Rolling for Love Read online

  Chapter Fourteen

  Reality, Joe’s House

  To successfully pretend to be a different person, you must act like them, think like them, and respond like them. But can you truly embody a stranger if you don’t understand yourself first?

  Sandy Yuhi

  “I loved the game this evening,” I gush. I can still feel the adrenalin from the battles in my veins. I also love Joe’s style for battle. Everyone has a time limit to decide what to do. Our battles are messy and unorganized but much faster paced than usual.

  “Are you sure we need to have time limits?” Steven asks Joe unhappily.

  “Yup, we are at least trying it,” Joe says quickly. “If everyone revolts, we can change it later.”

  “We could always do actions by rounds,” Dillon chimes in. I was happy with Joe’s answer, but I do love a good chat about mechanics and so does the table. I jot down some ideas and write down the name of a D&D vlog that Joe watches, for future viewing, as we chat.

  “Sandy?” Dillon grabs my attention and changes the subject. “I remembered from last week that you said you liked red ales. I bought a six pack from Golden City Brewery. Have you had them before?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I answer. I bite my lip. I had already gotten distracted by the conversation and stayed longer than I meant to. “I wasn’t going to stay though.”

  “Why not?” Steven asks sarcastically.

  The look I give Steven would have made anything living wither. Overbearing asshole. I don’t know how Lynda stands him. I try not to let them but his cutting little remarks and haughty attitude get under my skin. And he has made a lot of them tonight. I wasn’t trying to say D&D was more important than his kids, I was just going to point out that there were options. They could have brought them or something. I had a good point, I just hadn’t had time to finish it.

  “Well, now we really know why Lynda didn’t come tonight,” I spit instead of defending myself. When in doubt, insults are always a good defense. I stand and look at Zack. “Are you ready to go?” I ask, angrily. I had agreed to give him a ride home. I know he didn’t do anything wrong, but I’m angry and lashing out.

  “Stop.” Joe’s voice is quiet but has the bite of command behind it. “What the fuck is going on?”

  I look at Steven, who looks at Joe. Joe is eyeing me like I am causing the problem. I ball my hands into fists. I should just take off the minute games are over. Stupid conversation about mechanics drawing me in. I don’t know what I hate more: people or my constant need to try and find ones that will like me.

  “I’m out,” I say, the only thing I can think of. “I will see you next Saturday.” To my surprise, Dillon stands too.

  “I’m calling it early,” he quickly adds. He walks me to the door, his beers forgotten on the table.

  “See you next week,” Steven calls out. “Don’t worry, I will make sure Zack gets home safely. You know commitments and priorities, and all.”

  I let his word slide off me as I rush out the door. A few seconds later, I hear Dillon’s quick steps catch up to me.

  “You and Steven don’t get along.”

  “Obvious troll is obvious,” I spit. I regret my words immediately, but I can’t take them back. I’m not sure what I dislike more: Steven or the fact that I let him under my skin.

  “I don't really have anywhere to be,” Dillon says after a pause. “Do you want to go get a drink?”

  “I just said something really mean to you,” I point out.

  “You’re angry, and I did state the obvious,” he reminds me, his hand reaches up and scratches his head. The unconscious motion is very innocent. It makes my head itch. I can’t decide if I hate people right now or am desperate for the chance to make a friend.

  “I think I would like that.” I decide after a minute.

  His face breaks into a big smile. “Are you a beer person?” he asks.

  I smile at the question. Living in this microbrew-rich area you end up being a beer person whether you want to be or not. “I do like my beers,” I answer. “But to be honest, I have a passion for cream liquors.”

  “Well.” Dillon thinks for a minute. “I don’t know of any places that specialize in cream liquors, but there is an Irish bar on Pearl that must have Baileys. My treat if you drive, I’m bus-bound.”

