Rolling for Love Read online

  “I think we can all agree on their importance,” I chime in. I can’t stop myself from peaking at the only actual woman in our group. Sandy Yuhi is scanning her own character sheet, her nose slightly wrinkled. Silky black hair falls in wavy streams just past her shoulders and begs to be touched. Her hair matches perfectly with her pale skin and slightly oriental features. She brings the end of her pencil up to her lips and absently chews on it.

  “I’m not sure if I want to keep these stats,” she suddenly states.

  I rush to look elsewhere and not be caught checking her out. Her sky-blue gaze meets mine coldly as I ‘return’ my attention to her. “That’s fine,” I answer. “Like I said at the beginning of the session, we’ll spend a few weeks tweaking everyone’s characters.”

  “Sounds good. I’m taking my character sheet with me. If you need it, I can email you a copy,” Sandy states as she stands.

  “You don’t need to leave right away,” I say quickly. Does my voice sound desperate? I hope not. Sandy seems nerdy in all the right ways. Single, maybe? She was vocal in the game, but didn’t talk much about her personal life.

  “I don’t need to stay, either,” she states, and blinks a few times. “I don’t need to do anything.”

  “That’s true,” is all I can think to say.

  “I would be happy to stick around for some food and a beer, if you have any,” Steven offers cheerily. “Don’t mind enjoying my night off from the kids. Sorry Lynda couldn’t make it tonight, but we will make her character this week.” As Steven talks, Sandy slips to the front door. Her tall boots have several inches of chunky heel and bring her short stature up to an almost average height. I can’t stop from appreciating her slight form as she puts a long, fitted jacket over the simple blouse and jeans.

  “Nozomi is at least a C cup.” Sandy pitches her voice to carry from my front door. “If I can’t have boobs, at least my character can. See you next week.”

  Steven’s laugh follows her out as she ungracefully slams the door behind her. The walls of my house seemed to vibrate from the force of her passing.

  “Did I piss her off?” I ask the room absently.

  “That’s a bucket of crazy you don’t even want to touch,” Steven proclaims.

  “I haven’t actually met her, but she’s pretty well known in our social circles,” Zack says.

  “I think bucket of crazy is fair,” Steven reiterates.

  “Because you’re a good judge of character?” Dillon asks and then continues, “I don’t want to know. She’s a new person to me, and that’s how I want to get to know her. Not through anyone else's eyes.”

  “I forgot you were here,” Zack laughs.

  I don’t say it out loud, but I’d also forgotten. Dillon is so quiet. Even during the game, his character hadn’t said a word except when answering a direct question. How was I supposed to run a role-playing game with that to work with?

  “I get that a lot,” Dillon says. “I guess we all introduced ourselves before the session started, but I didn’t realize you had all played together before.”

  “Just me and Zack,” Steven corrects.

  “I’m new to town. I don’t know anyone,” I tell Dillon. I feel like I need to add something, Dillon seems like a sensitive guy. “Everyone’s on equal footing here.” He has a good point about meeting new people, though. I wouldn’t mind knowing more about Sandy.

  “Great,” Dillon says. His dark blue irises meet my brown ones. Dillon has a long thin face, and his blonde hair is buzzed on the sides and long on top, neatly styled. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans. A crisp, dark red button-down. I can see a leather necklace of some kind peeking out from his smooth chest. Dillon has taken the time to put details into his wardrobe.

  “I’ll grab us some beers and a soda for our baby,” I say, making sure to muss Zack’s black mop as I pass him.

  “Hey,” he complains. Probably both about the mussed hair and the soda. “I just need to call my mom and ask her if she can pick me up a little later.”

  I groan audibly.

  “Hey,” he says again. “I have my driver’s license. We only have one car.”

  Chapter Three

  Reality, Sandy’s Studio Apartment

  The little town that was trendy before it was popular and forgotten before it was remembered, Gunbarrel sits a scant mile off the Diagonal Highway stretching between Boulder and Longmont. Housing developments form a loose circle around the little community center, consisting of the bare essentials and, of course, a Starbucks.

  Sandy Yuhi

  I can hear the engine of my car rattle and whine as I park it in front of my little apartment in Gunbarrel. The complex is utterly mundane. A few trees, some green grass, and cement paths create orderly blocks between the three buildings of wood and brick. The bottom story of each building contains matching, one-roomed apartments called studios. I ignore the blinking bulb on my answering machine and flip on the single light to my little home as I enter.

  My space makes me happy. I don’t own much. I don’t want much. I do what makes me happy in the moment, and my single room apartment reflects that. A few wall scrolls and framed family pictures dot the off-white walls. Random furniture makes the room seem smaller than it is. My queen bed doubles as my desk and I use one side of it as a bedside table, its surface covered in books and technology. I set my purse and keys down on the short glass table that holds the answering machine connected to my landline. It came with my internet. I didn’t ask for it.

  I wander over to my fridge and open it. Great, moldy cheese and part of a pizza that I don’t remember ordering. Banging on my door distracts me and the offending food is once again left in the fridge.

