Dream Love

“Have you ever opened your door to find a this absolutely gorgeous, hunky, specimen of a man standing on the other side? I’ve dreamt just that, repeatedly, to the point that I’m frustrated with myself for not having a depth of imagination to move beyond this dream guy -pun intended- and into something more substantial. I mean, all he does is stand there with a sexy smirk on his face. Night after night, I see myself in this cozy little log cabin. There’s an enormous fieldstone fireplace dominating the room. The warmth from its roaring fire permeates every crack and crevice of the small, but spacious room. Either there’s no electricity, or it’s gone out for some reason because I’m sitting curled up in an overstuffed, tweed covered club chair, reading a book by lantern light. I can’t see the title of the book, but, by the look of the cover, I’d guess it’s a romance novel.

“I feel pretty content and peaceful. Then, it happens. There’s a loud knock on the door. I quietly put my book down and unfold myself out of the chair to go answer the door. When I open the door, he’s standing there just as bold as you please. He’s tall, dark, handsome and super hunky. There’s a smirk on his face and firelight in his eyes. Then, I wake up.”

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair while watching Dr. Mokena write in a notebook. After a long, uncomfortable silence, in which the good doctor never once looked my way, I cleared my throat in an exaggerated manner.

“How long have you had this reoccurring dream?” the slender, middle aged doctor asked with a patient smile.

I studied the platinum blonde opposite me for a considerable length of time before answering. Noting, for the first time, how the woman’s brown eyes reflected a similar light to the man in my dreams, I wondered if that’s where I got the inspiration to add that trait to him.

“They started shortly after I started seeing you,” I replied.

“Why, that was months ago,” the doctor said with surprise.

“It feels like forever,” I moaned. “In the beginning, I found them exciting. Now, I just wish I could move further with them, or dream of something else. It’s like ‘Groundhog Day’ nightly.”

The good doctor surprised me with, “Are you currently dating?”

“Are you insinuating that I’m fantasizing about this hunk because I lack a boyfriend?” I asked, indignantly.

“The mind is a complex thing. I’m simply looking for a direction in which to search for the reason behind your dreams,” she explained. “I don’t understand why you waited so long to mention them.”

“I was sent here by my company for their mandatory therapy to help deal with work related issues,” I said as I did my best to control my irritation. “It’s a routine thing we all have to go through periodically. My dreams don’t pertain to work.”

“Being a software designer for a gaming company the size of Playtronics can be stressful,” she mused.

“Hence the mandatory visits to the shrink every so often,” I blurted.

“As well as the invasion of your sleep with dreams that could very well be your mind trying to tell you about a new game,” she added.

“I don’t deal with erotic software,” I complained.

“Does a hunky man equate to erotic?” she asked with raised brow. Feeling embarrassingly self-conscious, I lowered my gaze and shook my head. “I believe there is something far deeper going on than just you dreaming about a man you may or may not desire. I’d like to explore this further.”

“My sessions are up,” I protested.

“I’d like to continue them,” she added.

“Is this a mandatory thing?” I asked while raising my own brow in a manner similar to the way she’d just raised hers.

“You know it isn’t,” she said with exasperation.

“I’ll think about it,” I said as I stood to make my leave.

“This may be your last session, but your time isn’t up yet,” she said, commandingly. “Sit.”

I looked at my watch and scowled as I plopped my backside back down onto the chair while looking at the clock on the wall, “Three minutes. Are you serious?”

“A lot can be said in three minutes,” she said, briskly.

“Such as?” I asked.

She looked at her wristwatch and wrote something in her notebook while speaking without looking up at me, “I’d like you to attend a weekend retreat the week after next.”

“If I don’t?” I asked boldly as I stood back up.

“Let’s not find out, okay?” she said gently.

After locking eyes with my stubborn therapist, I slumped my shoulders and muttered, “E-mail the directions to me.”

“I’ll do one better,” she said with a broad smile. “I’ll pick you up and drive you there myself.”

With a rapid shake of my head, I did my best to verbally dissuade the good doctor from doing me the service of taxying me to her retreat, but to no avail. By the time I left her office, my heart was heavy with apprehension. I assumed it was because I disliked baring my belly to anyone in the way that she insisted I do with her, but a deep nagging in the pit of my stomach suggested that it just might be something more than that. Fitful nights occupied by the same dream and stressful work deadlines left me feeling incapable of resisting her insistence to attend her weekend retreat. Who knows… a retreat just might be the ticket to cure my insomnia and shattered nerves.

As I stepped out of the four-story brick building that housed the office of Dr. Sally Mokena, MD/Psychiatrist. I was greeted by my overly anxious friend, Chris.