  “You said the magic words,” I respond. “I’m broke, but when I get paid, I will get you back.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Reality, Sandy’s Studio Apartment

  Boulder’s hotspot for nightlife is the Pearl Street Mall, an open six-block radius of shops, restaurants, and live music. Although the main strip is well lit, the alleys going off the main strip can be spotty, and it’s down one of these that Boulder’s only and longest standing Irish pub lives. Conor O'Neill's. Because literally no matter where you’re in the world, there is always an Irish pub.

  Sandy Yuhi

  I cuddle deeper into my blankets and slowly stretch my legs like a cat. I want to go back to sleep. I could sleep forever. I had been dreaming about some adventure. The details are fuzzy now that I’m trying to recall them, but I had been on a quest or something. Dillon had been there, maybe? And my mom. Hopefully not my mom. I stretch my arms under the blankets and feel for my phone. It’s a fifty/fifty if I knocked it onto the floor in the middle of the night. I did this time and I have to roll onto my stomach to retrieve it.

  The screen blinks with notifications and the time reads 11:30AM. I hate being up so early on Sundays. I stay on my stomach and prop my chest comfortably up on my pillow so I’m looking down at the screen. A few games remind me to play them, Amazon reminds me to spend money I don’t have, and … I blink. Is that right? Two text messages and five emails?

  I don’t know five people willing to talk to me, much less message me on a Sunday. I look at the text messages first.

  Amorino: Site not a field, emailed with details, no work tomorrow. Be here Tuesday 7:30AM, dress is professional.

  Ok, work text with a follow-up email. Two birds with one stone. I touch the second one.

  Dillon: Should I buy it? Is $14 a good price for Baileys?

  The message includes a picture of a bottle of coffee-flavored Baileys. And the time stamp was about fifteen minutes ago. I’m surprised he found a liquor store open before noon. It wasn’t that long ago you couldn’t even buy liquor on a Sunday in Colorado.

  Sandy: $14 is about average for Baileys of that size. I didn’t think you actually liked it last night.

  I wait a few seconds for him to respond.

  Dillon: I did! I liked that other cream liquor the owner brought out better, but I can’t find it anywhere.

  Sandy: I think it was out of his personal collection.

  Dillon: I had a blast last night.

  Sandy: Me too, thank you for saving my evening.

  Dillon: 

  Dillon is just a good person. We had gotten to Conor O'Neill's about thirty minutes before their advertised live music was about to start. The inside was a maze of rooms and alcoves, and we had found one close enough to the bar, but far enough from the music that we hoped we could chat. I smile and let myself get lost in the memories of last night.

  I had spent the first thirty minutes solidly answering his questions with sarcasm and shooting back with biting remarks.

  “Why do you do that?” he finally asked me.

  “Why do I do what?” I tipped back the last of my Baileys, planning on ditching him before he could ditch me.

  “Why are you deflecting and being so mean to me?” Dillon asked.

  I had never been flat out asked why I was being so mean to someone before, and a little guilt flared in my stomach. I wasn’t trying to be mean. Mean is what people usually are to me.

  “You’re not acting like I’m being mean to you,” I stated instead of dealing with my inner turmoil.

  “That’s a deflection if I have ever heard one,” Dillon answered. He opened his mouth to say something and closed it. Then he finis
hed his Baileys and stood. “Don’t go anywhere.” A few minutes later he came back to the table with two more of the same.

  “I ordered us food as well,” Dillon said and took another sip of his drink. “When I was sixteen, my extended family was visiting,” he started. “And one night the doorbell rings and my uncle tells me to get it. I do. And this lovely woman is at the door. I hear my uncle’s voice shout out to let her in. I do. I lead her to the living room, where most of the extended family is watching a movie together. My uncle asks why I’m bringing her in here. He’d ordered her for me, because I was never going to get laid with how bad I am with women.”

  Dillon laughed, but the laugh was a little strained. “I didn’t know my dad could move so fast. The woman was escorted out of the house and I was mortified. And my uncle couldn’t stop laughing.”

  I reached out and squeezed his hand.

