End Game: A Gamer Romance by Lisa Swallow (39)

My fiancé lies on the floor, blood from his nose smearing his perfect white shirt. Dylan Morgan stands over him, fist ready to strike again and mouth twisted with anger. I haven’t seen Dylan with an expression like this since I caught him beating the hell out of a boy who broke my heart when I was sixteen.

“Dylan! What the hell did you do to Miles?” I yell as I charge over to grab Dylan’s hand. The best man, Rick, kneels besides Miles, face pale. “What happened?” I ask them.

“Uh.” Miles runs a hand through his usually carefully coiffed, and now dishevelled, hair. Not only is his white shirt smeared with his blood, but it’s untucked and partially unbuttoned. “Uh...”

Dylan growls beneath his rapid breath as Miles looks at me with desperate eyes. The small sunroom at the back of Dylan’s house isn’t where I expected to find three key members of the wedding party, half an hour before the ceremony. And I definitely didn’t expect one of my best friends to smack Miles in the face.

“Dylan?” I ask, panic growing. “What’s happening? Why did you hit him?”

Dylan and Miles have never disagreed. Not once, and that’s unusual for Dylan. Dylan’s protectiveness pisses me off because it’s usually unwarranted; I wish he had a bloody sister of his own so he didn’t need to project his brotherly needs onto me.

“Tell her!” he snarls at Miles. “Tell your bride what you did and who with.”

Miles glances at Rick, who refuses to look at any of us, and realisation crashes from the sky, pushing me heavily to the floor.

“Did he... have you...? Who? Not a bridesmaid, Miles! You fucking cliché.”

“Try the best man,” Dylan retorts.

“Don’t be stupid, Dylan!” I snap back.

But who’s the stupid one here? The last couple of months, I’ve felt pushed out by the amount of time Miles spends with Rick. Rick turned up at our apartment one day, an old friend from drama school, and they talked all night. Literally. He’s a nice guy, moved in, helped out around the apartment, and never caused any issues. Miles and Rick, the biggest bromance I’ve come across evidently stepped beyond a bromance.

Since the comedy show I had a minor recurring role in was cancelled, I’ve worked hard pursuing auditions and extras work. Miles takes my absences in his stride; he understands my determination to succeed in the crazy industry, even though he gave up trying a year ago. He now works part-time in an art gallery, doing who-knows-what because he’s not an artist. We live on the money I made the last twelve months, not big bucks, but enough.

The wedding plans steamed along, and when Dylan offered his LA place as a venue, as a wedding present, the last piece of our relationship’s puzzle clicked into place.

Wrong. Now the last puzzle piece has been jammed in, and the picture isn’t what was on the box.

I was hours away from marrying a man who doesn’t love me enough to remain faithful. I don’t give a crap about who he did this with, or why — the cheating scum part is what matters here.

“Get out,” I growl.

Miles mutely looks between Dylan and me. My skin heats with anger; he can’t even open his mouth to apologise.

“Yeah, leave or I’ll really fucking hurt you,” snarls Dylan, stepping forward.

No further prompting is needed as Miles and Rick scramble from the floor. Miles edges around Dylan and reaches out to me. “Myf...”

I stare back at the mess standing above me, at the blood streaked across his face. Dilated pupils betray his fear—of my reaction or Dylan’s fists? Both?

How is this Miles? The man I thought I’d find waiting for me in the summer sunshine, who spent months persuading me to marry him. The person who in one frozen moment reminded me why I shouldn’t believe in happily ever afters.

“Go,” I repeat in a low voice.

The pair manage to pass Dylan, and I’m relieved when the next sound is the door closing and not the crack of bone. I stare at my bright red shoes, my legs stretched in front of me as I support myself with arms behind on the floor.

I fan the 50s style wedding dress around me, smoothing the skirt. I adore the beautiful white dress, the red petticoats matching the bouquet on a table outside. My talented maid of honour and best friend, Audrey, spent hours making this, and now it’s wasted.

Audrey.

I need to find Audrey.

The Californian sun shines through the window, across the polished floor to the nearby white leather sofa. Did Dylan find the pair on there?

“Were they... I mean, when you found them?” I ask, not looking up.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I do, actually.”

