When our parents broke up four years ago, Dad took off with his secretary to Vegas. (Cliché, I know!) And he still lives there, in an apartment with the secretary (now wife) and two stepsibling types. Mom always feels super guilty about the fact that we never get to see him and would pretty much do anything to improve our relationship with him, including sending us out for an impromptu visit if we so requested.
“When Dad came here on our last birthday he said we should come out and hang with him in Vegas,” Rayne says. “He has an apartment right on the Strip so we wouldn’t even need a car.”
“We’ll miss a few days of school . . .”
“We can get our homework in advance and do it on the plane,” Rayne says, her eyes shining her enthusiasm. “We can even tell our teachers we’ll do a special assignment and write about our trip or something. Since it’s for family, they have to say yes. I think that’s even like the law or something.”
I’m not sure this is the case, but it doesn’t matter. We have a plan. A beautiful plan and I have hope once again that maybe things will turn out okay. I smile at Rayne, feeling tears mist my eyes. For all my bitching, she really is a good sister when it counts. Loyal, devoted, and true. What would I do without her?
“Thanks, Rayne,” I say. “It means a lot that you believe me about Jane and want to help expose her.”
Rayne snorts. “Oh, I don’t believe you for one millisecond,” she replies. “I think Jane’s perfectly harmless and you’re just jealous. But hey, I’m dying to go to Vegas. And if this is the excuse you need to make it happen, then let’s go investigate Jane.”
I sigh. So much for sisterly devotion. But I guess in this case the ends justify the means. Rayne gets to party in the city of sin and I get to find out if my boyfriend’s blood mate is actually a sinner.
Viva Las Vegas.
7
Even taking into consideration the DG (divorce guilt) factor, Mom is surprisingly amenable to us jetting off to Vegas last minute on a school week. In fact, she actually says it’s a really good idea. (Who would have thought?!) David seconds the motion, which is less surprising. After all, Slayer Inc. has a vested interest in keeping an eye on what goes down at the consortium and what better way to do so but to send the slayer herself down there to spy? (Not to mention, Rayne reminds me, it gives him a week of alone time to bonk Mom’s brains out. Ew.) He even has some spare frequent flyer tickets—first class!—to fly us out in style. Sweet!
So after a luxurious plane ride with hot towels, a real meal with actual silverware, and all the Diet Cokes I can drink, we land at the Vegas airport. Which, I’m surprised to learn, has actual slot machines right in the terminal. As we wait for our bags, Rayne throws a quarter in one of them and not two seconds later, the machine spits out a receipt worth twenty bucks.
“Oh my God! I love Vegas!” she squeals, jumping up and down, her newfound riches in hand.
“Well, don’t forget, we’re not here to have fun,” I remind her as I yank her ridiculously heavy suitcase off the conveyer belt without any help. (What did she pack in here, rocks?) “We’re here to save the Blood Coven.”
“I know, I know,” she replies, still staring down at her golden ticket. “And now we have the cab fare to do so. Well, at least one way.” She glances over at the glittery slot machine that had gifted her the twenty. “Maybe I could try to double our money . . .”
Oh geez. I dive for her second bag off the carousel, wondering if maybe I should have come to Vegas alone.
With traffic, the cab ride from the airport to Dad’s apartment takes about twenty minutes. We watch out the window as we enter a desert oasis of flashing neon lights, carnival-like rides, and high-rise hotels. The Vegas Strip. Sin City here we are.
It’s a den of iniquity. But it’s also Disney World. Billboards featuring scantily clad women cling to every available surface, while a roller coaster rushes screaming children through its loop -de-loop. There’s a Sphinx-guarded pyramid, a colorful medieval castle, a half-scale replica of the Eiffel Tower. The strip is a canopy of light and sound and it’s packed with people wandering the streets. Some looking for that next lucky game, others for an amusing show or a hot club, still others for just a pretty girl to chat up. The excitement in the air is intoxicating and I almost wish we weren’t here on important business and could just enjoy the madness.
The cabdriver takes a right turn immediately after passing the elegant Wynn Hotel and pulls into the circular driveway of a steel and glass high-rise apartment building called The Tower. I glance down at the directions I printed out. Sure enough, this is it. Nice digs, Dad.
