Dating Games Read online

  Dating Games

  T.K. Leigh

  DATING GAMES

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes. If you are reading this book and you have not purchased it or won it in an author/publisher contest, this book has been pirated. Please delete and support the author by purchasing the ebook from one of its many distributors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not sponsored, associated, or endorsed by the trademark owner.

  Published by Carpe Per Diem, Inc. / Tracy Kellam, 25852 McBean Parkway # 806, Santa Clarita, CA 91355

  Edited by: Kim Young, Kim’s Editing Services

  Cover Image Elements:

  NinaMalyna Copyright 2019

  Just2Shutter Copyright 2019

  PavelShynkarou Copyright 2019

  Used under license from Shutterstock.com

  Copyright © 2019 T. K. Leigh / Tracy Kellam

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Playlist

  Writing Mr. Right Excerpt

  Inferno Excerpt

  Acknowledgments

  Also by T.K. Leigh

  About the Author

  To all the survivors…

  Chapter One

  I’ve always had an affinity for the number three.

  Third time’s a charm.

  Past, present, future.

  Beginning, middle, end.

  Three is considered the perfect number, and not just by me. Many religions view it as a sacred number, a holy number. Even Plato recognized the idealism in it, dividing his Utopian city into three populations — Laborers, Guardians, and Philosophers.

  Three is also the “magic” number in fairy tales. A hero or heroine is often given three choices, or they overcome the obstacle on the third try. Think back to the beloved tale of Cinderella. When the prince searches for his perfect match, with the aid of a glass slipper, Cinderella’s is the third foot he tries after unsuccessfully attempting to shove it onto her darling step-sisters’ feet. There’s a tension inherently built into this number that has always spoken to me on an ethereal level. Throughout my life, everything always happened in threes, perhaps due to my own insistence.

  I graduated third in my high school class. Granted, there were only a whopping ten people in my graduating class, but that made it even more significant, considering I was in the top 33.33%. I kept my circle of best friends small, only three of us. And up until now, I’ve only had sex with three people.

  The first was my neighbor, Brent. There was no romantic attraction. I was almost eighteen and thought it best to have a practice round so I’d be fully prepared when it counted. Plus, we both felt like we were the last two virgins our age in all of Nebraska. Years later, I found out Brent was gay. I hope it wasn’t his experience with me that made him realize this.

  My second sexual encounter was with Christian Murphy. He was the one I wanted to practice for. (Thank you, Brent.) Handsome. Popular. Smart, without having to try. I thought he was the man I would spend the rest of my life with, which concerned me, because he was only my second.

  But when Trevor Channing walked into my History 101 class freshman year of college, it was suddenly goodbye, Christian, and hello, Trevor!

  You know those scenes in movies where the heroine locks eyes with the leading man the first time and an explosion of orchestral music fills the background? That’s what happened with Trevor. Without saying a word, I knew he’d forever be my number three. My perfect match.

  Which is why it feels like all the wind has been sucked from my lungs as I stare at him incredulously. I must not have heard him correctly. There’s no way those words came out of his mouth, not when we’re celebrating my thirtieth birthday at the sushi place where we shared our third meal after moving to New York.

  All day, I’d been confident this was the night he would pop the question. After all, we’ve been together over ten years. Not to mention the fact I often said I wanted to wait until I was thirty before I got married. Surely, Trevor would have taken the hint that this meant he should propose on a birthday of such significance. Every sign pointed to me screeching “yes” after he got down on one knee in front of a restaurant full of strangers and poured his heart out. Hell, in my fantasy, he even shed a few tears because of how overwhelmed he was.

  As is typically the case, my fantasy was so far from reality.

  Perhaps Chloe brought the wrong batch of brownies to the office and this is the result of having mistakenly consumed one of her “special treats”, as she refers to them. Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep from pulling an all-nighter to rewrite my article for the magazine. Perhaps it’s due to the shot of Jameson I threw back to settle my nerves before heading here. But as I stare into Trevor’s deep-set hazel eyes, his expression filled with pity and something else I can’t quite put my finger on, I know none of those circumstances are true.

  The truth is my boyfriend just broke up with me.

  The man I moved my world for so I’d be near him during law school.

  The man I supported by working two jobs while he studied for the bar exam.

  The man I imagined for myself when all other girls were dreaming of marrying that year’s boy band lead singer.

  “Evie?” He cuts into my thoughts, snapping me back to the present. I used to enjoy listening to him talk. Now it oozes with betrayal. “Please, say something.”