“Miles was...” He trails off.

“What, Dylan? Just say it.”

“No. Shit, Myf, I’m sorry.”

Oh, crap, I’m going to puke. I hold a hand over my mouth and turn look into the startling blue eyes of the man convinced he’s defending my honour. All six feet and solid muscle of the ridiculously famous Dylan Morgan, the man pursued by the world. The one with swollen knuckles and a red face.

“Huh.” My stomach continues to twist, my head not catching up with events.

“Should’ve ripped his dick off when I saw them.”

“Please, Dylan. Don’t be stupid. I think you’re in enough trouble.”

“Ha. Miles can do what he likes and that had better include staying away from me. He can report me for assault. Whatever. I don’t give a shit.”

“I bet Sky will give a shit.”

His brow dips in concern. “She’ll understand.”

I look back to my skirts and glance at the sofa. Tears refuse to fall because this isn’t happening. Can’t be.

I pull my thick brown hair from its carefully pinned and teased updo, and the locks drop across my shoulders, still kinked from careful styling. Dylan sits beside me, and I rest my head against him as he wraps an arm across my shoulders.

“This sucks,” I say.

“Sucks? That’s an understatement.”

“What a bastard, hey?”

“How are you so calm?”

“I’m an actress, remember?”

“You don’t need to act around me.”

“I know.” But the calm layer sitting on top of the building storm of anger and heartbreak holds. Just. “Miles can tell everybody what happened. I’m not going out there to face them. I’ll find something better to do with my day.”

“Better?”

“Get very, very drunk.” I stand and smooth my skirts.

Yes. “Not here though. Not LA. Not this state. I’ll spend the rest of the day somewhere else.”

“Spend the day where?”

Escape plans run through my head. “Shush, I’m thinking.”

Dylan leans back, arms outstretched and palms on the floor. “Myf, you’re being weird. Can you cry, shout, or something?”

I’m trapped inside a strange place, watching reality happening on the outside, dizzied and desperate to run. My voice rises. “Why? I’m not wasting my energy on him. And I don’t want to stay here to be humiliated, or listen to a parade of sympathy while people whisper behind my back! I have to find Audrey and get the hell away from here, Dylan.”

Dylan stands to face me, and I tuck my shaking hands beneath my arms, terrified he might try to hug me. He can’t. I can’t break down. Not yet. Not now.

“Okay. Where do you want to go?” he says in a soft voice. “I’ll make sure you get there safely.”

An escaped tear touches my cheek, and I swipe it away. “Vegas.”

The stifling heat drops away and is replaced by air-conditioning set at an arctic temperature as I step through the hotel’s sliding glass doors. The number of guests crowded into the large foyer or standing in a cordoned-off line waiting to check in matches the numbers climbing into and out of taxis and buses outside.

“Jesus,” I mutter to Audrey as I push my sunglasses onto my head. “This is crazy.” Wheels clatter over the tiles as I drag the small, pink suitcase into a spot away from the thoroughfare.

The perspiration covering my body cools, and I shiver, but I’m relieved. Several minutes outside the hotel in the Nevada heat, pulling baggage from the chauffeured car’s trunk, was enough for the heat to suck the remaining strength from me.

“Sit here. I’ll check in.” Audrey points to nearby plushly upholstered seats, positioned below the hotel logo.

I obediently place myself next to an elderly couple, who are grumbling about the queue length, and slip down. She cups my cheek, face filled with concern at my dropping the ‘I’m okay’ pretence in the overwhelming surroundings. “How are you doing?” Audrey asks

I squeeze out a smile. “Fine. Let’s finish up here, and we can start our evening.”

Audrey crosses to the long line, and appreciative looks from guys around us follow her. Thanks to our rapid departure from the nonwedding, she’s still dressed in the elegant, red bridesmaid dress with her blonde hair now pulled back into a ponytail. A few minutes later, I huff as the queue barely moves and make the mistake of closing my eyes. With no distractions, my mind heads off along a different track.

How did I get here?

Not Vegas, that was Dylan’s private jet, but here, in Vegas, with my best friend, when I should be celebrating my wedding in LA. Fuelled and ready, Dylan’s plane was supposed to fly Miles and me somewhere secret for a honeymoon, one that’ll never happen now.