  “I know you’re in there.” It’s the voice of my landlord, Errol. I can see his short round form through the thin white curtains that cover the glass door. His arms easily rest at his sides as he patiently waits outside the door that is the only entrance or exit. I drag my feet but open the door. Bushy eyebrows scowl down at me.

  “May I come in?” Errol asks.

  “Uh, it’s your place,” I answer.

  “No, this is your home. I have not, and will never, come in without your permission. Even if you’re renting it,” Errol responds. We have this same conversation every time he comes to my door.

  I don’t say anything. Errol reminds me that I missed my rent payment. He gives me one of those fatherly talks, the ones that fill you with guilt about your decision making while giving me an extension. I have to hold back tears, it reminds me of what I lost when Dad died. I wish he would just get mad or leave me a passive-aggressive note, like a normal landlord.

  “You are a smart kid. Well, young woman,” he continues. I try to hold back my emotions, but he must see something on my face. He pauses before adding, “I know you’re not one of my kids.”

  “I’m 25. I’m older than all of your kids,” I point out logically. Logic and numbers to the rescue! Emotions are easy to put aside in the face of facts. I love facts.

  “You are,” he responds. “But I’m not sorry for saying what I’m saying. You can’t live the rest of your life floating from job to job and having your head in the clouds.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  He bristles a little and opens his mouth a few times before shaking his head. “Just take care of yourself. I will see you in two weeks,” he finishes.

  “Thank you, I’ll have it for you,” I respond, and shake my head. I shut the door gently behind him, locking it. I briefly entertain the idea of going back out, it’s early, but spending the last five hours with new people has been tiring. Especially while pretending I didn’t know the rules to D&D as well as I do.

  People treat you differently when you have a photographic memory. It’s something most people would think is cool, or a great advantage. In reality, it’s really problematic when I also struggle to keep my mouth shut. The amount of misinformation people spread is astounding. Unintentional lies and exaggerations plague every conversat
ion. I know it’s part of being human. I know I do it too. People don’t like to be faced with their little idiosyncrasies, and it’s my curse to not realize that I’m pointing out those shortcomings until words are actually coming out of my mouth.

  When I was in school, if the teachers misread something, or didn’t do something the exact same way twice, I pointed it out. When I played games with the other kids and they tried to bend or change the rules, I pointed it out. Even at friends’ houses I would just glance at something with a note jotted down on it and it would be burned into my brain. Nothing loses friends faster than pointing out they are in fact free because their piano lesson is canceled. Because of this, I got accused of stalking more than once. I got a little better as I got older. Kids are cruel, but their lessons effective. Even as an adult, especially when I feel comfortable, my mouth still just opens. It’s not that I’m antisocial … maybe a little. But the wrong thing just seems to come out a lot. If I focus on facts and stay away from personal details, it just makes my life easier, people less upset. I come off as cold, and I’m ok with that.

  I love Dungeons and Dragons, D&D, because it lets me talk in numbers. It gives me rules in which to socialize. Well, most of the time. When someone messes with the rules too much, my little world order gets messed up and I hate that. My nitpicky stubborn side comes out and I stand up for what I think is right. I sigh and realize I’m still looking at my closed door. I force my thoughts away from my past failed D&D games.

  I know it’s only early evening, way too early for pajamas, but spending the evening in sounds perfect. I love my pjs. They are warm and soft. The long flannel pants and shirt are mostly blue with pink and purple butterflies all over them. Completely opposite the solid dark blues, greens and purples that make up my day-to-day attire.

  I leave the character sheet for now. I need to come up with some passable story. I know D&D is about role-playing, but I feel like It’s really just flavor for the battles, rolls and facts!

  Chapter Four

  Reality, Cafe Soul

  A trendy coffee shop, Cafe Soul is nestled in a long, low shopping center on the south end of Boulder. Catering to the wealthy, It’s full of rich colors, exotic coffee options, local artist originals, and comfy leather couches.

  Sandy Yuhi

  “You know you don’t need to call me only when you need a job,” Amorino says playfully.

  And I honestly wouldn’t have, but Amorino has guaranteed work and will give me a cash forward on my paycheck. My relationship with my fifth-grade crush, turned best friend, turned ex-lover, is a complicated rollercoaster, full of the best and worst moments of my life.

  The opposite to me in every way, Amorino is tall, dark and handsome. Like underwear model handsome. His Italian heritage is unmistakable. His deep brown hair is artfully styled and wide brown eyes sit in a chiseled face. One earring sparkles in the morning light off his left ear, and his sculpted neck dissolves into a black button-down shirt. Several of the top buttons are undone, hinting at the contours of tanned, hard muscle that I know lies beneath.

  “Most of the time when I call you, I end up sleeping with you and regretting it,” I say honestly, my voice both teasing and bitter. I do not consider myself to be a woman easily influenced by others but, despite our history or maybe because of it, I find myself too agreeable in his presence.

  As a kid, I often got in trouble blindly following his lead. When Dad died and things got dark for me, he was the only one that stuck with me. We tried dating in our early twenties; it had been my dream come true, until I found out he’d been sleeping with his ex the entire time. We broke up then and there, I was devastated. But like that comforting hole ridden sweater that you never seem to be able to throw away, we seemed to keep coming back together. Not dating. I have learned to guard my heart, but the sex is always worth it. In the moment at least. And maybe a small piece of my walled-up heart is hoping that the sex might lead to more.

