Taking a deep breath, I walked into the ballroom of the hotel. Yep, this was definitely it. Cheesy balloons floated, streamers waved from the ceilings, and vases of flowers in coordinating pink and yellow were scattered randomly. A big “2019” in glittery all-caps letters was pasted to the wall. Alright, I could already see that they had gone low-budget on the decorations. Hopefully they hadn’t skimped on drinks as well.
I scanned the room, my eyes immediately searching for my brothers, but no such luck. Oh bummer. I felt oddly deflated, although I scolded myself for my disappointment. This event wasn’t supposed to ride on Ryder and Roman, remember? I’d spent five years on my own, and it wasn’t all about my stepbrothers anymore.
But Gemma was on a mission. She grabbed my elbow painfully, hissing, “Come on, I see those bitches Katie and Laney. Let’s go,” she commanded, dragging me over.
Katie and Laney? I didn’t know them but I plastered a fake smile on as we neared two middle-aged women. Oh shit, suddenly it all came rushing back. Katie and Laney were girls who’d been mean to me in Biology, saying things like, “I think it smells in here,” and “Did someone fart?” while sniffing in my direction.
Well, life had definitely worn them out. They were each about thirty pounds overweight, with flabby arms and poochy stomachs straining against way-too-tight dresses. Suddenly, I realized I looked ten times better in my pink dress and coordinating heels.
“Hey Katie, hey Laney,” purred Gemma, her voice like liquid silk. Gemma of course was wearing all black, but she’d punched it up with funky jewelry and accessories. “It’s so great to see you again. You look amazing,” she lied, her voice so smooth it could freeze ice.
The two women looked stunned.
“I’m sorry, you are …?” the blonde one asked.
“Gemma,” said my friend, her tone filled with poison. “You pissed in my Gatorade junior year, remember?”
The blonde’s chubby arm flew to her mouth, her eyes big and round.
“Oh my god!” she gasped. “I’m so … I’m so …”
“Sorry?” said Gemma silkily. “It’s too late for that, but let me help you with your drink,” she said. And with that, she bumped the plump woman, causing her wine to spill and stain her dress.
“No worries, you won’t die, like I almost did from drinking urine,” said Gemma nastily. “A good trip to the drycleaners is all you need,” she sneered as the women scurried off, looking like scared chickens.
“Wow, that was harsh Gemma!” I remarked, wondering if anyone witnessed the incident.
“Yeah, I know,” my friend replied. “But I had to go to the hospital after drinking Katie’s piss! They forced me, putting urine into my bottle and holding me down until I swallowed,” she said, anger and tears darkening her eyes.
I remembered now how awful it was for us back then. There were so many slights and humiliations every day. I’ve forgotten a lot, but slowly, my own memories were starting to come back. I gasped when I saw a familiar face. It was Troy, the guy from the lacrosse team who’d called me a whore that fateful day. I, too, felt an unfamiliar rush of anger. I hadn’t thought about that incident for so long, but now that I was here, in the vicinity of my former oppressors, I too felt a need for revenge, a need to be mean and spiteful.
I sauntered over to Troy, my walk graceful and seductive at once. The washed-out woman beside him was probably his wife but fine, it was just going to make things better.
“Heya Troy,” I purred, running my finger along his shoulder. “Remember me?”
Troy was an over-sized meathead who had probably had too many concussions over the years. It was clear that he remembered nothing, and didn’t even recognize me.
“I’m Kyleigh, Roman and Ryder’s sister,” I said silkily. “You came over to our house during that incredible party where you invited two prostitutes, do you remember?”
His wife gasped, a pasty white hand covering her mouth. She was dowdy in a blue floral dress, with greasy, greyish hair. The perfect complement to Troy, who was your typical former athlete – still refrigerator sized, but a refrigerator of fat, not muscle.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he slurred. Judging from his blood-shot eyes, he was already drunk on the weak punch. “Besides, where yer brothers anyways? Those motherfuckers are on TV now, they gotta remember their old friend Troy.”
Man, what a sad sack of shit this guy was. His belly was like a huge mound of jello straining against the seams of his button-down, and the broken capillaries on his nose marked him as an alcoholic. But I’d heard something that piqued my interest.
“Roman and Ryder are on TV?” I asked curiously. “What show? What do they do?”
I didn’t have a TV, so this was new to me. I popped a glance at Gemma, but she shrugged, saying, “I only work with A-list stars.”
Exasperated, I turned back to Troy.
“What do you know about Roman and Ryder?” I demanded impatiently.
“Aren’t you their sister?” he slurred, eyeing me up and down, draping an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Shouldn’t you know?”
“No, I don’t,” I said coldly. “So tell me.”
Troy looked like he was about to walk away, but maybe he had a lucid moment.
“Roman and Ryder are reality TV stars!” he crowed. “They’re on every week on some home and garden-type shit, planting weeds or fixin’ dinners or somethin’.”
Okay, clearly this wasn’t going to get me very far. I was about to whip out my phone to do some digging, when suddenly the double doors opened and a hush descended across the ballroom.
In walked my gorgeous, arrogant stepbrothers … and their eyes found mine immediately.