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gambling for that matter. That crazy lunatic had seriously screwed with my good time. I was outrageously pissed off! Running across the casino floor as fast, as my heels allowed me to move without breaking something, felt like an impossible feat. My deflated heart was in shambles trailing behind me like clanking, rusty old soda cans. By a narrow margin of a small miracle, I somehow made it to the elevator—unscathed. My tears of indignation were burning red streaks down my face. The constant ringing in my ears latched onto Trent's words. His presence filled me with chewed-up bits of hate and disgust—in the very depths of my being.

Storming into room 512, I was a much-wronged woman. I immediately tore off all of my clothes and made myself a hot bubble bath. I just so happen to be addicted to bubble baths and Diet Coke—even more so in a crisis! So there I was, floating around in hot water like a water-logged flower, it was my nonalcoholic equivalent to a huge glass of wine—an instant sedative for a girl on the verge of flipping out! I knew I needed to calm down somehow and at lightning speed. My earthly mermaid-girl solution for every life trouble has always been to immerse myself in hot water and bubbles. Grappling with hurt beyond belief and being furiously derailed by a man who claimed to love me was nothing less than devastating. We were a few days away from our wedding and Trent was treating me like yesterday's garbage. There was no bliss to be found in the middle of the desert on that dreadful evening.

Moments later, Trent ripped a gaping hole right through my bubble-filled sanctuary. He was livid at me for embarrassing him at the table in front of total strangers. I felt a sharp twinge of injustice because he was mad at me, when I was the injured party in our ruthless matchup. How could that bastardly beast of a man not have understood that? Trent was trying to pin that fight on my almost innocent head! As if asking a loved one for a few measly dollars in Reno would be considered a federal offense. I was simply in my happy place of slots and video poker before that controlling ox of a man took a machine gun to my mood. I was a wet lily pad floating in a bathtub that was overflowing with vicious man-made tears.

Trent threw a stack of hundreds on the wet bathroom floor. He said, "Here is your fucking money!" Trent must have had me confused with a Fremont Street call-girl who was used up and thrown out of a dirty white limo. Didn't Trent know that the hooker ranch was only an hour up the road? The cheap fricking jerk should have taken a cab there if he was in the mood to throw hundreds at a woman! Then maybe Trent could have had a mind-blowing blow-job thrown in for kicks and giggles. I was so outraged at him. How could he have the audacity to belittle me with money, as if I were some lesser species than he? Things went from horrible to horrendous in a matter of seconds. I questioned at what point Trent falsely assumed that he had the right to employ himself as my gatekeeper, or better yet my tightwad pimp of a fiancé. I was not about to acquiesce to the tight metal dog collar that he was trying to squeeze around my unwilling neck!

When we first met, I knew Trent was the type of guy who would give me a run for my money. In a depraved way, I had always had a thing for men who were a challenge. Looking back into the rearview mirror of my distant youth, I had the hard-to-get concept incorrectly programmed in my brain. In a backwards approach, I never wanted men to chase me—quite the contrary. I wanted to ferociously chase men to the finish line and win. Like any good huntress, after I had my prey under my beguiling spell, I would quickly lose interest.  It took me a few decades to get it right and let men chase me. Although, to this day, I still struggle with letting men lead the way. It has always bored me to tears trying to keep my claws retracted. However, Trent was a tiger that played chicken with me