  “My uncle meant well,” Dillon continued. “But the whole thing just made my fear and emotional walls go up higher. Everyone now knew, if they didn’t before, that I had trouble talking to girls. I tend to overanalyze everything. My parents are both psychologists and I had been dreading this coming up. Anyway, the point is that those walls were a bad thing built from fear. Sandy, I think you have built your walls up so high that you push people away before they have a chance to push you away. And I’m not people.”

  As if on cue, the live musicians started fiddling with their instruments and the atmosphere of the pub morphed and took on a life of its own. Voices rose in volume and the bar was suddenly packed with people ordering a final drink before the music started. I was very grateful for our booth tucked away in a corner.

  “Tonight, I’m going to talk to you until your ears fall off,” Dillon announced. “And if you feel like talking back with something to say that isn’t defensive, deflective, or detrimental to my sensitive self-worth, you can join me.”

  I just sat there, probably with a dumb look on my face, unsure how to respond. No one really told me personal stories about themselves. Or even took the time to ask me why I said the things I said. An odd assortment of Irish dishes arrived, saving me from putting my foot in my mouth.

  “I didn’t ask what you can and can’t eat, so I just ordered a range of traditional dishes,” Dillon explained. “And I don’t actually talk as much as I just told you I did, so I’m going to read to menu out loud to you now.”

  Remembering, I laugh again, lying in my bed. He’d started reading the menu out loud, half of it being drowned out by the fiddle and guitar that played the opening number. We tried a little bit of all the food he’d ordered and our third round of drinks was a cream liquor neither of us had had before. We parted not too late or too drunk and exchanged numbers and emails. I might have made a friend.

  I open my email account next. Two emails from Amorino, one a forward with details of our meeting Tuesday morning, and one from him elaborating on his text message. Another email from Dillon with Strider’s back story. We had not been asked to exchange those yet, so I don’t open it. And two emails from Joe that I hesitate to click on. One titled “Edition Details” and the other “Your D&D Stuff”. What if he was kicking me out of his game? I had burned a lot of my bridges. I love having a game to play in, but I’m running out of people willing to play with me. Damn, talking about D&D makes me sound like I’m a five-year-old kid. The one titled “Edition Details” looks safe enough and I decide to start there.

  I click on it and quickly read through Joe’s very home-brewy mechanics. He doesn’t know that I pretty much have every rule of every edition of D&Dstored in my brain. He’s trying to steer us into diving deep into what makes our characters who they are. Blech, I hate that, but the combat had been amazing last night. I miss D&D so-o much. Would Dillon talk with me about Joe’s email? We chatted about past D&D games a lot last night. I decide to risk it.

  Sandy: Did you get Joe’s email about “Edition Details”?

  I wait a few seconds and, when he doesn’t get back to me right away, I open the second email from Joe. It’s short and simple.

  Hi Sandy,

  You left your D&D stuff at my house. I’m not sure exactly what happened at the end there, but I didn’t get a chance to talk about edition details I wanted to with the group. I have sent an email to everyone explaining some of my reasoning in using mostly 3.5E with splashes of 5E. I’m happy to hold onto your stuff until Saturday, or we can get together for dinner this week and I can give it back to you. After you left, Steven mentioned that you enjoy the math and rules in D&D, and I would like to get your opinion.

  Your confused Dungeon Master, Joe

  I’m elated that he’d not only not kicked me out of the game but asked my opinion. Still high from my positive interaction with Dillon, I email Joe back right away with my availability for dinner. I can’t imagine Steven saying anything nice about me, but maybe I needed to thank him for whatever he said. Talking numbers and systems is definitely my thing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Reality, Bela Casa Construction Main Office

  Westminster is one of the many extended suburbs of Denver. Bela Casa’s head office is located on the top floor of a fifteen-story building right in the middle of a busy shopping district, surrounded by suburbia.

