Vegas Boys

I had never slapped anyone before.

I had never hurt anyone physically. I had never done anything bad, really--I'd never even been grounded. The thought that I had only been here in Vegas three days and I had already hit one of the neighbors made my stomach churn.

I felt like I should tell my Dad what happened before he found out from anyone else first, but I was scared. Not only were his big, brawny appearance and quiet, brooding aura intimidating, but I felt like I didn't really know him very well. He might as well have been some long-lost friend of my mother's, for all the bonding--or lack thereof--we'd done together. And I hated that I was already causing trouble, when he had been kind enough to take me in on my mother's whim.

So I didn't tell him about my confrontation with Brendon.

I hoped my phony smile didn't give me away when Dad came home that night. He didn't seem to notice my strange behavior and I was immediately distracted, anyway, as he dropped a letter in my lap.

I stared down at the envelope: my name and my father's address was scribbled across the front. There was no return address.

My stomach was twisting itself into brand new knots of anxiety as I tore the letter open without bothering with a letter-opener. Inside was a carefully folded piece of lined paper; I smoothed it out against my thigh and read:

Kels,
I hope you're finding your time in Las Vegas to be better than you expected. Please give your father a chance and try to have a brighter outlook on all of this. I know the situation is not ideal, but try to keep your chin up and make the best of it. I did not include a return address in this letter because we still haven't found the perfect home we've been looking for, so we're not staying in one place in particular in the meantime. The house-hunting is going well, it will just take some time. You know where to call me if you need me.

Chris and I are fine and hope you and your father are as well. I love you,
Mom

P.S. Despite the circumstances, the city is beautiful. Wish you could be here with us.

I read it over once more, hating the stinging tears in my eyes that I couldn't help. She made it seem like my exile here was a necessary evil, a drastic measure taken only for my own good. Did she really think I was so naive as to buy her little act?

I stared at the last line: Wish you could be here with us. Yeah right. If she had wanted me with her in New York, I would have been there instead of here in Las Vegas, crying because I felt utterly alone.

-----

The next day, Dad called home at around eight o'clock to tell me he'd be working late and that I shouldn't wait up for him. I decided to take the opportunity to get out of the house and find some much-needed human interaction; after spending all my days alone in that big house and all my nights with my verbally conservative father, I was desperate for any kind of human contact.

After all the fear and hatred of Las Vegas my mother had instilled in me, I wasn't about to walk into the city alone at night. Instead, I did what was the rational, if rather lame, thing to do: I called a cab. Literally--with a number out of a phone book, I mean.

As I climbed into the back of the bright yellow cab, the driver cast a questioning look first at the several luxury vehicles Dad kept in the driveway and the garage, and then back at me. I knew he was wondering why I couldn't drive one of them, but I didn't have the guts to even ask Dad for permission, much less take one out without asking; I'd already caused as much trouble as I'd wanted to with that Brendon kid. So I ignored the cab driver's bewilderment and just gave him the best directions I could--which were, of course, still vague.

He let me out somewhere in the city--I suppressed my hysterical thoughts of Oh, God, I have no idea where the hell I am--and I just wandered around for a while. This part of Vegas wasn't so bad; there were no neon lights or scantily-clad pole dancers in sight, and most of the people I passed on the street looked innocent enough. Still, I kept to myself and didn't look anyone directly in the eyes.

I passed a coffee shop that also sold books and went in, feeling comforted immediately. I was an avid book worm and an equally enthusiastic coffee addict--I was one of those girls who wandered into Starbucks every morning looking like a zombie and came out beaming. Books and coffee always did wonders for my mood.

In fact, I was already feeling more upbeat and cheerful than my mother could have ever hoped as I browsed the coffee shop's literature selection, which was surprisingly extensive. I was so wrapped up in reading the synopsis on the back of some Nicholas Sparks book that I must've jumped two feet in the air with surprise as I heard a voice behind me.

"That's a good book."

I whirled around and was shocked and horrified to find none other than Brendon the Obnoxious Neighbor/Arch Nemesis hovering over my shoulder. But I was so taken aback by his comment that I forgot to hate his guts for a moment.

"You read this?"

He snorted. "No. But that's a pretty sweet cover."

I glanced down at the aforementioned cover, a sappy photo of some expansive, mist-covered landscape. I frowned. "Actually," I said dully as I put the book back on the shelf, "it's not."

"You know, that wasn't very nice. Or conversational," said Brendon thoughtfully. "I think your people skills need work."

"I think your face needs work," I muttered resentfully. I tried to push past him, but he stepped to the side and blocked me.

"Oh, so we're getting down to the lame 'your face' jokes now, are we?" he laughed.

"We aren't doing anything," I contradicted pointedly.

"Ouch," mumbled Brendon in mock hurt, patting his chest where his heart would be, if I thought he had one. "Right here, Kelsey, right here."

I don't know why, but I was mildly surprised that he remembered my name. Almost as surprised as I was that he was still talking to me after I'd slapped him in the face yesterday.

"Look," said Brendon suddenly, as if he could read my thoughts, "lets start over, okay? Let me buy you a coffee--"

"What are you even doing here?" I asked bluntly, completely ignoring his attempts to patch things up. He smirked at my obvious irritation.

"Oh, I dunno...just hanging out, being an anti-social cynic..."

"I'm not a cynic," I grumbled resentfully. I wanted to try to walk away again, but I knew he'd just stop me.

"You're just cynical?" Brendon guessed.

"Only around you," I snapped.

"Why?"

His simple question took me off guard. I opened my mouth once and closed it again before I realized that I had no idea what to say to that and fell silent.

"Why do you even care?!" I spluttered, flustered at the fact that he had made a valid point I couldn't match. "What does it matter?! Why are you still here?!"

"Do you always answer a question with a question?" said Brendon with a sly grin I had to try hard not to smile at.

I rolled my eyes at him and glared a little.

"Okay, okay, I guess I'll be serious if I have to..." groaned Brendon dramatically, heaving a deep sigh. Then, true to his word, he did get serious; his bemused expression vanished to be replaced by something much softer. "I just want to get to know you," he said quietly. "Is that so much to ask?"

I stared at him for a moment, struggling desperately to figure all this out. Why did he want to get to know me? What could he possibly see in me that made all of this worthwhile? And what did I have against him, really?

"Why are you fighting me so much?" Brendon's question out loud might as well have been one of my own, swimming around inside my head.

I blinked a couple of times and shook my head a little. "My mom said not to trust Vegas boys," I blurted out--I knew it was stupid and ridiculous and made no sense, but it was all I could think of at the time.

I pushed past him before I could see the look on his face, and this time he didn't stop me.