“Are you nervous?” I ask my sister as I pay the driver. (Back at the airport Rayne had inserted her “cab fare” ticket back into the “lucky machine” and subsequently lost all of it, including her original quarter.) “About seeing Dad I mean.”
“Not about seeing Dad necessarily,” Rayne says as she steps out of the cab and heads to the trunk to retrieve her luggage. “More about meeting the new family.”
Good point. We’d never met the woman who Dad left Mom for. Or our stepsiblings for that matter. What would they be like? I guess we’d be finding out very, very soon.
A blast of hot air hits me square in the face as the taxi pulls out of the driveway and back onto the Strip. It’s got to be at least a hundred degrees out here—a far cry from the typical forty-degree weather we’ve been having back in Massachusetts. I’ve only been outside for like two seconds and already I’m soaked to the skin.
Rayne, on the other hand, looks cool as a cucumber as she effortlessly walks her two heavy suitcases to the front doors of the building. She doesn’t even have any sweat stains under her arms and she’s wearing a black wool sweater, for goodness’ sake! Damn vampires. Lucky for her, she’s mutated, allowing her to endure the hot sun. Otherwise the girl would be quite the crispy critter right about now. Though I do notice, to my secret satisfaction, that her pristine white and black Goth makeup is looking a bit melty.
The front doors slide open and a portly porter steps out, hotel cart in tow. He smiles at us and asks if we’d like him to take our bags up to the suite. Nice. I could get used to this Vegas hospitality. We stack the bags onto the cart and follow him into the lobby.
A blast of welcome air-conditioning greets us the second we step inside, instantly dropping my body temperature to a non-fatal level, thank God. I look around the luxurious lobby, drawing in a breath. Beyond sweet—it reminds me of the Polynesian Hotel down at Disney World in Florida. A lush, colorful jungle, complete with four-story waterfall, cascading down into the lobby, misting my sweaty arms with cool droplets of water. Red and green parrots perch on branches, squawking merrily in greeting and golden koi swim up to the edge of the pool, puckering their lips with wordless pleas for fish food.
“Wow, Mom might want to consider upping our child support payments,” Rayne remarks with a low whistle. “Dad’s evidently been winning at the slots.”
“No kidding,” I reply, taking in all the luxury. “I wonder how much a pad in a place like this goes for.”
“Studios start at five-hundred grand.”
We whirl around at the voice and come face-to-face with a skinny, bleached-blond teen girl, dressed in ridiculously short shorts and a low-cut pink tank top designed to showcase her probably store-bought boobs. She’s got green eyes, white skin, puffy pink lips, and an expression that says she wants us to know she’s bored as hell. Snapping her gum loudly, she gives us what can only be described as a disapproving once-over.
“Are you, like, Sunshine and Rayne?” she asks, as if she couldn’t be less interested in our replies. I notice my sister glaring back at her, so I decide to jump in before she can open her mouth.
“That’s us,” I say brightly, trying to diffuse the tension. “You can call me Sunny, actually. Everyone does.”
“Sunny,” she repeats with a small snort. “How adorable.” She turns to my sister. “And should I call you Rain-eee?” she asks, in the
most condescending voice.
“Only if you want permanent damage to those pearly white teeth of yours,” Rayne replies sweetly, not missing a beat. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
The girl sniffs. “I’m Crystal. Your stepsister.”
Rayne and I exchange looks. This was our stepsister? The girl who got to have access to our father 24/7 while we sat back in Massachusetts, praying the man who gave us life would remember to stuff five bucks in an envelope and mail it in time for Christmas?
“Crystal,” I cry, deciding to make the best of it. “Ohmigod, it’s so great to meet you.” I throw my arms around her and give her a big hug. (After all, we’re practically related, right?) But her body is bony and stiff and, while she allows the hug to be given, she doesn’t exactly reciprocate. It seems our stepsister isn’t completely thrilled about us descending on her turf. Which is understandable, I suppose. It’s a weird situation for all of us. Hopefully she’ll loosen up once we get to know her.
