Sweet Dreams (Vegas Dreams Book 1)

by Bradshaw, Cheryl

  “Yeah, in high school.”

  “I want you to know what it feels like to be with someone who sees you for more than just a girl they want to take to bed. I mean, they all want to, but the guy who’s worth it knows how to exercise some restraint.”

  The idea seemed foreign when she’d said it, but I put in my time, dating a series of WhyNots over the next few months. Through it all, I learned she was right. With the main event off the table, my head was clear. I was able to see things women never did when they were emotionally clouded by the possibility of sex.

  This epiphany led me to phase two.

  Men, those looking for a lasting relationship, were simple creatures, not complex, as a vast majority of women were led to believe. Most had the same basic needs as women, as explained by Veronica: respect, support, affection, and a desire to feel valued.

  With all the basics covered, my three months of trial and error came to end, and even though I had a green light, I found I was the now one who wanted to exercise restraint.

  I met Fitz on an online dating site called Upper Class, where I had graduated to choosing men on my own. His screen name was DarcySeeksBennet, which any woman with a love for books would find interesting. I’d been initially attracted to his main profile photo. His hair—a thick, milk-chocolate brown—was messy, with pieces shooting off in all directions. His eyes, a piercing shade of azure blue, stared right into the camera like they could see right through me. This, coupled with a candid, half-page description about love being the only thing he was missing in life, intrigued me.

  When I’d first messaged him, I didn’t send a simple hello like most girls, I started with a game by asking him a question. Would you rather legally change your last name to Bin Laden, or never eat chocolate again?

  Three hours later, he replied.

  Rae,

  I enjoyed your profile and your question. I’d have to give up chocolate on this one. Now, I have a few questions for you:

  Where do you like to travel?

  What do you like to eat?

  What are your hobbies?

  It’s only fair I answer them myself, so here it goes ... I enjoy Italy. Have you ever been to the Fontana di Trevi? It’s beautiful. I enjoy Beliz. I enjoy anywhere life slows down long enough to create a lasting moment I’ll never forget. My favorite dish is lasagna made with tomatoes from my grandmother’s garden. And as for hobbies, I enjoy photography. Maybe one day I’ll get the chance to photograph you.

  I look forward to your reply,

  Fitz Darcy

  Fitzwilliam Darcy. Although the name was an obvious lie stolen from the pages of Pride and Prejudice, it was cheeky and clever. I liked it.

  In the fast-paced world of dating, he proved to be a great deal more snail than Energizer Bunny. Most of my recent online suitors over had asked me out within the first two email exchanges, but not him. He suggested we write back and forth for a while, swapping questions, getting to know each other a little through text first. We’d exchanged messages seven or eight times before he said asked for my number. After I gave it, he replied with, “By the way, my real name is Tyler. Talk to you soon.”

  The next night, Tyler called. His voice, low and deep, matched the tone I’d imagined he would sound like. So far, so good. Twenty-five minutes into the conversation, he said, “Where would you like to have dinner?”

  Bold and confident.

  I liked it.

  I threw out the name of one the more upper-class Italian restaurants in the area, Le Sueur, adding how much I loved their chicken, and then waited to see if he would know it.

  He responded, “I know it well. Seven o’clock on Friday?”

  “Sounds great,” I said. “I’ll see you there.”

  I stood in my ruby-colored bedroom in my newly acquired house in a pair of Agent Provocateur see-through, black lace panties and matching bra. Six months earlier, I wasn’t even aware the high-end lingerie company existed, and now my drawers were practically lined with their stuff. Thank you, Visa gold card. What a difference several months and some good plastic made.

  I removed two dresses from the closet and returned to the mirror, dangling them both in front of me.

  Red or black?

  That was the question.

  The red, sleeveless number was nice, although a little bit low cut in front, and a lot bit showier than I wanted to be on a first date—even in Vegas. I nixed it in favor of the less revealing, sophisticated black number. It had a V-neck shape and a hemline cutting off about three inches above my knees. I could lean over and touch my toes and the most a man would see was my upper thigh. For these reasons, it was perfect and sent a message of sophistication and beauty. I slipped it on, paired it with some strappy Jimmy Choo’s, and headed for the door.