I am never almost-getting married again.

I’m not sure at what point the shock wore off and turned to anger. Not by the time I blithely told my horrified parents what happened, and definitely after the decision to grab the mic I snatched from the wedding planner to announce the situation to the waiting crowds. Mic dropped, I headed upstairs to pack a suitcase. I shoved everything into the case in a daze, and who knows what’s in here? I can’t remember. My emotional control slipped a little, somewhere in the airspace between California and Nevada, when Audrey attempted to talk to me about how I was coping.

As the numbness against the situation dropped, I replaced this with a new wall built from anger and denial. And now? I want to drink, dance, and laugh because that’s what I should’ve spent today doing.

Despite my reservations, Dylan decided to accompany me to Vegas. I’ve warned Dylan I don’t want him following me with his photographer “friends” following him. We proceeded to have an argument, Dylan informing me he needs to ensure I’m okay after today’s events. He offered to book me into the most expensive suite, in the most exclusive hotel. I insisted I could organise myself. Dylan turned on the sullen attitude to people who disagree with him, and after a few minutes of mutual silence, I compromised. I’ll meet up with him and the other guys later to prove I’m coping, if he agrees I can stay at a hotel I choose.

The other guys... Bryn and Liam jumped at the chance to join the impromptu trip, and my spirits dropped further. If the Blue Phoenix media circus hits town, I want no part. I want to “do” ordinary Vegas, to relive my first time here as a twenty-one-year-old finally allowed to drink legally in my adopted country. Like last time, I’ll walk up and down the strip with my potent, slushy cocktail in hand, amongst the eclectic parade of people doing the same. I’ll watch the card players in the casinos, maybe attempt to figure out the slots.

And get wasted.

Hell, I might even get a tattoo.

Audrey returns and taps me on the forehead with room key cards. “Let’s go.”

We head to the atrium at the edge of the reception area, where a small wooden bridge leads across an artificial stream and through an indoor tropical garden. This tiny oasis leads straight into the casino, polluted by the cigar smoke thick in the air around the slots. Behind the card tables, I spot the neon-lit sign of the first of many bars I intend to visit tonight.

The determination to dump my bags and start my evening propels me towards the elevators. The doors swish closed, and my stomach lurches as the elevator whirs upwards.

“This night’s going to be legendary,” I say.

I smile at Audrey who links her arm through mine and rests her head on my bare shoulder. “Unforgettable, right?”

I force the smile to stay on my face. “I can guarantee I’ll never forget today.”

* * *

The world becomes a kaleidoscope of colour and sound as we launch ourselves into the Vegas evening. The strange city planted in the middle of a desert suits my life right now—everything’s alien and I’m on a different planet to usual.

“Are you sure you don’t want to change?” asks Audrey.

She’s changed into a shorter dress, the plain black she favours, which she’s dressed up with expensive jewellery. I smooth my white and red dress.

I said, “I like this dress and want to wear it.”

I make a beeline for the nearest bar. The champagne I took from the wedding reception, and swigged straight from the bottle on the plane, smoothed the rough edges of the day. Now I need more to obliterate the day altogether. I order the most expensive cocktail from the menu.

“Besides, it doesn’t look like a wedding dress,” I tell her as I sip.

“Uh. It does.”

“Not as much as some I’ve seen around here.” I wave a hand dismissively. “Maybe I’ll just find a different man to marry. We’re in Vegas after all, right?”

The genuine shock smacked on Audrey’s face tickles me.

“Seriously, Aud? As if I’d do that.”

I scan the crowded casino and watch a bunch of guys walk past, laughing and pumped up for their night ahead. They greet us as they pass, unashamedly checking us out. I lift my cocktail in a toast, and it almost spills as Audrey nudges me.

“Hey, I’m not ruling out a hook-up, but marriage? Never again,” I protest.

“Be careful, Myf.” Audrey’s concern doesn’t drop as she closes a hand over mine. “You’re not in a good place.”

“I’m always careful. And I’m in an awesome place! Vegas!”

“You know that’s not what I mean. Emotionally.”