“Yeah, great,” Rayne repeats woodenly, not even attempting to pretend there’s really anything great about it. “Like, totally awesome.”
Crystal narrows her eyes and shoots my sister a death look, then turns back to me. “You ready to go upstairs?” she asks. “I think Alejandro already took up your bags.”
“Sure. Lead the way.”
“Actually I think I’m just going to stay in a hotel,” Rayne says suddenly. “That Wynn place looked pretty nice. I bet they have some rooms available.”
“Yeah, at like five hundred dollars a night,” Crystal says in a smug voice.
“That’s what credit cards are for.”
“Rayne!” I admonish, elbowing her in the ribs.
“What? I’m just saying I think it might be nicer in a hotel. I mean, they probably have those white fluffy robes and you know I’m a sucker for those. Not to mention room service. There’s not going to be any room service in this place, right?”
“Oh my God, please don’t start. Just come upstairs, okay?” God, she is so impossible sometimes. The queen of cutting off her nose to spite her face. I mean, room service indeed. The girl’s a freaking vampire. She doesn’t even eat.
Rayne’s silent for a moment, her eyes squinty and mad. I give her my best pleading look, praying for the tiniest shred of reason to surface. I know Crystal’s not exactly the type of girl you’d always dreamed of to be your stepsister, but at the end of the day, we’re here to see Dad, not her. And it’d be pretty stupid to let her snotty attitude ruin that for us.
Finally, Rayne lets out a frustrated breath and shakes her head. “Yeah, whatever. Lead the way, I guess.”
Crystal rolls her eyes, then takes us down the hallway, stopping in front of a bank of copper-colored elevators. She presses the UP button and a moment later one of the doors slides silently open. We step in and Crystal hits the PH button. So Dad lives in the penthouse. Maybe Rayne’s right about that whole child support thing . . .
“I can’t wait to see Dad, can you?” I whisper to my sister, trying to coax her into a better mood. I know girls like Crystal piss her off royally, but she really needs to learn to control that temper of hers and not let stupid people ruin her day. After all, we’re in Vegas, baby! And we’re about to see our father, who we haven’t seen since our birthday last spring. Nothing should be able to bring us down.
Rayne grants me a small smile. She likes to pretend she doesn’t care about the whole Dad thing—that she’s too cool for all that family drama—but I know deep down she misses our father just as much as I do, if not more so.
“Yeah,” she admits. “It’ll be good to see him.”
“See who?” Crystal interjects.
“Our father. You know, the guy who owns the penthouse you’re squatting in?” Rayne replies before I can speak.
“Oh. Um, he’s actually not here. He was called away on business and left this morning.” Crystal shrugs. “I don’t think he’s coming back for at least a week or so.”
“Wait, what?” Rayne cries, losing her cool before she can stop herself. “Are you effing kidding me? He’s not here?”
“Nope.” Crystal smiles smugly. “He said to say hi though. And to give his love and all that.”
I know I should say something—something to calm Rayne down before she goes off the deep end, but the lump in my throat makes it impossible to speak.
This is so typical. So damn typical. I don’t even know why I’m surprised. Let’s just say our dad isn’t exactly the most devoted parent on the planet. He never calls and when he does he’s always making promises that he can never seem to keep. The only reason we saw him last spring on our birthday was because Jareth wrote to him and told him Rayne was dying of a blood virus. Still, you’d think he’d at least have the courtesy to stick around for at least a day or two when he heard his daughters were flying more than two thousand miles across the country to meet up with him.
I glance over at my sister. She’s actually looking more composed than I thought she would. Which is maybe even more worrying. Angry Rayne I can calm down. The Rayne that pushes the hurt deep down inside is more of a problem. Mainly because all that anger and pain eventually starts bubbling up inside of her until she becomes a powder keg, ready to go off at the slightest provocation. Recently her temper almost cost her her relationship with Jareth. And that would have been a true tragedy, because they love each other so much.
The elevator door slides open at the twenty-seventh floor of the building. We follow Crystal down the hallway and she stops in front of a nondescript door labeled PH17. She flashes a small card key at the reader and the LED light blinks green. The door swings open and we step into a light, airy apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows.