  Date One included an exit strategy, just in case things didn’t go swimmingly between us. As my wing woman monitoring me from afar, my friend Sasha would send me a text message fifteen minutes into the date. If she didn’t receive a response, she’d take it as a sign that all was well. If I messaged her back, she’d wait five minutes, call, and set our escape plan in motion. It was an overused tactic many girls used on dates these days, but a good one nonetheless. Although I kept details about my dates under wraps, Sasha always knew the time I was meeting my date and the location we were meeting at, and I always texted when I returned home.

  I arrived at the restaurant several minutes early, slipping onto a padded stool at the bar. I’d selected the location because it offered me a clear view of the front door. With any luck, I’d spot him before he spotted me.

  The front door swung open then closed.

  I looked over.

  Male.

  Check.

  Without a date.

  Check.

  But unless he was in his upper sixties with patchy, balding hair, it wasn’t him. The man in question grabbed a to-go bag from a female at the front desk, paid, and left.

  A bartender appeared in front of me. I ordered a martini. Dry. Extra olives. Extra because the olives served at Le Sueur weren’t your ordinary run-of-the-mill fruit. Stuffed with blue cheese and tiny bits of meat, they were tasty, delectable explosions.

  The bartender filled my request and placed the drink in front of me. I popped an olive to my mouth and bit down, swishing it around with my tongue, savoring every juicy bite. The door opened and closed again. A young couple this time. High school age. The girl wore a long, fitted, purple lace dress, and the guy wore a simple tux. I scanned the restaurant seeing similar couples the same age dressed the same.

  High school formal dance night.

  Perfect.

  Another glance at the time. Six o’clock, right on the dot. Anytime now. I sipped the martini like a lady even though I had half a mind to guzzle it down and order another one before he showed.

  Breathe, Rae. How amazing can he possibly be? You’ve been on plenty of dates lately. This one’s no different.

  Except it was, because I actually liked everything I knew about this guy so far. As much as I could like a man I’d never met in person before.

  “Rae?”

  Shit. The door hadn’t opened or closed. I swiveled the stool to the left and glanced up, gripping the stem of the martini glass so hard I thought it would shatter.

  “Tyler,” he said, smiling. “But you already know that.”

  “I ... hi,” I stuttered.

  I, hi?

  Not exactly an A+ first impression. In a few brief seconds, I felt like everything I’d worked on with Veronica had drained from my body. My leg quivered. I pressed a hand to my thigh. It didn’t help.

  Tyler sat down, his eyes never leaving my face.

  Is he going to say something? Is he waiting for me to say something?

  The bartender reached for my martini glass, which I still clutched in a kind of unrelenting death grip. I uncoiled my fingers and handed it over.

  “Another?” the bartender said.

  I nodded.

  The b
artender turned to Tyler. “And you, sir?”

  “Water.”

  Water? No. He couldn’t possibly. Apparently I was drinking alone.

  “Sparkling or still?”

  “Sparkling.”

  Tyler sized me up and down, smiled, and didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. According to the pleased look on his face, he liked my overall look. His look, on the other hand, left me confused. In a pair of faded, ripped jeans, a slightly oversized, long-sleeved, black T-shirt, and a ball cap, I wondered if he’d rolled out of bed just in enough time to leave for our date. To me, he was underdressed, the stubble on his face indicating he hadn’t shaved for a day, maybe two. His cut jawline and sensual eyes matched the guy from the photos, but a majority of the rest of him was off. And we were at a classy restaurant, for heaven’s sake. What was he thinking?

  The waiter returned with our drinks. I tucked an unruly wisp of bang behind my ear, alerting me to how nervous I was.

  Get a grip!

  Say something!

  Something confident, not stupid!

