the other hand, always moves along.
Dillon Dempsy
I have my shower water turned up as hot as it will go, and I lean against the wall, letting it run over my shoulders and back. The warm steam feels good on my chest as the water runs down my body in little rivers that remind me that it has been a while since anything but shower water has touched me. Blake’s final comments from earlier in the day turn over in my head.
“But she didn’t say no and she didn’t move your hand, right?” Blake had confirmed. “I would bet that she was in shock from being asked and you didn’t even give her a chance to respond before you started talking again. You are self-defeating.”
I lift my face into the hot water and pump soap into my hands. I scrub my bright pink skin dry and slip into my sweats. I stick a healthy frozen dinner in the microwave and turn on my TV for background noise. My eyes look blankly at my computer as I try, once again, to write part of Strider’s and Nozomi’s story. Even a sentence. Sometimes, that’s all we trade. The stories aren’t long. They are just fun. But I don’t feel “fun” at the moment. I pick up my phone and look at Sandy’s last messages again.
Sandy: Can we pretend dinner didn’t happen? I don’t know the right thing to type.
My phone’s email notification goes off and I wait for the message to arrive at my computer. It’s from Sandy about her game on Friday. I read through the email.
Thank you all for being my guinea pigs this Friday. I’m super excited to try this out. I’m running a good old-fashioned dungeon crawl in straight 5E. Let me know by tomorrow if you need me to have a premade character for you or if you would like to bring one. All characters will be level three. I’m also bringing themed food and drinks as a thank you. I will try not to run out of my own game.
– Sandy.
I’m smiling like an idiot by the time I finish reading her short email. The Sandy I met a few months ago would never be able to joke about running out of a game. Nor offer food as a thank you. I know Sandy doesn’t cook so I wonder what she has up her sleeve. My phone’s text message notification goes off.
Sandy: Sorry, I know we aren't speaking right now. But I need to know if I can use your oven on Friday. Just yes or no is fine.
I start to type a response and delete it. “I know we aren’t speaking.” What am I doing? Are we not speaking? I haven’t responded to her texts for days now, nor made good on our story exchange. What is it, Tuesday? Have I been sitting in silent indecision for four days? But she hasn’t reached out to me … but I also asked her not too.
Dillon: Meet me for a drink?
My microwave dings – my meal, for one, probably cold in some spots and molten lava in others.
Sandy: Sure, Conor O'Neill's?
I smile at my phone. Our pub would be perfect.
Dillon: See you in 45 minutes.
I don’t take time to look my best. But I throw on my favorite green flannel shirt and pair it with a clean crisp pair of denim that shows off my waistline and backside. I’m not sculpted like Joe, but I’m proud of what I have.
I arrive at Conor O'Neill's first and find our booth unoccupied. I order two Baileys on ice and open up a game on my phone. Sandy is not far behind me and my half attention to my game is easily drawn away as she cautiously approaches the table.
“May I sit?” she asks softly.
“Of course, you don’t need to ask.”
“I’m not so clear on that point,” she responds. Her hair is down tonight, and her face is make-up free. Strands of the soft locks fall into her face as she sits. I itch to push it behind her ear. Soon enough, her own hand does the same.
“I don’t want to ruin the surprise for you, but I just need to keep something warm in it,” she explains after a moment.
“Something warm in it?” I repeat.
“Your oven,” Sandy reminds me.
“Right. My oven,” I utter. I forget Sandy’s ability to pick up conversations from emails and texts. “That’s fine. My house is at your disposal.” The pub is quiet on a Tuesday night in November. No live music or waves of sound fill our ears this time. Sandy lifts her drink and swallows a less than ladylike portion of it.
“Dillon, why did you ask me here? I’m sorry to be abrupt, but I have had a lot of weird conversations this week and I’m done being ambushed.”
“Who ambushed you?” I can’t make my tongue work right. I asked her here to clear the air, but now that we’re together, I don’t know how to go about it.
“Aurora on Friday,” Sandy says bitterly. “Joe on Sunday. And now you on Tuesday. Every two days. I’m expecting my mom to call on Thursday now, just to top off this week.”