  I place my hands on the small wooden table, bracing myself as I draw in a deep breath. “Are you seriously breaking up with me?” My voice rises in pitch, unable to reel in my disbelief at this turn of events. My jaw tenses as I peer at him with an unfocused gaze. I’m convinced I’m in some alternate universe, like when Alice daydreamed about a world of pure nonsense, then ended up in Wonderland where everything wasn’t as it seemed. That’s got to be what’s going on here, too. Any minute, the White Rabbit will come scurrying in front of me. Right? Right?

  Trevor leans closer, hushing me, not wanting to make a sce
ne. He’s always been this way. He’s not boring, per se, but he can be quite…serious, perpetually worried about even the most subtle hint of impropriety. After all, he is a lawyer. His maturity was one of the many things I found attractive about him.

  Until Trevor, I was convinced the entire male species was the same. That they only cared about when the next Call of Duty would be released, despite my naïve hope they’d eventually outgrow that kind of thing when they sprouted hair on their balls. It was a rude awakening when I went away to college and walked through the hallways of my dorm to see my male counterparts huddled in front of a screen, their fingers glued to game controllers in a way that solidified my suspicion they’d probably never touched a clitoris with such excitement. Hell, they probably couldn’t even find a clitoris. At least I’d never let them near mine.

  Then I met Trevor.

  Handsome.

  Intelligent.

  Mature.

  I thought this was it. He was it. The person I was meant to be with. My Bogart, my Grant, my Gable.

  “Please, Evie,” he implores. My stare only becomes more harsh as I recall everything I’ve done for him, everything I’ve sacrificed for him...just so he can walk away after twelve years. “You have to understand how difficult this is for me.”

  “For you?” I blink repeatedly. “You think this is only difficult for...you?”

  He glances over his shoulder, anxious about anyone overhearing. If he wanted to avoid a scene, he should have considered that before breaking up with me in public. The restaurant isn’t too busy yet, considering it’s only a little after five. I’d originally thought it odd he asked me to meet him for dinner so early, but I figured he wanted to devote as much time as he could to celebrate my birthday.

  Apparently, he forgot about that, too.

  “I gave you over a decade of my life, Trevor. I did everything to support you, to make you happy, to make this relationship work. I sacrificed my own dreams so you could pursue yours. I worked two jobs while you went to law school so you wouldn’t have to worry about working and could focus on your studies. I’ve done everything for you. Every decision I’ve made over the past twelve years has been for you, for us.”

  “But that’s the thing...” He blows out a breath, running a hand through his dark hair. “We started dating when we were eighteen, too young to experience life.”

  “We’ve experienced life. Together.” I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. The familiar warmth of his smooth skin comforts me. But it’s fleeting. Too soon, he pulls his hand away. The corner of his mouth twitches, a nervous tick I’ve grown accustomed to over the years.

  “We’re not the same people anymore.”

  “People change all the time. It’s part of being in a relationship. We all grow, regardless of how long we’re together. The important thing is that you love the person you’re with. I loved you back then. I still love you now. And I know you love me. That’s why this is so hard for you. Because you know you’re making a mistake.”

  He shakes his head, slowly, deliberately. “I’m not, Evie. We’ve grown apart. We no longer want the same things.”

  “All I want is you,” I say, grasping at straws.

  Standing, he re-secures the button on his suit jacket. Then he retrieves his wallet, throwing several bills onto the table to cover the tab. At least he didn’t break up with me and expect me to pick up the check.

  “But I no longer want you. I need to think about my future. I work for one of the top firms in the state, if not the country. If I want to be taken seriously for partner, I need to consider the type of woman they’d want me to be with.”

  His words are like a knife to the heart, yet he manages to hold his head high, acting as if he hadn’t inferred he was choosing his job over me.

  “And you don’t think they’ll take you seriously dating me.” The truth leaves a sour taste in my mouth, one even the aroma of ginger in the air can’t alleviate.

  “Can you blame me, Evie? This is a very conservative firm with a client list that includes direct descendants of the Vanderbilt’s, Rockefeller’s, and Kennedy’s…to name a few.” He lowers his head, avoiding my gaze. “Didn’t you ever wonder why I never asked you to come to any of the firm’s events?” He glances up, chewing on his lower lip. “I can’t exactly tell them what you do for a living, not when it entails doling out ridiculous dating advice or recommending vibrators.”