  “Should we get a table?” I blurted. “Or would you like to sit here for a while?”

  He leaned toward me, rested a hand on my thigh. “Do you want to know what I’d really like?”

  I swallowed, harder than usual, making a barely audible gasping sound. He didn’t seem to notice. Thoughts circled my mind, all of them X-rated given his tone. Had I read him wrong? Was that was he was after? The clothes, his look tonight—it was all freaking me out. I looked him square in the eye, finding that newfound courage I’d worked so hard on. “What would you really like?”

  Hand still pressed onto my thigh, he said, “I’d like to eat somewhere else.”

  Wait ... what?

  All of this ... the sultry voice on the phone, the time spent getting to know each other before our date, wasted. Why hadn’t he just told me he wasn’t up for French cuisine when I suggested it? And why agree to meet here in the first place?

  His eyes darted around the place, from one patron to the next.

  I wanted to ask why he wanted to go elsewhere, but I didn’t. “Okay ... sure. We can eat somewhere else.”

  Disappointment flooded my mind in a single, capsizing wave, and I formed a new plan; agree to meet at a place of his choosing, get in my car, drive the opposite direction, and block his number on my phone so he couldn’t ever contact me again.

  “Why don’t you finish your drink first?” he suggested. “Take your time.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Sure. And why don’t you finish your ... uhh ... water, you idiot?

  “No rush,” he added.

  No rush? His finger was tap-dancing on the top of the counter. There was a rush. I jerked my chair toward the counter. His hand fell off my leg as I intended, but his eyes held steady. It was then I noticed something. Since we arrived, he’d kept his head slanted down, almost like he was hiding. It added yet one more element to the weirdness of the night.

  My evening bag buzzed. Sasha. I casually removed my phone, tilting the screen toward me. I read the message, even though I already knew what it said. I rapped my fingernails on the countertop, unsure of what to say.

  I messaged back: I think I’m going to ditch this guy. Text back in fifteen?

  “Everything okay?” Tyler asked.

  I snapped the phone case closed, letting it glide down my fingers, back inside my bag. “Yes. Fine.”

  The end of his shirt sleeve hiked up a few inches, revealing a very nice, very expensive watch underneath. When he caught me rubbernecking, he wiggled his wrist, jerking the sleeve back down again. This had been done using the slightest of movements, his attempt to appear nonchalant.

  It bugged me.

  He bugged me.

  I felt stupid, like I was the only one left out of a twisted joke.

  I wanted to leave.

  His jeans pocket vibrated. He lifted a phone halfway out, clicked a button on the top, then shoved the phone back down without bothering to see who’d called or texted him.

  “Everything okay with you?” I asked.

  Two could play at this game.

  Our eyes met, and I realized he must have had a Sasha too.

  He burst out laughing. “Now that we’ve gotten our friends out of the way, what do you say we continue our evening? I was thinking we could go to this excellent—”

  From across the room, I spotted a man with Guy Fieri-style hair inside a private, sectioned-off booth with not one but two women on each side. He poked his head out like a curious turkey, peering in our direction.

  “Richard, hey!” the man yelled. “Is that you?”

  Richard?

  I looked to my right just to triple check there couldn’t be any other Richard at the bar. Two women sat there, the rest of the stools were vacant, and Tyler was the only one sitting to my left. Shit. What had I gotten myself into? Surely the man at the booth was mistaken, but he obviously didn’t think so.

  The man darted out of the booth. When he was halfway to the bar, he clearly addressed Tyler saying, “Richard? It is you, man. Long time. I didn’t know you lived here now, man.”

  “Richard?” I asked, aloud.

  I considered hurling my second martini of the evening all over my date’s stupefied face.

  Fitz, a.k.a. Tyler, a.k.a. Richard, hung his head, like if he pretended Crazy Hair somehow didn’t exist, he could make him magically disappear. By the time he looked back up again, Crazy Hair had smacked him on the shoulder and was towering over him.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you,” Crazy Hair started. “Where did I see you last? Cabo? Yeah, it was Cabo! I remember now. How’s everything going?”