  “I have a crew put together for the new housing development off the Diagonal,” Amorino says. Amorino started an internship in college with a local construction company, and when he completed his degree, he’d a management job waiting for him. I openly tease him that his Mafia ties got him the job. The story of his career is nothing short of a fairy tale in this century.

  He takes a sip of coffee and I automatically do the same. I cringe a little when I notice my actions. I didn’t want a sip of coffee. Imitation is human nature.

  “What do you need done?” I ask. I put the coffee on the table and move it away from me so I can’t repeat the motion until I actually want coffee.

  “Well, the crew is already formed. But a few odd jobs and …” Amorino trails off. I know what’s coming next.

  “Can’t I just be a part of your demolition crew?” I meet his eyes and beg. His wide mouth brakes into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. I can only remember a few times his smiles actually have.

  “New build, remember?” Amorino reminds me. “Although, I love seeing my short Asian friend with a sledge hammer covered in drywall as much as the next person, you’re wasted there. You really could be doing anything, you know that, right?”

  “I really just don’t know what I want to do,” I say. Amorino’s wide, warm hand close over mine. He tugs it forward and leans in.

  “You could always come work for me full time,” he purrs. He pushes some of my long hair out of my face and traces my jawline with his fingers. My traitorous insides melt and I force myself to sit back. Commitments never work out for me. The people you love die, friends leave, jobs change, and lovers betray. At least, that has been the majority of my experiences. The man in front of me no exception.

  “If I do your ‘secret secretary work’, I’m not sleeping with you,” I declare.

  “I just want you to do your thing,” Amorino’s voice is husky and he leans back. Picking up his coffee to take a sip. I start to reach for mine and pull back, I still don’t actually want any. Amorino doesn’t notice my motions and continues. “Memorize the entire project, site manage, and double-check my books. That is it. Your official title will be site manager number two.”

  My eyes go back and forth between his face and the coffee cup that he’s thoughtlessly massaging in his hand. I finally reach for my own coffee and take a quick sip before holding out my hand.

  “I can’t wait to meet the crew,” I say.

  Amorino’s warm hand covers mine but instead of shaking it he brings it to his soft lips. What am I doing?

  Chapter Five

  Reality, Exabyte Data Solutions

  In the nineties, Exabyte Data Solutions was the place to work. They had the best tools, the best minds, and the most competitive benefits. But technology moves fast, and the industry faster. Although still profitable, Exabyte today is a mix of old engineers biding their time till retirement and new engineers trying to change the world or, at least, keep this company relevant.

  Dillon Dempsy

  I jump as I hear a hand obnoxiously slap the side of my cubicle. I had been so deep in thought about Sandy and our new D&D game that I had forgotten about the world. I spin my desk chair around and glare at Blake.

  “I messaged you three times through chat,” Blake informs me. He cocks his head and arches an eyebrow as I glance at the flashing chat box.

  “It says here I missed six messages,” I state.

  “I think you’re helping my case. You have been out of it this entire week,” Blake laughed.

  Blake’s right. As one of the only other single guys in the office, Blake and I hang out pretty often. Unlike my own, Blake’s shirts are always wrinkled and pull a little at his stomach. The unkempt look is accented by his simply cut and usually messy, short sandy brown hair.

  I don’t quite have the physique of our new Dungeon Master Joe. Ok, not even close. I have a fast metabolism that keeps me thin. I dress sharp, borderline hipster as Blake calls it. I enjoy my own reflection in a mirror, a little too much if we’re being honest. I ha
ve a good-paying, stable job. Asians dig men closer to their own height. And I obviously have more brains than our meathead DM.

  “I started a new D&D game,” I say.

  Blake ducks to the side and comes back a moment later with a chair. He spins it around and sits straddling the back of it. Like one of the kids too cool for school.

  “Anyway, long story short, there is a girl in it,” I explain.

  “There is usually at least one. It’s not that uncommon,” Blake assures me, nodding.

  “I’m aware. Anyway, her name is Sandy.”

  “So, ask her out.”

  “It’s not that simple. Sandy is adorable,” I say, I stressing the word adorable. I realize I’m repeating myself, but I can’t seem to put the right words together. “She really impressed me. She knew her stuff really well and had a clear idea of what she wanted. I couldn’t tell if she didn’t realize some of the things she said were a little abrasive or not, but it takes a lot of self-esteem to just interject yourself into a group of new people like that. Cute and assertive.”

  “Crushing much? You’re blushing and rambling,” Blake points out smugly.

  “I’m not in middle school,” I respond hotly. I can feel my face heat further. “I just would like to get to know her better.”

  “Just ask her out,” Blake insists.

  “The only person who has her contact info is Joe. He’s running the game. It was pretty clear she caught his eye as well,” I finish miserably.

  “I see,” Blake says unhelpfully. There is a moment of silence. I can tell Blake is thinking, but I don’t have a lot of faith.

  “I will figure it out,” I mumble. I turn back to my computer, intent on reading my missed messages but I can’t focus.