Stolen Dreams: Vegas Dreams, #3

By Cheryl Bradshaw

From New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author Cheryl Bradshaw: 

Rae. Sasha. Callie. Kenna. Four lifelong friends. Four women looking for love. 

Stolen Dreams: Vegas Dreams #3, Callie's Story

"I'm leaving." 

A two-word declaration made by Callie's husband Josh as he stood in the doorway, duffle bag in hand, ready to make a quick escape. She didn't know why, or how long he'd been contemplating it, or even if he still loved her. The front door closed and she sagged to her knees, allowing the tears to rush forward as reality set in. He may not have loved her anymore, but she still loved him.

The Vegas Dreams series includes four novellas: 

Sweet Dreams (Rae's Story) 
Scandalous Dreams (Sasha's Story)  
Stolen Dreams (Callie's Story) 
Summer Dreams (Kenna's Story)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cheryl Bradshaw
• Release date: Aug 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781536508109

Cheryl Bradshaw

Born and raised in Southern California, Cheryl Bradshaw became interested in writing at a young age, but it was almost two decades before she put pen to paper. In 2009 Bradshaw wrote Black Diamond Death (Book One: Sloane Monroe series). Within six weeks it entered the top 100 in two different categories and remained in the top 100 for over a year. Since that time, Bradshaw has written three additional novels in the series, and is now hard at work on the fourth. In 2013, Bradshaw introduced a new pranormal thriller series: Addison Lockhart, the first book titled Grayson Manor Haunting. Bradshaw is the founder of IWU on Facebook, a writers group with over 1,800 members. In August 2012, Bradshaw was named one of Twitter's seven best authors to follow.

Book preview

VEGAS DREAMS NOVELLA SERIES BY CHERYL BRADSHAW:

Sweet Dreams — Rae’s Story (Book 1)

Shattered Dreams — Sasha’s Story (Book 2)

Stolen Dreams — Callie’s Story (Book 3)

COMING SOON:

Summer Dreams — Kenna’s Story (Book 4, September 2016)

My name is Callie Wilde and this is my story. Well ... my sob story, I guess you could call it. Don’t let the last name fool you. The only things wild about me are my inner thoughts, and those I have a habit of keeping to myself.

I’m an introvert, you see.

A silent observer.

A woman of few words.

At least, that’s how everyone sees me, and I suppose they’re right. In my humble opinion, people talk too much, prattling on and on as if they have nothing better to do than sit there and hear themselves utter every single random thought that comes to mind.

People like that bug me.

They really, really bug me.

My quest for love began with a bitter dose of verbal garbage that no committed wife ever wanted to hear: I’m leaving. And just to be clear, my husband hadn’t said it in the I’m leaving but I’ll be back kind of way, like he’d run a few errands, or return after work. No. He’d said it in the I’m leaving permanently kind of way. I interpreted his words like this: Thanks for all the shit you’ve put up with over the years, but hey, I don’t think I want to do this anymore. See ya. I’m out. Which was pretty much on the money.

At first it came as a shock; I hadn’t seen it coming. I’d always been all-in, one hundred percent committed to him from day one. In that moment though, I learned something, a valuable lesson: just because I was committed to him didn’t mean he was committed to me.

Josh had made his two-word declaration while standing in the doorway, with the open doorway. I assumed this was so he could make a quick escape and avoid some kind of spastic, gut-wrenching freak-out on my end. But there was no confrontation. No opposition. No trying to force him to do anything other than what he’d planned. Instead, I glanced at the baskets of clean, perfectly folded, perfectly stacked laundry in front of me and behaved as if he’d said nothing out of the ordinary.

I plucked another hand towel from the stack, and watched the dryer sheet detach itself from the towel, fluttering aimlessly to the ground. It was worn and wasted, nothing more than a piece of irreparable trash, just like my marriage was turning out to be. I pondered that thought while Josh stood stock still in the doorway, duffel bag in hand, apparently waiting for some sort of response.

Fine. I’ll cave. I’ll say something, but you’re not going to like it.

Okay, I said. Leave.

Tears pooled around my eyes. I batted them open and closed a few times, pushing my emotions back, doing anything I could to keep myself together. I wasn’t doing this—not in front of a man who seemed determined to throw away our marriage for a reason I was unclear of yet.

"Okay? he said. Really? That’s it? After six years together, that’s all you want to say to me?"

In my mind, the word shit repeated over and over again like a broken record stuck on repeat. The way I saw it, a single shit didn’t do the moment justice. Only a multiple shit captured what I was currently feeling in its entirety. I knew what Josh wanted because I knew him well. He was waiting for me to ask the one question he knew was on my mind:

Why are you leaving?

I refused to look up, refused to stare into his smoldering, blue eyes that once made me feel safe and whole, like I meant something, like I mattered. I resisted the urge to go to him, to run my hand through his blond, messy locks of hair, or to pull him close to me, begging him to stay.

I was no beggar.

Just go, I whispered. I don’t care what you’re doing, or why. You’ve packed. You made your decision, and you didn’t even bother talking to me about it first. So, I have nothing to say.

I choked so hard on the words when I said them, I wasn’t sure he knew what I’d just said.

"No, Callie. I’m not leaving until you look at me. If you refuse to face it right now, I at least need to know you’re