“What did you and Joe talk about?” I find the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Joe thinks that I’m using him for sex and he wants more than that,” she says honestly. “Aurora wanted to know what Amorino’s favorite sexual positions are. My mom will probably be calling to ask when I’m popping out babies so she can be a grandma.” She picks up her drink and finishes it.
“Why would Aurora ask you that?” I try to focus on just one thing.
“Why would you ask me that?” Sandy throws back with a huff. “Of the three things I listed, two of them are ones that you said you didn’t want any part of anymore.”
“Your mom hasn’t called yet, I thought that was rhetorical.”
“How would you know if my mom has called?” she asks flatly. “It’s not like we have talked recently.”
“Fair enough.” I finish my own drink and flag down a waiter for a second round.
“Add a dram of Monkey Shoulder,” Sandy adds. “Make it two. I’ll drink his if he doesn’t want it.”
“What’s Monkey Shoulder?”
“Cheap scotch,” she replies.
We sit there, not talking, until the drinks arrive. She knocks hers back like it’s a shot and I take mine and keep it close to me. I’m unsure if I want it, but I don’t think Sandy needs two of them in a row. This isn’t that difficult a conversation; it isn’t supposed to be anyway.
“This is so difficult.” Sandy eyes my whisky and I put it up to my nose and take a sniff. My sinuses clear right quick. It must have shown on my face.
In a less frustrated voice she tells me, “If you hold it a little farther from your nose and take a lighter whiff, you might get some of the caramel hints in it.”
I do as she asks. I still just smell liquor, but I nod and take a sip anyway. “This is really strong.”
“It’s Scotch.”
“You seem to like a lot of Scottish things,” I say. “Aren’t Nozomi’s main daggers from Celtic legend?”
“They are.” Sandy smiles a little. “And I do. It’s the opposite of my Japanese heritage. I grew up hearing about respect and tradition and my role in the world. But I fell in love with fantasy because anything can happen.”
“Anything can happen,” I repeat. “Look at that stupid ladder in our D&D game. We bested a powerful witch and then were almost felled by an inanimate object.”
We both laugh. Too soon we’re back to awkward silence. Since our first time here, we have not had awkward silence.
“I’m going to go,” Sandy says. What am I doing? Maybe I need more time. I stand and pick up her coat, moving to the end of the table to give it to her, but once I’m there, Sandy’s body is very close. It’s like my hand has a mind of its own and, once again, it slides along her cheek. “May I kiss you?” The words fall out of my mouth. I have no idea how they sound. All I can hear is the racing of my heart that Sandy could stomp and destroy with one word.
“It’s not possible to turn back time, is it?” she asks.
I shake my head. “And I don’t want to.”
Sandy walks into me and places her lips
on mine. My hands wrap around her, pinning her arms to her body. I didn’t intend to pressure her. If she kissed me, I had every intention of letting her take the lead, but the feel of her in my arms awakens a hunger in me. I drink her like she’s a thirst I can never quench. I run my tongue against her cream liquor tinged lips. When she doesn’t part them, I lightly flick at the corners of her mouth with my tongue; my lips engulf hers and I just can’t get enough. I feel her arms twist and I relax my grip, breaking our contact – only to move a hand up and bring her face to mine once more, leaving a gentle reminder on her kiss-swollen lips.
“I’m your friend first.” I finally find the right words. “I will always be your friend first. But just know, I want more.” And there it is. It’s that simple.
Sandy doesn’t have words for me as I help her into her coat. I walk her out of the bar and hail a cab the old-fashioned way, and hand the driver a fifty-dollar bill. “Take the lady wherever she wants to go,” I tell him and then walk toward my own vehicle.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Reality, Bela Casa Construction, Home Development
When life gives you lemons.
Sandy Yuhi
Sweet, sensitive, moody Dillon. When I moved forward, it was with the intention of kissing him to show our lack of chemistry. That we were meant to be friends and that was it. But when his arms closed around me and his lips took control, heat filled my body. I didn’t let him deepen the kiss, because I might not have been able to stop it from going further. That kiss wasn’t the burning need of Amorino. Or my emotions pouring into Joe. That kiss was something else altogether. And it frightened me.