  My date, real name currently unknown, closed his eyes, breathed deeply. When he opened them, he said, “Adam, it’s nice to see you again.”

  Adam gestured toward me. “And who is this lovely young lady?”

  My date smiled. “This is Rae.”

  “Yes,” I said. I stuck my hand out and glared at my date. “Rae. Not Fitz, Fitzwilliam, Tyler, or Richard. Just Rae. The same name I give to everyone I meet.”

  My date, who, at this point, I didn’t know what to call short of Gigantic Asswipe, couldn’t even look at me.

  Adam’s face reddened, realizing he’d just stumbled into a very awkward situation. He gave Gigantic Asswipe a nonverbal look, like even though he didn’t know what was happening, he’d take it all back if he could.

  At this point, I’d had enough.

  I flagged the bartender down and grabbed my martini, downing every last drop. The bartender handed me a bill, which I promptly shoved inside Gigantic Asswipe’s pocket. I slid my chair back and beelined for the ladies’ room.

  Restroom door closed behind me, I braced both hands on the sides of the sink, willing myself not to cry. I looked in the mirror. Over the past several months, I’d come to love myself, flaws and all. Was it too much to ask to find just one guy to spend the rest of my life with? A man who wasn’t an egregious liar? I didn’t want to grow old, die alone, but I’d be damned if I’d settle for less than I deserved either.

  The door thrust open. I reeled my head around. Gigantic Asswipe stepped inside.

  “What are you doing?” I said. “You can’t be in here. Get out!”

  He canvassed the room. “It’s just us. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem? You’re well aware of the problem. You lied to me.”

  He nodded, shoved his hands inside his pockets, and leaned against the wall. “Can we talk? Please. Five minutes, that’s all I ask.”

  “Why would I want to talk to you now?” I said, “I don’t care what you have to say. It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving. Don’t contact me again. Ever!”

  He crossed his arms and leaned back, blocking the door and looking at me as though I’d left him no other choice.

  The nerve of him!

  “Get out of my way,” I hissed. “I mean it.”

  He reached forward, his hands gripping
my waist, forcing my body backward. I slammed against the marbled wall behind me.

  He looked in my eyes and said, “I’m sorry. Really. I mean it. I haven’t been on a date with a woman like you in a long time. I know I blew it, and I—”

  The door to the ladies’ room swung open. A gray-haired woman with a cane stepped in. She looked at me, tipping her head to the side as if trying to decide what she was witnessing.

  “What in heaven’s name?” she started. “What’s going on here? Why are you in the ladies’ room, young man?”

  He released me, folding his arms in front of him. With his head down, he said, “Ma’am, I apologize. I was just—”

  “I ... you’re ... so inappropriate. Both of you!” she squealed. “I’m getting the manager.”

  She hobbled back out. I followed close behind, speed-walking my way to the front door.

  Behind me, Gigantic Asswipe kept saying, “Rae ... wait! Hang on!”

  I reached the front door to the restaurant, elbowed my way past the handful of people waiting to be seated, and as soon as my feet hit the pavement outside, I ran. I’d made it almost all the way to my car before my arm was grabbed from behind. I turned, slapping him away. “Don’t touch me!”

  “I’m trying to apologize to you, Rae.”

  “Everything I said, on the phone, in the emails, it was real and honest. I didn’t pretend to be anyone else. Too bad you can’t say the same.”

  “I wasn’t. I swear to you. My real name is Richard. Richard Brannigan. I’m sorry, Rae. Please. Don’t leave. Talk to me.”

  He stepped toward me, and I shoved him away, flinging open my car door and sliding onto the seat. “Here’s a tip, Richard Brannigan. Next time you offer someone your name, make damn sure it is, in fact, your name. Real women tend to appreciate honesty.”

  I woke the next morning to two text messages from the man now calling himself Richard. The first asked if we could talk. The second begged me to let him explain.