The Dating Games Series Volume One

by T. K. Leigh

  “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, dozens 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.

  “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. And I definitely remember him. Asher York isn’t the kind of person anyone could forget.

  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 o
ut 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 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. But I do. I have from the first time I saw him across a packed club in Boston.

  Snapping out of my stupor, I refocus my attention on my beer and drain it. I grab a bill from my wallet and leave it on the counter, not caring about getting any change. The excessive tip is a price I’m willing to pay keep the past buried. To keep my secret buried.

  I’m about to jump down from the stool when a hand on the bar next to me stops me. “Running off without saying hi?”

  My eyes dart up, coming face-to-face with Asher York. His voice is even smoother than I remember. A low rumble that hits places on my body that haven’t felt excitement in an eternity.

  I part my lips, attempting to come up with a response, but I’m rendered speechless when I catch a glimpse of his arm leaning on the bar, the position causing his biceps to flex and push against the confines of his t-shirt, stretching the fabric.

  A woodsy scent surrounds me as I stare, the smell reminding me of large family dinners, playing guitar on the dock overlooking the lake on his grandmother’s property, roasting marshmallows. Reminds me of a girl I used to be. One I’ve tried to keep in the past.

  Swallowing down the bittersweet memories, I push a strand of hair behind my ear, forcing a smile. “Asher. Good to see you.” I hold my head high, looking anywhere but directly into his eyes. I can’t. He has the same eyes as Jessie. Born eleven months apart, their appearance was always strikingly similar. But that was where their similarities ended, the two brothers as opposite as two people can be. Regardless, I’ve never met two siblings as close as they are. Or maybe I found it so foreign since I’m an only child.

  “Phew.” He blows out a breath, laughing shakily. “I wasn’t positive it was you. I thought it was, but everyone in this town seems to look like someone else.”

  I shrug, finally meeting his gaze. “It’s me.”

  “Good. That would have been awkward otherwise.” A flirtatious smile curves up the corners of his lips. He even has the same smile as Jessie. But Asher’s looks more natural, like he’s actually happy. “What are you doing in Vegas?” he continues when I don’t immediately say anything.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  He nods at the stage. “Music.” He doesn’t embellish. “Your turn.”

  “Bachelorette party. Hannah’s getting married next month, and Bernadette was in charge of planning her bachelorette party.”

  A look of understanding crosses his face. “Say no more.”

  As uneasy as it should be to see Asher again, considering his connection to a time in my life I’d prefer to keep in my rearview mirror, it’s refreshing to talk to someone who already knows me, scars and all. Someone I don’t have to go into all the details of my life with because they already know.

  “Cash you out, miss?” The bartender’s voice cuts through.

  I nod. “Thank you.”

  “Actually,” Asher interrupts before the bartender can retreat with my money, “she’ll have another. And I’ll have an IPA.” He places a finger on the cash I’d left on the bar and slides it back in front of me. “Put all her drinks on my tab.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I insist, attempting to push the bill back toward the bartender. “I really should be going. It’s been a long night and I—”

  The heat coming off him as his hand wraps around my arm stops me mid-sentence. I fling my wide eyes to his, my insides vibrating at his touch. Something that never happened when his brother touched me, caressed me, made love to me. That should have been a sign back then, but I was too young to realize it. Too smitten by the handsome college senior who noticed me. Or maybe I just didn’t care. Maybe I’d wanted to feel like I was wanted, like I was cherished.

  “Stay.”

  One word, and my mouth goes dry.

  One word, and my heart pounds in my chest.

  One word, and I forget all the reasons I should leave.

  “Okay.” I slowly slink back into my barstool.

  What harm can one drink with an old friend do?

  Chapter Two

  “So you quit without a backup plan?” I ask several hours later as Asher and I sip on our beers, the bartender having just announced last call.

  I’d told myself I’d only stay for one drink. One drink soon turned into three as I caught him up on everything that’s been going on in my life. How I ended up getting my master’s, something I never would have done if I’d married Jessie. Hell, before I broke off our engagement, I probably would have been happy working at a general practitioner’s office where the hours were normal and the stress level low. But something about the breakup made me reevaluate my plans and think about what I really wanted. So I continued with my education, focusing on pediatric oncology. The hours are less than optimal, the mental strain of holding these precious young lives in my hands high, not to mention the heartbreak when I lose a patient, but I can’t imagine doing anything else.

  “If I wanted to pursue my dreams, I didn’t want anything holding me back. My teaching job was a crutch. I turned down gigs because I couldn’t take time off from work. Good gigs, too. A few opening up for Dave Matthews Band, Ed Sheeran, Jason Mraz. Granted, I would have been the first opener when everyone was waiting in line for beer, but it was still a great gig I had to miss because it was during the week and my headache of a principal refused to sign off on the time. Thought it was a waste. So about four years ago, when I needed to either start my master’s so I could keep teaching or do something else, I decided to take the leap and do something else.”

  I drain the remainder of my drink, then sip on some water. “That takes some serious cojon
es. I don’t know many people who would quit their job and move to Los Angeles to chase their dreams.”

  “What can I say? I’m not most people.” He playfully nudges me. “You should realize that by now.”

  “I certainly do.”

  There’s a warmth within his gaze when I lift my eyes to meet his. But there’s something more, too. Something that’s been missing from my life all these years.

  I clear my throat, breaking through the mounting tension I’m convinced is one-sided. “Weren’t you scared?”

  “I was.” He looks forward, staring into the distance, squinting. “But I was more scared of never pursuing my dreams. Of being content with a life that was just good enough. Don’t get me wrong,” he adds quickly. “I loved my job. Loved teaching kids about music and seeing the joy on their faces when they nailed that difficult passage for the first time. But I always looked at teaching as something I could do to pay the bills while I pursued my dreams. So when teaching got in the way of those dreams, I knew what I had to do.”

  I smile a genuine smile, one that reaches my eyes and warms my heart. “That’s incredible. And inspiring.”

  “It hasn’t all been easy. Sure, they call Los Angeles the city of dreams…” He shakes his head, sipping on his beer. “Believe me. It’s not.”

  “But you made it work.”

  The corners of his mouth quirk up. “I have.”

  The lights snap on, the universal sign of the bartender saying, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” I check my watch, surprised to see it’s practically two and that we’ve been talking for nearly three hours. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so immersed in another person that I lost all concept of time. It was probably at the lake house when Asher and I would end up staying awake all night without either of us realizing it, too lost in the music he strummed.