I push her wine glass closer. “Here, you need to drink more.”

* * *

More alcohol washes the day further downstream and blocks the voices in my head constantly questioning what I did wrong, why Miles did this to me.

We sit on a wall by the Bellagio fountains, watching the dancing water display in drunken awe. A nearby couple poses for wedding photos, framed by the dazzling scene, and my hurt sneaks in.

Watching happily married couples on my almost wedding day? I can’t do this.

I grab Audrey’s hand, and we run through the crowds, to the nearby plaza where a street performer plays an acoustic guitar and sings. Dressed in knee-length shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, he’s the first we’ve come across who isn’t an Elvis impersonator. As I approach, I catch the sound of a show song, one I performed three years ago in my first small part on Broadway. I stop.

Good days. My Broadway career was moving from chorus to minor solo roles when I met Miles. He lived with two guys and a girl, also in the show, and I soon joined them crammed into a small apartment in Brooklyn. Our lives intertwined, and for the first time, somebody understood my dreams and ambitions. Miles and I lived and loved every day; we worked hard and succeeded where others gave up.

After a year, Miles wanted to move to LA and try out for the network TV seasons over there. He had a friend who’d found success and wanted to do the same. I was reluctant, unsure I was ready to leave behind the career I’d built. Could I risk my new career, swapping Broadway for the uncertainty of Hollywood? Miles’s career hadn’t progressed as far as mine, and he wanted to try new directions.

The move turned out to be better for me than for Miles. That’s where the tiny cracks between us appeared, which I ignored. I managed to score small parts in shows and moved from the silent extra in the background to a speaking part with a couple of lines. Over the next eighteen months, Miles’s failure to find any role at all shoved a wedge between us.

Maybe that’s when it happened. Miles became scathing of the industry we’d tried to break into and switched career direction. He became involved in the indie artistic community, many who despised the commercialism in the world I continued to step up in. Our interests diverged, but we stayed together, with drunken assurances we were soul mates.

I loved Miles with everything I had and gave him everything I could. And somehow that wasn’t enough.

Somehow, I’m not enough.

Shaking myself out of my reverie, I join the street performer’s rendition of “All That Jazz.” He grins and we execute a perfect choreography. Impressive for a drunk actress who could trip over her own feet at any moment. The crowd gathers to watch our performance, and money lands at our feet.

I’m new to acting in front of crowds this close up; I never took part in street performance the way some of my London RADA colleagues would for fun, or for beer money. I catch eyes with a few in the crowd: kids holding drinks and large smiles, tourists taking photos with their phones.

A guy heading from the direction of the Bellagio hotel entrance towards the Strip halts beneath the covered walkway when he sees our performance. Beneath the downlights, this tall guy with tousled hair draws attention, and not just from me. Girls nearer to him lose interest in the performance and the fountains, focused on the guy instead. He’s half-shadowed, preventing me picking out all his features, but he doesn’t move, looking across at me.

Through the dark and my inebriation, I’m positive I recognise him; something in his look rings the familiarity bell. Have I come across this guy in his tailored suit at some point in my Hollywood or Broadway careers? Maybe if I’d less alcohol inside, I could focus better, but that’s not happening.

Dozens of people around watch me, but this man’s scrutiny burns my cheeks as I dance. I keep up my performance, determined to appear oblivious to his staring. Instead, I lose focus in my attempt to remember if, and how, I know him and trip. I right myself and continue the dance, the consummate professional I am.

One of the braver girls approaches the guy, and a taller man next to him steps closer. Aha. Bodyguard? Famous. Must be why I recognise him. I turn my back and return to the dance.

The surreality of tonight’s reality spins in the sky above as I tip my face upwards. The heat glows against my skin and hair fans my face, cooling. In this moment, I’m lost to the freedom as I transport myself away from the world.

Until I trip again, and this time land, unceremoniously, on my ass. The pain doesn’t register through the drunk numb, and as Audrey frowns down at me, I giggle. Billboards opposite advertise Vegas shows, and I plan a longer escape from LA. I could move here. Sing in shows again. Live away from my recent past.

I hold up my arm, and Audrey hauls me to my feet. I steady myself on her arm. “Where are we going next?”