  Sandy Yuhi

  I’m wearing a jewel-blue button-down, a black pencil skirt, flesh-colored hosiery and a pair of black professional heels. My long black hair is up in a messy bun on the top of my head and I even threw some color on my lips and eyes. Hopefully I don’t look like a raccoon, as I had to do it all at 6:00AM.

  “Why does anyone want to get up so early?” I didn’t realize I had spoken my thoughts out loud until Amorino answers me.

  “So that they can look like sin on an elevator,” Amorino growls. His hand sneaks back and pinches my behind. I’m grateful we’re alone as I squeak and blush up at him. “You do clean up very well.”

  “Thank you, I think,” I mumble as the doors opens. We walk towards a large office at the end of the hall.

  “Thank you for driving down,” a stern but weathered voice says as Mr. Espositto’s secretary closes the office door behind us. Amorino’s boss is a tall man who looks to be in his late fifties. A beer belly hides behind his spotless black suit, and he sits behind a large masculine desk of mahogany.

  “I’m at your service, sir,” Amorino responds. “I’m just sorry the project is behind.” “Don’t be,” Mr. Esposito says cheerily. “None of this is on you, this time. And on top of that, it’s not every day I get what I’m about to show you hand-delivered to my office. Who’s with you?”

  “This is Sandy Yuhi.” Amorino takes a moment to introduce me. “I have contracted her a few times for site inspections; she has an eye for details and a memory like a steel trap.”

  “That is what we need today,” Mr. Esposito declares. He pulls out what looks like a cardboard poster roll and pops open the top. “A hand?”

  Amorino quickly moves to help him remove a set of very old blue paper.

  “Are these blueprints actually blue?” I can’t stop myself from asking as we unroll them and weigh down the corners.

  “All blueprints were blue,” Amorino responds. “It was the way they made the paper. We just have digitized it now.”

  “But not this.” Mr. Esposito draws our attention back to the papers. They are of a building of some sort, but the name has been crossed out in black. Actually, now that I’m looking at it, many things have been crossed out in black. It looks like the secret government classified files you see in docudramas.

  “There was a secret military base on your build site in the sixties,” Mr. Esposito explains. “They had two buildings and these are their blueprints. They have since been demolished, but based on your report, Amorino, they left quite a bit in the ground.”

  I stay to the side as Amorino and Mr. Esposito look through the pages, occasionally pointing out things to each other and making sounds of interest.

  “There are fourteen pages, ten
for one building and four for the other. How long would it take your girl here to memorize these?” Mr. Esposito asks Amorino. I’m standing right here, he could just ask me.

  “About an hour,” Amorino answers. “Maybe a little over.”

  There’s no way it would take me an hour to memorize fourteen pages. My brain basically takes pictures of them and stores it for me to look at any time I want to. Fifteen minutes tops.

  “I will lock the door behind me and tell Sofia that you’re not to be disturbed until you come out,” Mr. Esposito says firmly. “These blueprints are not to leave my office and they are on release to me only until we finish the groundwork. Sofia has new contracts for you to sign on your way out.”

  “Understood, we won’t let you down,” Amorino states.

  Mr. Esposito makes his way out of his office. The door softly clicks as the lock turns over. I walk over to the desk; my eyes scan the first page. I don’t sit. I can see it in full better leaning over the giant thick wood desk. When I’m satisfied that I have it memorized, I gently move the corner weights to the side and flip to the next one. I’m ten pages in when hands on my hips make me jump with surprise.

  “I haven’t watched you do this before.” Amorino’s hands rub my hips and then my butt. He moves a hand to my lower back and bends me back over. “Don’t stop on my account.” His hands rub and caress my backside. I can feel heat start to tingle between my legs.

  “You are distracting me,” I growl. I straighten just enough to move the weights off the corners and take the top page off. I can feel Amorino’s grin as his hand pushes on my lower back again. I use my arms against the edge of the desk to keep him from pushing me too low that I can’t do my job. One of his hands wanders across to the front and begins to pull my tucked-in shirt out of my pencil skirt.