The Secret Sister by M. DeLuca (classic novels for teens txt) 📕

double or triple. By the time we hit the casino I was flying high. Guy bought me a thousand bucks worth of chips at the roulette wheel and within half an hour I was up to eight grand. He laughed when I gathered up the chips and hurried away from the table towards the cashier.

“Keep going. You’re on a roll.”

“No chance,” I said, pushing the chips towards the cashier. “I’m keeping this.” I’d never even seen this much cash, let alone held it in my hands. Wasting it on stupid games seemed like a crime.

He shrugged. “Taking risks, Anna. That’s what gambling’s all about.”

I couldn’t get far enough away from the jangling machines and flashing lights. “Let’s eat. My treat.”

We sat at the restaurant overlooking the fountains and ate scallops and steak washed down with never-ending bottles of wine. Guy chatted about his research project over dinner. Something about a special outreach program for homeless kids that he was absolutely committed to seeing through until the end, but the sound of his voice soon merged with the hiss of the fountains and the tinkling of background music. Sparkling lights reflected on the water, making the night so magical I felt free for the first time in years. I could be anyone in this make-believe place. History and substance were irrelevant here. Guy didn’t seem to notice my distraction. Just kept talking while I continued drinking, my head becoming foggier with each glass of wine.

When Guy suggested we go dancing it seemed like the best idea ever. I’d never been one for dancing or letting loose but in Vegas I felt like I could fly.

The night was a blur after that. We swept into a rooftop club, high above The Strip. A crush of scantily clad bodies milled around us and music pounded so loud the floor shook. Somehow, I always had a drink in my hand, garnished with pineapples, mint sprigs, cucumber, olives. We wandered by floodlit palm trees and illuminated hot tubs, where the smells of sweat, cologne and perfume mixed with booze and the musky tang of weed. Guy pulled me onto the dance floor and I threw my head back to gaze up at the stars, then ground my body into his until he kissed me so hard I gasped for air.

Next, I remember speeding down The Strip in an open-topped car. I stood on the seat and stretched my arms towards the sky, screaming and whooping at the top of my lungs. Guy clamped his hands around my hips and pulled me down just as we sped towards a low-hanging tree branch. I fell back onto his lap, nuzzling at his ear, whispering I loved him more than anyone I’d ever met. After that, the stars seemed to swoop down towards me and I passed out.

“Morning, Mrs. Franzen,” said a voice in my ear. I tried to open my eyes but the iron band that gripped my forehead forced them shut. Dim memories emerged from the night before; standing under an arch of fake pink and white flowers; a man in a gray suit reading from a white book; people laughing around me; a bunch of flowers shoved into my hand. My hand. I touched the left ring finger. Felt the smooth rim of a metal band.

“We’re married?”

I felt Guy bounce onto the bed beside me. “We are, my darling, sexy wife.”

“You proposed to me?”

He shook his head. “I said yes.” A sharp intake of breath. “You don’t remember?”

“I think I have to throw up,” I said, pulling myself upright as waves of nausea rolled through my body, sending me in a headlong dash to the bathroom where I sat on the floor, my head poised over the toilet bowl.

After the purge, I splashed my face with cold water and took three aspirin, then stood under the shower trying to understand exactly what I’d done. Had I really proposed to Guy? The memories were fuzzy. Maybe it happened in the back of that limo? Why had I done it? A catalogue of reasons clicked through my mind. If I married him, I’d be safe. He’d take care of me forever. I liked being with him and the sex was mind-blowing. Besides, maybe this was the closest I’d get to that feeling other people with a normal past called love.

The only person I’d ever truly loved was Birdie, and when she’d gone my heart was torn in two.

Afterwards – if I believed Linda Martin – I’d descended into a kind of hell, drifting into homes where I was entrusted to a bunch of weirdos, drunks and drug addicts.

But Guy offered the ultimate sanctuary. He promised permanence and belonging.

What was there to think about? I’d never have to go back to my old life. I could have everything I wanted. The money, the gorgeous home, that bathroom, endless guilt-free shopping. I’d be protected, pampered, loved like I always should have been. What the hell was I worried about? I’d try – I mean really try – to love Guy the way he loved me.

When I burst out of the bathroom he was sulking on the chaise longue.

“So, Mr. Franzen, Mrs. Franzen wants breakfast,” I said, smiling as widely as I could. “Let’s phone room service for the biggest wedding breakfast ever.”

“You got it,” he said, jumping up like a child who’d been pacified. “Your wish is my command.”

Later, Guy insisted on taking a walk along The Strip. I held onto his hand, jarred by the suffocating heat and a nagging hangover. Guy chattered on as we pushed our way through the crush of tourists – the knots of young guys swigging beer, the micro-skirted bachelorettes and their bridesmaids teetering in nine-inch heels and sucking at yard-long frozen margaritas. We made our way past the sunbaked Mexicans in T-shirts emblazoned with Girls Girls Girls, snapping their handfuls of escort cards and trying to push one into Guy’s hand. He swatted the guy away and kissed me on the cheek.

“They’re crazy.