“Damn girl,” Chris said as she matched her step with mine while walking as far from that place as possible, “what did she do, make you run the gamut? I’ve been out here for ages.”

“I couldn’t get her to relinquish one precious minute of her time,” I said. “I need a drink.”

“Roger’s waiting for us back at the office,” Chris said quietly.

“I need a drink,” I said again.

She must have picked up on the sense of urgency I felt because she nodded and then stepped onto the curb to hail a cab.

“Mickey’s sound good?” she asked.

“Perfect,” I replied.

Mickey’s Pub was a small Irish bar that was only a ten-minute cab ride from work and fairly centrally located between my home and my circle of friends. We met there so often, it could easily be labeled our hangout. As we entered the dusky interior, my nostrils flared with the familiar scent of booze, polished wood, cleaning solution, and body odor.

“Gertrude Hitchcock, as I live and breathe,” came a deep voice from the shadows. “After all these years, can my eyes be deceiving me?”

I turned to look into a pair of deep-set eyes that I never expected to have to look into again. Their rich blue-black hue accentuated the natural evilness that plagued me all through school. The oversized nose on the square face that was scarred by adolescent acne rested at an angle as a result of being broken by the wide board that I’d swung with that very intention when I was in junior high.

“No one calls me Gertrude anymore, Jackal,” I said, emphasizing the immature nick name that I’d given Jack Adams long ago.

“Who’s this, Gertie?” Chris asked.

“Gertie?” he said with disdain.

“He’s an old pain in the ass come back to haunt me,” I grumbled as I made my way to the bar.

“I came to see if you’re going to attend the funeral,” Jack said as he kept pace at my heels like a mad dog. “You weren’t at the wake. Does that mean that you won’t be at the funeral?”

My body tensed as I listened to his taunting tone. The last thing I wanted was for evil Jack Adams to know that I had no idea who died that we’d both know.

“Who died?” Chris asked. She was clearly still trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Why not ask her?” Jack snarled.

“Jim Beam on the rocks,” I said to the bartender that I’d never seen before. “Make it four fingers.”

With a raise of a brow and a broad smile, the unfamiliar bartender went to work.

“Gertie?” Chris said questioningly.

The last thing I needed was to be taunted by my high school nemesis. My nerves were incapable of dealing with the stress. I placed elbows on the bar and buried my face in my hands.

“Feigning remorse?” Jack sneered.

“Bart,” I said as I groaned into my hands.

Jack’s comment about my feigning remorse over the death of someone we both knew was the only clue I needed to realize the deceased was my ex-fiancé, Bart Matthews.

“Your ex-fiancé, Bart?” Chris gasped.

“I can’t believe you couldn’t muster up enough decency to pay your respects,” Jack said.

“Leave us,” I snapped as I whirled around to give the full effect of my glower, “or I’ll rip that ugly nose right off your face instead of simply breaking it.”

“Still a bitch,” he said as he crept back into the shadows.

“Don’t forget it,” I said threateningly.

“Who the hell is that and is Bart really dead?” Chris whispered as she took a sip of my whiskey.

I motioned for the bartender to prepare the identical drink for my friend while I proceeded to explain my painful history with both Bart Matthews and Jack Adams.

I was never a popular girl while growing up in a small town in Upstate New York. My body was too skinny, my hair too curly, my teeth were too crooked, and my brain was too smart. A change in my diet, exercise, a good beautician, and an outrageously expensive orthodontist took care of the cosmetic tragedies. Surrounding myself with geeks who equaled, if not bested me, took care of the braininess.

Jack was the school bully who plagued me throughout school simply because he could. Bart was his friend -although, at the time, I couldn’t understand why- who took pity on me when I was fifteen and stood up to Jack when he took my school books and tried to toss them down the sewer manhole. Back then, it took very little kindness to win me over. Needless to say, after that one heroic act from Bart, I was head over heels in love.

Of course, it wasn’t reciprocated.

It wasn’t until I’d gone through my transformation from ugly duckling to swan and was home during my last year of college for the holidays and bumped into him at a party before Bart paid me much notice. By then, I was no stranger to relationships, but the memories and gratitude of his simple act of kindness lured me in. It got serious fairly quickly. By summer, we were engaged.

We moved in with each other after I graduated. That was the beginning of our end. The shine quickly wore off the penny. I soon discovered a side of Bart that he’d kept hidden from me. He wasn’t as evil as his best buddy, Jack, but he could still be cruel. He justified his behavior by pointing out that his abusiveness was directed toward animals instead of people. When I told Bart that I couldn’t marry such a sadist, he fabricated a story about me preferring girls over men and he just wasn’t into such things. His family and friends -which was most of the town- believed him and cursed me for leading him on. It was a mess.