I let out a low whistle as I look around. The place is incredible. Decorated totally in white, with the most modern-styled furniture I’ve ever seen. Instead of a regular couch, there’s a white leather bench kind of thing and a chaise lounge made of a material that’s suspiciously similar to seventies shag carpeting. A collection of multi-height glass-and-chrome tables sit nestled between them and the pièce de résistance—a ginormous flat-screen television—takes up the entire west wall. (I’m not so much on the modern furniture, but that TV is damn impressive.)
A woman who appears to be in her early forties sits in the middle of the room, her body contorted into some sort of complicated Yoga position. She’s wearing very little—white bra, short terry-cloth shorts—but with a body like hers I might not bother with clothes either. Her legs are long and tanned and you could bounce a quarter off her taut stomach. Her hair is chopped short, in a blond pixie cut.
This is our stepmother? The woman that Dad left our beautiful, barefoot, hippie earth mother for? I think about Mom and her soft curves, long curly hair, and flowing skirts. This woman is definitely the anti-mom.
She squeals as she sees us, untangling her limbs and bouncing up to her feet. Before I’m even quite sure what’s going on, I find myself wrapped in her arms. I have to admit, for someone who was just working out, she smells nice—like vanilla ice cream. I, on the other hand, likely smell like an Olympic gymnast on the day she forgot her deodorant.
“Rayne! Sunny!” she cries, her enthusiasm rivaling that of a cheerleader on crack. “It’s so great to see you!” Her skin is a bit leathery (from too much sun) and her lips puffy (from too much collagen?). She plants kisses on both my cheeks, then moves on to Rayne.
Having received more warning than I had, Rayne sticks out her hand before our stepmother can hug her and the two awkwardly shake instead. I rub my cheeks, trying to get rid of the lip gloss stickiness she left behind.
“Um, great to meet you, too, Mrs. . . .” I trail off, not sure how to address her. (Besides HWB—Homewrecking Bitch—of course, which was what we call her at home.) Did she take my dad’s last name? Is she a McDonald? Do Rayne and I actually share a last name with HWB? “Mrs. McDonald?”
Our stepmother laughs. “Oh, please. Call me Heather. Mrs. McDonald sounds lik
e my mother.”
Actually it sounds like our mother. Who got the name first, I might mention.
Heather claps her hands together. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you girls, I can’t even begin to tell you.”
“So where the hell is Dad?” Rayne demands, evidently not in the mood to play stepfamily reunion.
Heather’s face fell. “Sorry girls,” she says. “Your father got called away on an emergency business trip this morning. I’m not sure when he’ll be back” She looks at us sympathetically. “Sucks, I know. You were probably excited to see him.”
I can see Rayne struggling to keep her composure. There’s nothing the girl hates more than pity. “I don’t give a damn,” she declares. “I only came for the slots. In fact, I think I hear them calling my name.”
“Well, before you answer that call, there’s someone I want you to meet,” Heather says. She turns to face the hallway. “Stormy! Come out here!”
Rayne shoots me a surprised look. I shrug. A dog maybe? A cat?
But a moment later a skinny tween girl with thick glasses and two messy blond braids pads into the living room. She’s barefoot and wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt that reads Leave Me Alone (to which she’s added, with permanent marker, Yes, Mom, This DOES Mean You). She’s got her head down in her Nintendo DS and doesn’t look up from her game.
“Stormy, put down the video game and meet your sisters,” Heather orders.
“I’m right in the middle of a battle,” the girl—Stormy?—argues. She sounds like Rayne.
“One of these days I’m going to throw that thing in the trash,” Heather mutters. Then she turns to us, her face all apologies. “Sorry about that,” she says. “She’s just going through a stage. Always has her face buried in a computer or video game. We’re hoping she’ll grow out of it when she starts high school.”
Rayne ignores Heather and, to my surprise, gets down on her knees next to Stormy. She squints at the game screen, then her face lights up in recognition. “I love Final Fantasy,” she tells the girl. “I just got the latest one for my PS3. It’s freaking awesome.”