  I blanch, my mouth growing slack, my eyes wide. “You always knew I wanted to be a writer. I was an English major when we met. The fact I’m doing what I set out to do shouldn’t come as a huge shock to you, Trevor.”

  “It’s not. It’s what you’re writing. You were one of the few girls I’d met who seemed to know precisely what she wanted and had a plan to achieve it. I knew you wanted to work in the magazine industry. I thought you’d want to do more than pen fluff pieces about how a woman could tell if a guy’s really into her. Maybe your parents are right. Maybe you’d be better off if you got your teaching certificate. Then you’d have a more respectable profession.”

  He holds my gaze for a moment longer, then steps back. “You can stay in the apartment until you find a place of your own. I’ll be working long hours over the next month anyway. I’ll sleep on the couch for the time being. You’ll barely notice I’m even there.”

  “You’re kicking me out?” I practically screech.

  “Don’t say it like that. Technically, it is my place. I pay the mortgage. My name’s on the title. But there’s no rush. We can be roommates until you’re able to find your own place.”

  “Roommates?” I ask, still unable to wrap my head around this.

  “I don’t want this to ruin our friendship. We started out as friends. I hope that doesn’t change.”

  I shake my head, at a complete loss for words. How can we be friends after this? I’m pretty sure we crossed that line, oh, about eleven years ago when he told me he couldn’t imagine his life without me. I still can’t imagine my life without him. Why did he suddenly change his mind?

  “I’ve got to get back to the office,” he says after stealing a glimpse at his watch. “I’ll see you...” He stops short of saying anything more than that. Then he turns from me, everything about his stride confident, as if he didn’t just end a twelve-year relationship.

  Chapter Two

  Heart pounding and fists clenching, I burst through the doors of a bar a few blocks from Columbus Circle, finding Chloe and Nora sitting at the bar, a martini in front of each of them. They’re about to take a sip when I plop into the empty chair to Chloe’s left.

  “I need tequila.” I wave down the bartender, Aiden, ignoring the inquisitive stares coming from the two women who’ve become my best friends since I uprooted my life and moved to New York for Trevor. And for what? For him to break up with me because I may not be as stuffy as the other wives and girlfriends of the people he works with?

  “The usual?” Aiden’s brows furrow as he assesses my appearance. There’s a benefit to being a regular at your weekly happy hour watering hole. However, right now, that benefit allows Aiden to realize something’s off. I’m not sure how to explain the events of the past hour. It still seems surreal, like I’ll wake up and all of this will be a nightmare.

  “Yes. And a shot of tequila.”

  He eyes me skeptically at first, then fills my order, placing my manhattan in front of me, followed by the shot glass filled with a clear liquid. Thankfully, he remembers I like the silver stuff best.

  Without offering a single word of explanation, I grab the shot and raise it, meeting Chloe’s and Nora’s confused expressions. They should be confused. I’m supposed to be out celebrating my engagement to my fiancé, possibly drinking ridiculously expensive Champagne in a suite at the Ritz he booked for the occasion. Instead, I’m sitting at the bar I go to every Thursday night, trying to reconcile the drastic turn my life’s taken.

  “Here’s to wasting nearly twelve years on a man who no longer wants to b
e with me because I’m not serious enough.” Rolling my eyes, I down the liquid, grimacing as it burns my throat. I bang the glass back onto the bar, asking Aiden for another shot. The only thing that will make tonight better in comparison is waking up tomorrow with a hangover that will leave me cursing the gods who invented alcohol.

  “He broke up with you?” Chloe asks, aghast, her nose scrunched up in repulsion. She always insisted I was too good for him, that I deserved someone who would pay me more attention. I argued that Trevor paid attention to me, but he was incredibly career driven, as am I. Apparently not enough to satisfy his high standards, though.

  “Happy fucking birthday to me!” I lift my next shot, throwing it back, this one burning a little less.

  “Why?” Nora inquires.

  I face my two friends, offering them a tight smile as I smooth my frazzled red hair.

  They’re both relatively composed compared to me. Chloe’s medium-length, gray and lilac ombre-colored locks still hold the perfect beach wave, her makeup freshly applied. There isn’t a single wrinkle on her black pencil skirt or silk blouse, despite having worn it all day at work. And Nora… Well, I’m convinced she was born in the wrong decade. Her perfectly coifed shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair and doe-eyed expression make her look like a housewife from the 1950s.