With the town being as small as it was, and with Bart’s family having such a strong foothold in said town, I decided to not only move out of the apartment I shared with Bart, but I moved right out of town. The home of a college friend in the Queens borough of New York City was only a train ride away. So, I headed there. I picked up a job in a game store, took an occasional train back to visit my parents on my days off, and saved as much money as I could to help fund a small, cozy apartment to move into.

Little by little, I gained my footing in the big city. After what seemed like a thousand interviews, I landed a job at Playtronics. Eventually, with the help of my skills, work ethics, and credentials, I climbed the corporate ladder until I’d reached the very prestigious and stressful position of software designer. That was three years ago.

So much of my life changed in those three short years that I rarely, if ever, looked back at those pre-Playtronics days. On the rare occasions when the memories surfaced, I quickly kicked them out. That, and the fact that I hadn’t been in contact with my parents in a while, was why I had no clue that Bart was killed in an automobile accident a few days earlier.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Chris said after downing her second four fingers of Jim Beam, “but doesn’t it seem a bit odd to run into this character who lives wherever and came all this way, after a viewing of your dead ex-fiancé’s corpse at a funeral home an easy eighty miles away, to Mickey’s Pub so he can torture you about not attending the funeral?”

I was so absorbed in walking down memory lane with Chris that it completely went over my head, but she was right. Being hunted down by evil Jack Adams in an Irish pub in the middle of Queens like this was creepy.

“So, you caught me,” Jack smirked as he stepped back out of the shadows.

By now, I’d had enough to drink that I could officially call myself drunk. I did my best to focus on him, but, in truth, he was little more than a blur.

“I don’t want to catch you,” I slurred. “I just want you to go away.”

“I know you don’t believe this, but Bart did love you. I’m sure that he’d want you to attend his funeral,” Jack said quietly. “That’s all I came to say.” As he started to walk away he stopped and added, “Think long and hard. Once he’s buried you can’t take back your actions. Could you really live with yourself knowing that you didn’t attend his funeral?”

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“I’m a bounty hunter,” he replied. “Finding people is what I do.”

“That figures,” I giggled as I leaned into Chris and signaled the bartender for two more drinks.

“You might want to think about slowing down,” Jack warned.

“Go away, you evil beast,” I hissed.

“Yeah, go away,” Chris chimed.

“I think that I should stick around to make sure you get home okay,” he said firmly.

“Since when did you become chivalrous?” I said with surprise.

“I’ve never seen you like this, that’s all,” Jack replied.

“You don’t know me, evil one,” I hissed. “be gone with you!” I waved my hand as if to shoo him away.

“Let me call you a cab,” he insisted.

“Listen, buddy,” Chris snarled. “Take the hint and get lost.”

“May I be of assistance?” asked a tall, slender man in an Armani suit from the opposite end of the bar.

“Mind your business,” Jack snarled.

“It’s difficult to mind much of anything while these two women are continually asking you to leave them alone,” the man replied as he started toward us.

Even in my drunken stupor, I couldn’t help responding to the electric sensuality that he had about him. A closer look told me that he wasn’t as slender as I’d originally thought. In fact, he looked to be well muscled beneath the expertly-tailored virgin wool. His short brown hair was cut in a style that neatly framed strong facial features possessing a European influence. Brilliant honey-brown eyes were set evenly below perfectly shaped brows. They danced with humor as if he was enjoying my reaction to his hot, sexy self.

I heard Chris’ sharp intake of breath and knew that I wasn’t the only one affected by this man. Even the bartender stood perfectly still. It was only Jack who seemed oblivious to the magnitude of this man’s presence.

“Let me call you a cab,” Jack insisted, once again.

This time he made the mistake of grabbing my upper arm and trying to pull me away from the bar.

“I have no idea why you’re so determined to suddenly play the chivalrous knight, Jack Adams, but kindly find some other female to play it with. It’s too late for me,” I said. “Now let go of me.”

The visible vice grip that the dark-haired stranger placed on Jack’s wrist weakened him to the point that he could no longer hold onto my arm. It was an intense and sobering moment for Jack and all who witnessed it.

“She said leave her alone,” he said in a calm, steely tone. “I suggest that you do so.”

“You look familiar,” I managed as I watched Jack slink away. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Another time, perhaps,” he said as he motioned to the bartender to clear our glasses away.

“I wasn’t finished,” I protested as I grabbed the remains of my drink and tossed it down my throat.

“I think he’s trying to tell us we’re drunk,” Chris giggled.

“Are we?” I asked with genuine curiosity before the world spun around me and disappeared.